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Second Coming

By: east76th



He always called me Toy. 

Even in public, it was Toy. That one dismissive syllable defined me. I worried about people hearing and judging, but that was short-lived. It was as if the general public was deaf. He noticed my discomfort, of course. He noticed everything. At first, I just figured he was preternaturally aware. 

"People hear only what they want to hear, which is nothing," he said. "They are too busy thinking of what they're going to say when you're done speaking."

The shadows are creeping up my leg as I sit here, trying to rip a memory from my head and put it on paper. I light a lamp, exhausted from my attempt at recall, and those six little words rise from deep within me, bringing it all back—the touch of his fingers, the caress of the whip, the keen smell of leather—all in eight innocent syllables. 

I would do anything for him.

That's not hyperbole. I abased myself in so many ways. The first day we met, he bound my thin wrists behind me with his cheap canvas belt and fed me green grapes. His calloused fingers slipped each smooth-skinned fruit between my plush lips and onto my tongue. 

Once that first grape passed my married lips, I was newly labile. 

"No teeth," he said mildly. He was rarely stern. He knew severity was unnecessary. He held a napkin in front of my lips. That's the way it would be with him; he would come just so close and leave it up to me to move those final inches—breach that final barrier to humiliation. 

That day, I clumsily leaned forward and dried my lips and chin. He smiled, and it would have been beautiful if not for a chipped incisor that made his every grin sardonic. He never mentioned where he'd lost that insignificant piece of himself. I certainly never asked. At that time, I feared the answer. I dreaded his past as much as I did my future.

"Now, Toy, I own your mouth forever," he said through that grin. 

I felt a double-gush of desire somewhere in my core. Once at his words and again at the thought of how he'd claim my other holes. His other holes. 

To what can I compare being with him? I am metaphorically inadequate. An epiphany? Rapture? It felt like it on the days he picked me up in his car. I'd wait on cold, anonymous corners, wearing shift-like dresses without underwear, legs spread to welcome the chill like it was a living creature. 

We'd drive to the nearest empty lot. I guess I can only equate what followed to standing on a mountaintop during an earthquake. My body would rock from his onslaught, screaming and biting his shoulder as my dirty feet left footprints on the inside of his car roof.

It was on our penultimate day together that he told me who he was. We were in his grave-cold apartment, where strips of paint—undoubtedly lead-based—peeled from the walls like old, impotent tape. 

I was splayed on his sprung mattress with his greased fist burrowing slowly toward my womb. A flattened tube of KY lay like a dead soldier next to me. In between countless orgasms, I told him my vagina was a python swallowing prey. 

"Oh, my God, who are you?" It wasn't a question, just a celebration of the fact that fate landed him in a room with me. 

He unfurled one finger and tickled me from the inside. My cunt released a Fourth of July extravaganza of pleasure rockets throughout my body, while outside in the inarticulate air only the subtle shadow of his forearm muscle rippling gave away the movement of that extraordinary digit. 

"Jesus," he answered matter-of-factly when I had ceased bucking and he was able to effect a slimy extraction. 

I looked at his dead-white skin—a prison pallor, he'd called it once. His body was a topographical map of scars that I could not read, but I could decipher enough of it to understand violence lived inside him. I did not ask if he really was in prison. I rarely asked him anything at all. It was enough to watch him breathe and know that he was. But now I was puzzled.

"Jesus?" I pronounced the J as an H, in the Latino manner, even though he had not. I turned my body toward him. The shift allowed air into my gaping pussy, and I shivered. 

He flashed his broken-toothed grin. "Jesus. With the J. As in Christ. My name is Jesus Christ." 

It took me a couple of minutes to realize my lover was saying he was the Son of God, but in my defense, I've always been rather obtuse after an orgasm. 

"But aren't you a masochist?"

He met my disbelief with a smile and stood. In the half-light of his gritty apartment in a neighborhood that, before him, I'd only known enough to give wide berth, clothed, he was skinny. Naked, he was a statement of masculine dominance. When he moved, he was captivating, the play of his muscles illuminated like a star under a microscope. Seeing him take off his shirt was like turning a dim corner and being surprised by the lights of Times Square. 

"Well, you fuck like a god, at any rate," I said, trying to soften the disbelief on my face. 

Would he beat me for my impudent skepticism? I hoped so. 

He just turned to face me squarely. I watched his cock, still suggestively tumescent, strain toward me like a divining rod toward dampness. Jesus—or whomever. I wanted him again. 

I painstakingly maneuvered to my knees atop the bed. I was sore everywhere. He watched with patient hunger, making no move to help. He forbade me to stand in his presence when we were alone. A week ago, I'd forgotten and walked to the bathroom. I spent the next four hours standing with my hands clasped behind my back while he frigged me within a razor's edge of orgasm, bringing me back each time by finger-painting candle wax onto my clit and nipples. 

I found purchase on the old mattress and crawled to him. He, of course, made no move in my direction. My lips brushed his cock. 

"Earthly pleasure, my Lord?" I murmured into his peehole. 

The corners of his lips twitched, and he made the slightest of nods. I proceeded as he'd taught me, opening my mouth wide as I could and descending upon him. 

When he poked the entrance of my throat, I clamped my lips shut. He loved it when I shocked his penis like that, sequestering a gulp of it inside me. I stared up at him. His nostrils flared as I drew my head back and slid forward again, my tongue connecting dots on the underside of his cock as my hands took hold of his sharp hipbones. He was close, I knew that. After fisting me to several crashing orgasms, he must be. 

I struggled forward, spluttering, for that final half inch. It had proved elusive so far. I had never tasted his come because I had failed to take his entirety inside my mouth. He will not allow me to taste until I do, until I can breathe his pussy-damp pubic hair and rest my chin against his balls. 

This rule had actually made me cry in frustration, but this is what got me wet, having clearly defined and ruthlessly legislated erogenous borders. They kept my need sharp and achy. Instead of coming in my mouth, he usually exploded on my tingling breasts and did not allow me to wash it off. I'd sit on the subway afterward, my blouse clinging to me, sticky from ropy tendrils of my Master's come. 

I gagged and jerked back, and he stepped away, his cock exiting with a blush-inducing pop. I looked up in disappointment.

"You didn't earn it. I'll probably just jerk off when you leave. Goodbye, Toy."

Toy... an epithet, or careless remark, never a saccharine endearment. I wanted to cry. I needed to come. Again. 

He allowed me to stand while I dressed. "Thank you, Sir."

I stared at the floor so I could pretend ignorance of his cold gaze, pinning me. I felt swollen, a graceless dirigible as I stumbled into my heels. Enough orgasms disrupted my equilibrium, I'd recently discovered.

I opened the door to walk out but turned back. 

"Please, Sir, can you tell me your real name?"

"I did," he said.

He ripped the filter from one of my cigarettes and tossed it in the ashtray. I heard the tobacco sizzle. He lit it with the same candle he'd made dance like a firefly a hands-breadth above my strawberry nipples an hour ago. 

"Why do you doubt me? Have I lied to you before, Toy?"

"No, but—"

"Well, then why can't I be Jesus?"

My brain spun. I repeated what I said before about him being a masochist.

He laughed. "I am what I am," he mocked. 

"Look at you!" I shouted. I didn't appreciate being made fun of. Humiliated, fine, but mocked by this broken-down fringe character without the money for a haircut? "You're beaten down, you're poor, and, and scarred, and mean!" Rage is always a thief, stealing my vocabulary and reducing me to a Dick and Jane reader. 

I took a breath. 

"You make me do disgusting things and crave them. You are cruel, Jesus isn't cruel."

He had been lazing in the bed. He bounced up without using his hands and loomed in front of me. I flinched and felt a surge of desire. He was pure, naked animal. 

"You cannot imagine a cruel God, Toy? Perhaps not, perhaps cruelty doesn't exist on the Upper East Side. You cannot fathom a deity who supplies what you need, but makes you hate yourself for needing it?"

"But..." I looked around. Squalid was the only word for it.

"Where should I be? Rodeo Drive? Park Avenue?" He was chiding me gently now. "Should I be where fat men and bejeweled women are eating caviar and sipping champagne with their lapdogs in the restaurant seat beside them? Or should I be where mothers have hands calloused by mean work, and children's bellies grumble through the night?"

This is impossible. This whole discussion. I stepped through the open doorway to depart forever. 

I never made it. My knees shook as I looked down at his fingers gripping my sore nipple through the thin material of my blouse. I wore no bra. 

"Ohh."

"Down, Toy."

With a desperate glance behind me, I slid helplessly to my knees. I tried not to think of what might be crawling on the hallway floor, or the fact that any of the winos or junkies trudging—or peeing—in the hall could see me. But then his cock stiffened and my mind emptied of all but subjugated lust.

It rose in jerks, growing to twice its usual size and more—impossibly large, much, much larger than I'd ever seen it before. Its head, pointed at my face, moved close even though his feet remained planted. It grew as if he'd pressed a button. Then my sight blurred with tears as he skewered my face on his miraculous cock.

He buried half with one thrust, and I could only try not to choke. It felt like a living creature invading my mouth. I grabbed his thighs for balance. 

I'm going to puke. I'm going to puke and his penis will shove my vomit down my throat and I will die. My ears roared and drool leaked around his pulsing cock. I felt my jaws crackle as I opened wider, gasping for air, inhaling through my nose as he pushed into my throat where no man had ever been. 

He fed me more, impossibly more—oh God, I believe you, please make it stop, this can't be a mortal cock. Then he spoke to me. He didn't use words, it is hard to describe even now. Instead of the coming through his lips, it was as if he had planted a suggestion inside me. It wasn't a voice, but at the same time it wasn't quite my own thought. The best way to describe it is when you go to sleep at night with a huge problem and wake up the next morning knowing exactly what to do. Without the distraction of unconsciousness, I could actually feel it being implanted.

You can take it all. You will take it all. 

Thankfully, his direction agreed with the wetness between my legs. Grabbing his ass, I rammed my head forward, taking more of his thick, burning length into my now welcoming throat.

Finally, my nose mashed against his pubic bone. I struggled for air, wondering if I could die like this, when his voice went through me like a glass of water in the desert. 

"Toy." 

The caress of his voice erased my pain. My throat was open, and I was able to breathe regularly even as he swelled further before spewing down my throat. 

I screamed in triumph as his back arched, and he jerked as he flooded me with his come. Even as I tasted the last of his seed, my thoughts turned to me. I was, as he'd pointed out on many occasions, a greedy toy. 

I spread my knees wide apart under my skirt and realized the wetness was running down my thighs. I'd met women who thought that could never happen, that consider it a gross exaggeration if not a downright joke. I pity those women, is all I can say. 

He knew what I needed, of course. He stuck his bare foot under my skirt and found my source with his toe. He nudged my clit, and I surged forward and blew on contact, screaming around his softening cock. 

Through a haze, I felt him pull endlessly out of my throat, which felt abused beyond measure. He abandoned the cavern of my mouth and my jaws hung. They ached enormously. 

Slumped outside the open door on my stinging knees I stared in confusion at his saliva-coated cock. Hanging semi-turgid between his thighs, it was once again, at best, a just-below-ordinary-sized apparatus; a Twizzler compared to what I know was cutting off my air supply a minute ago. 

I looked up. He stared down with a deep, knowing look on his face, and then gently shut the door on me. I staggered to my feet, doing the best I could to wipe my mouth clean before going home to cook dinner for my husband. On him, at least, the jury was definitely in—he was no god.

**

Two hours later, all traces of my lover showered, shampooed and toweled away, save for a stubborn resin of semen in my throat that evaded mouthwash, I slid a plate of beef stew in front of Mark. I'd served the same exact meal for the last twelve nights. Each night, he'd absentmindedly ask what it was, and each night I'd tell him something different. My answers always appeared to satisfy him. 

He acknowledged the food with a grunt and shifted his Times to a position that would simultaneously allow eating and reading. 

Sitting across from him, picking at a small plate of pasta and vegetables, I stared at his furrowed brow. I have a secret, I telepathed. I have a lover who does the most evil, delicious things to me. My jaw is sore from sucking his cock and my wrists burnt from his cruel ropes and my ass is raw from his workman's hand. He claims he is Jesus, and he may be, but either way he is God to me. I would do anything for him, Mark.

I aimed thoughts at him with such vehemence that I was sure he'd look up. But he kept staring down at his paper, his sandy hair twinkling under the chandelier light. My husband is undeniably gorgeous. But unlike my lover's face, which belonged on a Roman coin, Mark's owned the petulant softness that comes with privilege. Deprivation was something he only read about when he laid the newspaper on our fourteen-thousand dollar oak table. 

If he only knew how badly I wanted to be thrown on that table and whipped—and never mind if the fucking wax finish was marred—he'd have me committed. 

He put down his fork and looked at me. "This is quite good, dear. What is it?"

I fought down the urge to bury my fork in his Adam's apple. "Hungarian goulash, my love, I'm glad you like it."

"Hungarian? Becoming rather adventurous, are we?"

If you only knew. I beamed him what I hoped was a benign smile. 

He brought his head within three inches of the plate and shoveled the food into his mouth. It took him no more than two minutes to finish, stand and stretch.

"Thanks, my love." He flashed a polite smile and padded across the thick rug we'd purchased in Ankara last year. At Jesus's orders, I'd masturbated splayed on that same plush carpet three days ago, achieving a wailing orgasm with a candle half buried in my ass, lubricated from his come earlier in the day.

I sighed at the dishes left by my husband. Does he expect them to walk to the sink on their own? I gathered them and dumped them in the sink. 

Eighteen years. The Hebrew number for luck, the time it takes to bear and raise a child to where you can legally kick it out of the house, nearly two decades. Eighteen years, the time I've spent in this infuriatingly dull marriage. Even murderers get parole.

I didn't realize how hard I was scrubbing the plate until the stoneware fractured from the force. 

"Fuck!" I leapt back in pain, wildly shaking my thumb. A translucent sliver of plate was sticking out of it. That's what I get for not using the dishwasher.

I sucked on my thumb and looked into the sink. The plate was cracked in two, leaving a pair of jagged, seismic edges. Ha. If that wasn't the perfect metaphor for my marriage, I didn't know what was. 

I spent two hours in our recliner, positioned in front of the TV but not really seeing the screen. Is he Jesus? How else could he have done that trick with his penis? What an absurd sentence to ever think. I went to bed when my chin refused to stay off my chest. 

Mark was already on his side, facing the wall. I donned my sleeping outfit—Princeton sweats and Tweety-Bird T-shirt, and got in next to him. Mark's sole exotic trait was sleeping naked. He also slept like a corpse.

I slid my hand over his flank, then to his bottom. He was muscled like Michelangelo's David from rowing and weightlifting. His body had changed very little from when we'd met in college. Nothing about him had altered since then. 

Peevishly, I let my finger drift over his asshole. I pressed lightly. His head came up, and I jerked my hand back as if burned. 

"What are you doing, Antonia?" he mumbled.

"Nothing, sorry."

He grunted. 

"Mark?"

Another grunt.

"Do you know—do you know what, what you want?"

He was quiet so long I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then he sat up and our eyes met for the first time in a long, long time.

"Know what I want," he said slowly. "I want—" he broke eye contact and turned back over, some decision considered and made without a consultation, "I want to sleep, 'Tonia, nothing more than that. Goodnight." The pillow he put over his head was the period that ended our conversation.

It took a long time for me to drift off. I laid there in the dark, thinking of my cold husband, my dying marriage and my sadistic lover who may or may not be the Son of God, and I wept a bit in frustration. My last coherent thought before attaining a fitful respite was that the real tragedy of the garden and the tree of knowledge was the introduction of the dogma that getting what you want meant losing what you have.

The phone woke me after nine. Sunlight streamed through our gauzy curtains, which danced and billowed in the breeze. Mark knew how I loved waking up to this and must have opened the windows. He was often politely thoughtful. The wind carried in the smell of the park and guilt. 

"Sir," I said with raspy certainty into the phone receiver. 

"Toy." He owned a baritone that never failed to moisten. "Did you sleep well?"

"No, Sir. My mind, I can't turn it off for a second. It's on autopilot."

"Maybe so many years of repression have stripped its gears. Have you been thinking of what I revealed to you?"

"Yes, and of what I want."

"And what is that?"

When I said I wanted him, I could feel his sadness. It only heightened my appeal for his tyrannical touch. 

"Do you believe what I told you yesterday, Toy?"

"Yes." Don't ask me how I knew he told the truth, but I did. How does a bird know how to build a nest? It just does. 

"Then you must know I cannot belong to anyone, because I must belong to everyone. You almost make me wish it wasn't so, Toy. Besides, you are wrong. I'm not what you want, what I give you is what you want."

"But if you're the one who supplies what I need, then isn't that splitting hairs, Sir? And if you're for everyone, what does that mean?" My voice rose, tinged with hysteria. "You can't leave me, Sir. I'd be lost. I can't go back."

His laugh was genuine. "I'm not in the habit," he said dryly, "of leaving people lost, Toy." 


Second Coming



God was bored.

Suddenly he had an idea. The perfect way to show those puny humans the majestic power of His mighty hand.

He would create a perfect image of the Virgin of Guadalupe in an ice cream stain running down the side of the vending machine outside that Amoco station at the corner of Maple Road and Grand Avenue in East Trenton, New Jersey.

That ought to bring those wayward humans back to the path of righteousness again. That ought to make believers out of them, at least a few of them. Mainly the really psychotic ones.

He smiled down at the first bimbo angel, who was even at this moment sucking deeply on His Holy Root.

"You like that, huh Yowie?," she said, her translucent hands reaching down to caress his Divine Orbs.

"How many times do I have to tell you people? My name is Yahweh. Yahweh."

"I thought we were never supposed to call you that. I thought you were supposed to be like Clint. You know, The Man with No Name," the first bimbo angel said, taking her mouth momentarily off His Holy Root. Her soft silver breasts brushed against His Divine Thighs, and the white feathers of her wings tickled the Immaculate Flesh of His Groin. He dearly loved those feathers. They ranked among the greatest of His inventions.

"I forgot about that rule," He told her. He had even forgotten why He had made it up in the first place. He must have truly been one Testy Son of a Bitch in the old days.

"At least we got a smile out of You, Yowie," the second bimbo angel said, rubbing his Numinous Shoulders as she played her tongue in and out of His Holy Ear. "Your Holy Root must be starting to work again."

"I just had an Idea, that's all," He told her a little sadly. Then He grew more animated as He told them about His plans regarding the gas station in Jersey. It was going to be almost as good as the crop circle He had made last month in that wheat field ten miles west of Stonehenge. It had been a perfect image of Mickey Mouse, right down to his Michael Jacksonesque gloves and lack of pants. He had even strategically placed a few footprints in the wheat so that it would look even more like a hoax. That way only the truly faithful would be able to receive His message. It had even gotten coverage on Unsolved Mysteries and in a Friday night special on Fox. It was next to impossible to get press coverage like that nowadays. Of course the boys down at the Committee for the Scientific Investigation of the Claims of the Paranormal had debunked it in no time. As usual.

"Yowie, what about the old days?" the second bimbo angel asked Him. "You know, the parting of the Red Sea, the Seven Plagues, the Angel of Death, stopping the Earth. That's the kind of stuff that really impresses them. That's the kind of stuff they write books about. Lasting books. Books that sell. Miss Chastity here and I do really great Angel of Death impressions. Just give us the Word. Sic us on 'em. They'll start believing in You again. They'll be sucking up to Your Holy Ass in no time. We'll be back on the bestsellers list before You can whistle the Battle Hymn of the Republic, or at least Dixie."

"Nobody reads anymore," God told her, reaching around behind His back to tweak both her silver nipples, thanking Himself (i.e., God) for the flexibility and dexterity His omnipotence provided Him. The first angel continued to swirl her tongue around His Holy Root, but to no avail.

"Besides," He said, "there's no fun in playing with them like ants. OK, maybe there was at first, a little. But I'm not a sadist. At least not anymore. They have to worship Me of their own accord. Besides it's more fun to watch what they'll do if left up to their own devices. Why create a world if it's not going to surprise You? Why bother at all if You're just going to control everything?"

He supposed things had started going downhill when He decided to play that cheap burning bush trick on Moses. But hell, if you could have seen the look on Moses' face. Simply priceless.

The second angel replaced the first angel on His Holy Root, taking its head deeply into her mouth. The first angel flew beneath Him, enfolding Him in her wings and burying her face in His Holy Buns.

But still to no avail. 

His Holy Root was not composed of flesh, but rather of spiritual essence. And that was the main problem. That and His growing boredom with all things heavenly.

He briefly considered indulging His Other Half, playing Old Scratch again, maybe calling up a few demon chicks. But it would be no different. Cloven feet, a pointed tail and an ersatz goat's member were no substitute for the real thing.

The feel of flesh. He remembered it from his one journey among his subjects. The feel of Magdalene's mouth, better than any angel's could ever be. Of course, she had been a pro. There was no substitute for experience.

He remembered the look on poor Adam's face when he had first discovered the dangling piece of flesh that He had placed between his legs. Was better use ever made of a rib? Oh yes, gentle reader, it was all true, what you read in the Bible, every last bit of it. The dinosaurs, the trilobites had all been fossils He had carefully planted to fool the nosy humans into believing that the world was an ancient thing. To make them forget about Him and just go on about their business. They were so much more fun to watch that way. Same thing with the crystal spheres. He had moved them way back in the heavens to make room for the pulsars and black holes. Not to mention the superstrings. Just as soon as some lunatic scientist down there thought up some crackpot theory, He would make it so. Any idea, no matter how ridiculous, was immediately implemented. He wanted His people to think they were smart, after all. To think that they could divine the Mind of God. He valued arrogance above all things. Except maybe for a root of flesh, for His very own.

"OK, that's it," He told the second bimbo angel, who was still frantically bobbing her head up and down on His Holy Member. "I want to take the saucer down again."

"Not the saucer," whined the first angel, taking her head out from between His Divine Buttocks. "That's the third time this month, Yowie."

He understood their reluctance. It meant they would have to lose the wings, the silver tresses, the torpedo breasts, and don the hairless, wasting bodies of the aliens first made popular in Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind. But what the hell, you had to give the folks what they wanted. Nobody believed in angels anymore. But aliens were a whole different kettle of fish. Besides, He kind of dug the big dark eyes. And the three fingered hands.

"We're going to take Goldberg again," He told His crew once they were safely inside the mother ship. 

"Not Mrs. Goldberg," His crew whined in unison. Leah Goldberg had been blabbing about her abduction experiences on Oprah, Montel, Jerry Springer and just about every other talk show willing to squander precious air time on her incoherent ravings. 

"I'm going in again, guys. Just like with Mary. Only it's going to be Goldberg this time."

"You've got to joking, Boss. Not Goldberg. Who's going to take You seriously as the alien love child of Goldberg? We've got to do better than that. How about the Angel of Death number? Why won't You at least give the idea some thought?" the first angel, now alien, pleaded.

"No, I've made up my mind," He told them. "It's Goldberg or bust." He wanted a Jewish mother again. And Goldberg's 40DD hooters would be delightful to suck on for a few months. He hoped she belonged to the La Leche League. Plus he could use the chicken soup and the guilt. It might shape Him up.

****

Goldberg was sitting alone at her kitchen window, reading the paper as always when they brought the saucer down. They shined the beam at her, and as usual she began to walk toward the mother ship as if in a deep trance. They were always amazed at that. It wasn't as if the beam were hypnotic or anything like that. It was just a glorified flashlight. They supposed everybody had been watching way too many Spielberg movies.

Goldberg kind of floated across the lawn before being hauled in by the tractor beam (which indeed was real - omnipotence did, after all, have its own rewards).

She practically strapped herself to the chrome table and spread her legs in the stirrups. She licked her lips in anticipation.

Bimbo angel number one, still in her skinny, bald alien disguise, brought the tip of the orgasmoprobe to Goldberg's crotch and inserted it between her nether lips. Goldberg's whole body shuddered in response.

The Big Guy shuddered too, whether out of sympathy, empathy or horniness He could not say. He envied Goldberg the pleasures of the flesh. But soon He would be joining her in that. He too would know the joys of gushing enemas, if not the very G-spot itself (depending on the luck of the chromosome draw). The Holy Root began to stiffen for the first time in months, despite its present lack of corporeality. 

Goldberg was moaning now, her soft flesh clutching the orgasmoprobe, her wet juices spilling onto the glistening perfection of the chromium table.

God was with her then. He wore her flesh, felt the pulsing walls of her dark passage as they contracted enthusiastically around the orgasmoprobe.

He was in the probe itself, in the walls that formed the inner spaces of the ship, in the very air that surrounded them. He was, in the final analysis, just as capable of omnipresence as of omnipotence.

But most of all He was in the genetically engineered sperm that swam toward Goldberg's succulent, waiting egg, His other body having by now dissolved back into the ether.

He hoped they wouldn't nail Him to a cross this time. That had really smarted. (Well, OK, maybe He enjoyed it a little.)

No, this time He planned to keep His mouth shut. Let the ants go about their sordid business unmolested. Hell, He had a little sordid business of His own to do.

It was a brand new millennium, and...

This was going to be party time.



Second Coming



"Then, well, what?"

He growled. "You know this impertinence will earn you my name across your back in stripes, don't you?" 

I pictured him, lean and imperfect, naked at his filmy window, watching the lost and forsaken pushing their carts possessions and seeking the means to survive another day. His corner crack dealers would be setting up, slinking from back doors and shaking off malt-liquor hangovers. I'd seen him stand at the window and watch while he assumed I slept, his profile marred by fat tears that slid down his cheek and fell from his jaw to the splintery floor with a light splat. 

That was the night I'd stayed over, when Mark was away on business. I'd slept gagged, one ankle cuffed to the bed, wearing only a diaper. Humiliation before breakfast, he said.

"Then what?" he repeated. "Then I give people who deserve it, people who have earned it, what they want."

"But what do you want?" I asked.

He was silent. I didn't think that was a question he often heard. 

"What I want is of no consequence. It never has been," he said tonelessly. "Be at the Waldorf at nine tonight. Room 423." He hung up. 

Questions filled my mind. How will you pay? What excuse can I make to get away from Mark? Will you fist my ass until my skin nearly tears and I cry in pain and scream in pleasure?

"Yes, my Lord," I whispered into the dead phone. I felt it now, beyond a shadow of doubt. He was, well, He[MSOffice1].

**

I went through the motions of the day in a stew of arousal. I picked up around the apartment, retrieved the laundry from the doorman downstairs, got Mark's dinner—yes, the usual—done early. I did it all in a fog. 

This wasn't unusual. On days I was to see Him, I had to be extra careful crossing streets. The banal became fraught with danger, my mind consumed by him to the point where all else was rudely shoved aside. 

Snippets are usually what I remembered from those days, much like waking in the middle of the night and drifting off again. This day was no different, I remembered the soft giggle of the Asian woman as she painted my toenails. At 4:30 PM, I moaned at the fullness as I squeezed the enema bag, my cleft already aromatic with arousal. At 7:30, I recall bidding goodbye to Mark—dinner and a movie with a girlfriend, I told him—and feeling contemptuous at his casual wave.

I was not fully inside myself and aware until about 9:15, when I was strapped to the king-sized bed in his hotel room, nude from the neck down.

I was on my back, mostly. My arms were pulled straight down at my sides by two ropes, 

knotted at my wrists and the foot of the bed. My legs went the other direction, pulled up behind my head. My thighs were slightly spread and perpendicular to my small breasts, putting my calves alongside my head. My ankles were secured to the headboard, lifting my ass into the air like an offering. 

Only a tight leather bondage mask saved me from nudity. Its mouth zipper was shut to keep me from spitting out the rubber ball distending my cheeks. Clothespins pinching my nipples were the only other accessory. I never felt so helpless or open. 

Jesus, on the other hand, had dressed to impress. He wore an Armani suit that couldn't have cost less than three-thousand dollars. It fit like a second skin in all the right places, notwithstanding the bulge of his emboldened cock, steeled by my predicament and pathetic whimpers. 

He fished out the hand mirror I kept in my purse and held it in front of my eyes. 

"Smile, Toy." 

He flicked a clothespin with a casual thumbnail, and I watched the apparition in the mirror writhe in pain. Scary, knowing that my face was contorted in agony, while all I could see was an emotionless mask of leather. I was not only hidden away from the world, but also from myself. 

Then every philosophical ounce was jettisoned from my being, and I screamed as the 

serrated wooden teeth of a clothespin bit down on my clit.

But there was never pleasure without pain, and my body knew it, overheating even before he nudged two fingers inside me and slowly, oh God, so fucking slowly, stroked the inside of my sopping tunnel like other, lesser men would caress a lover's cheek. The tenderness, so incongruous, so pleasurable and so motherfucking dead-on-hitting-the-spot-Jesus-Christ-no-pun-intended accurate, made me start to cry. 

I was crying, I realized, because another being actually knew my body as well as I did. 

Of course, this knowledge in the hands of another is a double-edged sword. Just as I was about to go over the edge, he abruptly pulled his fingers out. 

No, oh, please, I thought. I was too full, my body was going to blow apart without release. Beneath the mask I was sweaty with need. My pussy felt too large to fit between my legs, which incidentally ached like motherfuckers in their current position. His face shone. He clearly reveled in my discomfort. 

I wiggled my ass from side to side for him, giving him the show I knew he wanted. Besides, it was the only motion available to me below the neck. I watched the undisguised delight in his eyes as I moved. I felt briefly, triumphantly, in control. The defiance was heady.

He knew, he always knew, and easily deflated me. All it took was a pat on my ass. 

"Good girl, shake that happy tail," and I stopped, ashamed. But he couldn't let any uprising, no matter how meager or transitory, just fade. I knew that.

Frowning, he grabbed two candles off an expensive-looking desk. He lit both, bringing one within inches of my left hip. I swung away when the teardrop flame licked my skin, feebly flinging my ass to the right, where the other candle was waiting. 

Screaming, begging him unintelligibly to stop, I bounced from side to side in an obscene dance. I was firecracker-hot and sweating like a laborer from my efforts, and all the while, my shame deepened like sunburn at his words. 

"That's a girl. Show Jesus how happy you are, shake your tail. My happy little slave." 

My breaths came in ragged gasps. I shimmied and cried and shimmied some more for a lifetime, long after he extinguished the candles and dumped the melted wax upon my breasts. He stood with his arms folded at the foot of my bed and watched me gyrate.

"Enough, Toy." 

He had to say it twice more before the words actually registered, and I stopped. The mask was sweltering, my brain felt like it was going to percolate. I concentrated on lying still, but that's not easy when you need to come so badly you feel like steam is rising between your legs. 

Jesus bent at the waist—no genuflecting kneel for Him—and tossed gasoline on my flaming pussy by gently blowing on it, his breath a tongue's caress. My moan was a plea. He stood with an air of satisfied benevolence.

This was the sublime state I floated in, willing to give two years of my life for relief, when the hotel room door swung open and my husband walked in. 

Most surprisingly, I would think later, was that his arrival was not the torrent of ice water I'd have expected. Maybe it was Jesus's lack of surprise. Maybe it was because I was so hot a bible study class full of septuagenarians could have waltzed in, and I would not have cared. But mostly, I think, it was because my sexless, disinterested husband was transformed into an icily beautiful stranger. He was dressed in head-to-toe black, wearing gleaming boots—where in the world did he hide those?—which my tongue ached to clean. Up top, there was no trace of his usual side part, instead his hair fell wildly over his forehead. His normally placid eyes held a heady mix of Arctic disdain and promised pleasure. He looked, in other words, like one mean sonofabitch.

He nodded at Jesus, just a quick head bob.

Jesus's mild, pale orbs had a merry, ironic tinge. Not only was he grinning at me, the bastard actually winked. 

He met Mark's nod with his own and gave a grand showman's gesture, sweeping his arm toward the bed as if to say, Ta Da!

Mark grunted in approval. His eyes fixed on me as they never had before. Despite my arousal, I was slightly piqued. This was not how he usually looked at me, the woman he'd contracted to love and cherish eternally. 

Then the same meek man who took off his shoes before stepping on our carpet, slid from its loops an extravagant leather belt that looked as supple as a sixteen-year-old and soft as veal. My pussy, which by this time had taken upon the dimensional importance of a starving child, began a tachycardic flutter.

"Perfect," he intoned at Jesus, still staring at me. Wrapping the belt buckle around his fist, he slashed the business end of that leather lengthwise against my pussy. 

I came, screaming, at the first stroke. I came so hard, that at the angle I was tied I wound up spraying my own come straight onto my face, dousing my mask with my musk like a dog marking territory.

I've had time to think about this orgasm. I've decided it was a turning point for me. It was a release, of course, God, yes, but in more than a prosaic, physical way. It was a jettisoning of the spurious column of years I'd wasted in denial and repression. Never again could I pretend to be that person. 

But this all comes in retrospect. At the time, I only knew it as the logical conclusion of hours of forced abnegation, not to mention the absolute mind-blowing reality of my heretofore-passive husband flogging me. Never before did I picture him as a player in my fantasies. 

Unbelievably, the orgasm lasted at least as long as it has taken to you to read it, if not long enough to write it.

Maybe that's why, while bucking and rolling—yes, still going—in my resounding apogee of slut-shame, I had time before my eyes explored the back of my head to glance from my husband to my God. Can you not believe at this point that he is God? If you scoff at that, you must still grant he is my savior.

My eyes flitted to them both, snap-action shots in the gorges between climaxes. Mark, lordly in his lack of expression, as if making little pain-craving come-sluts orgasm with the touch of his belt was what he was born to do.

Then there was Jesus. In contrast, his face was a map of pain. His worldly, tortured visage held a look of such ineffable sadness it could only mean goodbye, forever. The sadness, I later concluded, was not entirely—or particularly—for the loss of me, but a nanosecond of indulged lament for the existence of partings. He was moving, his face said, as we all must, no matter our wishes or desires to remain in the past or even the present. The world, our world, is in constant motion. How can we not be the same?

I'd like to say—and yes, I realize that this is the longest literary orgasm in the history of ink—but my thoughts and reflections are mine to install here where I wish. You don't like it, go read TV Guide.

Anyway, I'd like to say that Jesus disappeared before my eyes as I came, but I can't. Sometimes the fitting ends just aren't true. If I haven't convinced you of his authenticity by now, then the fault is mine as chronicler, not his as God. 

What did happen is when our eyes met, he gave a modest little bow that was little more than an inclination of his head. He did not speak, but like the day before his thought was as clear as the morning's first bird. 

My gift to you. 

Then he turned and slouched away, closing the door softly behind him as I peaked once more. 

Then Jesus, forgive me, was literally thrust from my mind as Mark, pausing only to casually unzip, expose the machinery and flick the clothespin from my screaming clit, filled the aching void inside me, and I was on my way again.

"Oooh!"

Filled! So goddamn filled, by something so familiar yet so foreign. We'd last made love two weeks ago. But this? It was like the difference between taking your road test and streaking around a racetrack. 

"You like being filled, woman?"

I moaned in assent. 

He laughed. Sitting on his haunches like a springing cat, he gripped the headboard and fucked me like a stranger, which of course he thought I was.

Helpless, pliant, I could only take it. I was a vessel for his pain and anger. I came again before he switched to my ass, a hole he'd never shown interest in before. 

I whimpered at the pain of his initial entry, and he released the headboard, running a knuckle gently over my cheek.

No! I screamed in my head. I don't want your fucking tenderness. 

That was all I had time for before he slapped my face hard enough to make my ears ring—Thank You!—and forced himself all the way in with one stroke. 

"Oh God, oh God," is all I could say into the soaked ball gag while he repeatedly long-stroked my ass, pulling back 'til only the tip crowned my anus, and thrusting balls deep. 

He slapped me again and I came, but he didn't let up. 

My hole will be unrecognizable when he's done, I thought, and another wave crashed over me. 

He stopped deep inside my ass, resting, my muscles clenching him as I came down from my high. Sweat darkened his shirt and dripped from his chin onto my nipples. He yanked the clothespins off them and I almost swallowed my tongue trying to scream. 

He laughed as I writhed. 

"I like that, whore, it makes my cock harder. You're priceless," he panted. "Where in the hell did he get you and why in the world would he share you?" 

He could have asked himself the same question, but instead used his cruel, nimble fingers to elongate my nipple by at least an inch. 

I shook. I really was on the verge of passing out. The only merciful thing to do would be to untie my agonized limbs and give me water. He knew this, I'm sure, and to my delight did not at all care.

Slowly, making me feel every centimeter, he began sawing his cock a couple of inches in and out of my ass, which some distant part of my mind told me must be bleeding. I whined in my throat, loving it.

He rocked from side to side as he thrust, then up and down, changing angles with each stroke. He's deliberately making my hole wider; he's changing the landscape of my body. I trembled at the idea. At each new angle it felt like a log was being inserted, and to my ultimate shame it brought me the greatest pleasure of my life. I wept at the intimacy of it. 

My muffled sobs and his measured breathing were the room's only sounds. 

"You'll always think of this as my hole now, won't you, my little stranger? No matter where you are, part of you will always be mine."

I nodded and cried and moaned, and it went on forever. Even now, I can feel it: side to side, up and down, around and round, then a little more cock and the same thing all over again. Finally, with the windows announcing the gray twilight of a nascent dawn, he was completely, undeniably embedded. 

His eyes met mine. They were pitiless. "Are you ready, whore?"

Never in the history of human speech was there a more rhetorical question.

His thrusts were not the onslaught I expected. They were gradual, a tidal filling and ebbing, in concert with a two-digit massage of my pussy walls that turned me to jelly. 

He pumped and pumped. His cock must be raw, I thought. He took his fingers out, and I screamed in protest, then my world went out of focus at the slap of his belt against my clit. 

My orgasm liquefied me. I lost time and place. When awareness returned he was in the midst of a triumphant moan and his shocking hot come was scalding my passage, spurt after masterful spurt. 

We froze like that for a minute. My pretzeled body was in agony. Then he pulled roughly from my ass, his cock still long and hard, dripping with the remains of his viscous deposit.

I kept my eyes closed as he untied each leg and gently straightened them while I tried not to cry at the pain. He laid them flat on the bed once the long muscles of my thighs ceased to protest. 

I kept my eyes closed as he unknotted my wrist and massaged life back into the hand. 

He reached for my other wrist, then let go. 

"No, we'll leave this one tied for now," he said. "Not quite sure I want you slipping away just yet. I don't think I'm done with you. Now let's get a look at the dirtiest whore I have ever come across."

I kept my eyes shut as he gently worked off my hood, and through his initial silence, counting to a slow ten. Then I opened them wide—in fear, gratitude, longing, love and hope—and looked nakedly upon the face of my new life. 

***

I rest the pen on the last sheet of paper, stand and stretch my cramped hand. A glance at the clock brings a frisson of pleasure. A swollen throb beats its insistence between my thighs. Writing down our story clearly has had its effect, as Mark undoubtedly knew it would. 

In the bathroom, I lather hurriedly and run a razor over my legs and pubis, resisting the urge to let my fingers spread and linger. Smooth and dry below the waist – well, smooth, anyway – I rush into the bedroom and take my collar off a peg hammered into the wall. 

The leather is soft but strong, and fits snugly against my throat as I fasten it with quickening breath. I give a tiny, embarrassed jump and delight as the collar's rings chime softly as they click together. 

I pinch my nipples as I run out to the hallway, a naked, servile sprite. I don't recognize the person I was a month ago. Falling to my knees in the hallway just as his key clicks in the lock, and I open my mouth and unfurl my tongue to the warm air to accept my Master's offering. 




Second Comings



Second Comings

 Part I: August

Jordan Secord had, like so many professors in this day and age, managed to avoid a tenure tracked position at any reputable university with a breathtaking adroitness that had left his many peers dumbfounded. How could an intellect so curious, a historian and practitioner of American foreign policy of such wide achievement not have been snapped up by a Harvard or a Princeton? It just made no sense at all.

Secord was indeed generally well-regarded wherever he taught, but he was also aggressively shy, and always soon came to be regarded as a pompous and mean-spirited sort, and those academic associates who attempted to penetrate the veil of Secord's resolute intellectual intemperance generally came away from the experience wishing they had never made the attempt. As a result, he generally managed to hang onto academic appointments for a couple of years, then an administrative sort would call him in and advise that his contract would not be up for renewal, and that was that. After a series of such dismissals, Secord did what most self-effacing historians did: he lobbied for and secured a position working in the White House. He prepared the president's daily national security brief, and wrote position papers for speechwriters to use when staging the president's next sound bite. In the immediate post-9/11 political world, Secord's was a busy life indeed.

Still, the cozy confines of academia called, and when The President left office, Secord put out feelers and soon found a quaint college in Vermont with a tenure-tracked position in the offing; he fired off a letter of inquiry and hoped for the best. Things went well, and he accepted a five year appointment to the college after he toured the campus and met the department chair. He was, he noted dryly, to be the liberal college's token conservative, and the thought filled him with uncharacteristic cheer. He loved nothing more than analyzing liberal arguments, then cutting them to shreds. In fact, the prospect seemed more than fun at this stage in life...it would be grand entertainment to expose liberal ideologies for the shams they are!

Far from being a pious man, Secord nevertheless considered himself a moral man, and he had long considered a steadfast moral compass to be the foundation of his classroom principles. Whether discussing John C Calhoun or Jimmy Carter, Secord focused on the moral dilemmas faced by America's leaders when confronting dictators and madmen, and like any historian worth his salt, he always made an attempt to present all sides of the relevant arguments these leaders faced. Even so and in the end, he considered himself staunchly conservative, though he knew he had a hard time hiding this bias; indeed, his 'rightish' leanings had, more often than not, landed him in real trouble. Higher education in America had become, if anything, even more restrictive in it's tolerance of free speech, but he understood the pendulum swings both ways over time, and he simply wanted to take the long view this time around. To that end, he'd decided to avoid situations that might lead to confrontations with left leaning faculty, and to that end he'd decided to keep his opinions to himself. If by some miracle he achieved tenure...? Well, he might let loose then, for if anything Secord thought he'd learned this lesson, and learned it well. He was tired of moving, wanted some stability in his life, and Vermont looked enticing.

Two weeks before the Fall Term began, all new faculty were due on campus. Orientation sessions were scheduled, facility tours given, and much time was dedicated to getting acquainted with all the material the Resource Center had available. A week before first classes were scheduled, a faculty dinner was scheduled at the college president's house, a grand, rambling colonial-era mansion that stood on a bluff overlooking the Connecticut River. Weather permitting, the affair was usually held on the grounds behind the house, and when the anointed day arrived, very warm temperatures and a cloudless sky beckoned.

Secord walked the few blocks to the stately house, and he was really quite impressed with the state of preservation found on the idyllic campus. Most of the college's buildings pre-dated the American Civil War, while more than a few, including the President's House, had been built in Revolutionary War times. Deep red brick, white trim, black shutters on the windows, the houses he saw were simply gorgeous and every property was surrounded by the deepest green lawns he'd ever seen – while an overwhelming number of huge oaks and maples and pines cast deep shadows everywhere he looked.

He had opted to wear an old pale blue seersucker suit and white shirt, and an equally old bow tie. White bucks, of course, rounded out the image he wanted to convey, but it was so warm out he took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder as he walked along. A Prius hummed by and parked along the street, and he looked on in awe at the long legs that emerged from the Toyota. Shimmering hosiery, very high heels, long dark hair...there was nothing PC looking about the woman who walked ahead of him to the President's house. No, indeed not; this woman seemed as hot as a pistol. 

Secord found himself mesmerized by the woman's legs, especially the smooth, full lines of her calves as he made his way up the walk behind her. She slowed, let him catch up, then stood aside and let Secord open the door for her! 'Holy Crap!' he said to himself as she passed, 'this sure as hell wasn't a Birkenstock wearing, hairy legged rug muncher!' Now he just had to find out who this dame was!

Cocktails were being served in a large lanai off the house's grand reception hall, and Secord found himself a decent scotch and water and walked over to a buffet table where an array of cheese and fruit lay artfully arranged. He picked up a plate and put some cubed swiss on it, added a few fresh looking strawberries for good measure, then walked outside and found his name on one of the tables set amongst the trees. He saw place holders for his department chair to the left, and someone named Michele Lansing on his right. Oh well, he sighed, it might be a long evening. He took a long pull on his scotch and loosened his tie.

"Jordan!"

He turned, saw Dennis Hastings, the Chairman of the History Department ambling his way, then he looked down at the man's hairy legs. Secord recoiled from the plaid madras shorts and lime green polo shirt he saw, and grimaced at the terra cotta colored Birkenstocks – replete with gray argyle knee socks – Hastings had on. 

"Dennis! By golly, I wish I'd worn shorts! It's beastly bot out here...worse than D.C.! So! Is this your wife?"

The woman by Hasting's side was well endowed and seemed cast in stone of simmering anger, yet somehow she exuded a very refined appearance, yet it was her eyes that caught Secord's, for they were luscious. Deep blue pools set inside a gracefully aging wilderness...he found her face enchanting – and now found himself staring at Sharon Hastings as her husband made introductions. Secord guessed she was Harvard or Princeton, definitely not a Yalie, simply by the way she held herself...and by the pained look she expressed for her husband's attire. He felt for her, if only because Hastings looked like he'd just stepped out of a ratty old motorhome and counted on embarrassing his wife. 

Then she came right for him and shook his hand, and dove right in.

"You're coming from the White House, aren't you?" she asked, and he was acutely aware she hadn't let go of his hand – yet.

"That's about the size of it, Sharon."

Dennis interrupted. "You want your usual, baby-doll?"

Sharon rolled her eyes. "Better make it a double, sweet-cheeks!" Dennis walked away, blushing. "That'll teach the bastard!" she said, chuckling. "So, what? NSC? Is that what I heard?"

"Yup. Position papers, daily briefs. That kind of stuff."

"Were you there for 9/11?"

"Just after. Interesting times. What do you do?"

"Sabbatical. I teach poli-sci at Holyoke, but I worked in the Clinton White House," she said reproachfully. 

"Ah," Secord said. So that's why she asked for a double.

"Where'd you teach before? Did I hear Stanford?"

"Yes, a few years there. Also at USC."

"And you went to Yale?"

"Yes, Dartmouth undergrad. You?"

"Georgetown, then the Fletcher School."

That cleared things up, Secord said to himself as alarm bells went off in his head. Catholic, probably Boston, ties to the Kennedy clan almost a sure bet. Sharp as a scalpel, no doubt. "What are you working on now," he asked.

"Me? Oh, not much. Just whether the case can be made that Bush and Cheney are war criminals."

The hair on the back of Secord's neck stood on end. "I imagine that'll be fun."

Dennis arrived with what looked like a liter sized martini, and he handed it to her. Gin, of course, with a couple of fat green olives doing the backstroke in there; Sharon quaffed it in one long pull, and both men stood by in open-mouthed amazement as she handed the tumbler back to Dennis and said: "Keep 'em coming, sweet meat..."

"You really don't have to do this on my account," Secord said conspiratorially as Dennis walked off. "I can just move to another table..."

"Don't tell me you're a fuckin' gentleman, too! You better not start opening doors for the 'ladyfolk' around here, Secord, or the sororities will camp on your lawn, with pitchforks!"

"He opened mine," a silky, feminine voice shot back. Secord turned to see the legs from the Prius. "And I sure didn't mind."

"And who are you?" Sharon asked, her words pointed barbs of anger.

"Michele, Michele Lansing," the woman replied, holding out her hand.

Sharon ignored the woman, then turned and left the table – apparently looking for her husband. Secord sensed the Lansing woman's wounded chagrin so quickly took her hand and introduced himself.

"Oh, Secord? History department? Did I read you just left the White House?"

"Yes, I think that's me. Where'd you get your intel?"

"Faculty directory, on the web site. Pretty much your whole CV is posted. For all of us."

"Sorry, haven't been there yet. Are you new here this year?"

"Yes, psychology and gender studies. Loyola and Northwestern, and I've been teaching at Reed for a while."

"Oregon?"

"Uh-huh," she said, but the way she spoke that word was seductive in the extreme.

"Could you use a drink," Secord asked.

"Could I! Anything with rum!"

"Fine. I need another myself. Be right back."

When Secord returned, student-waiters were filling water glasses and he saw the Hastings were back too, and Sharon was in the seat next to his. Lansing was talking to a woman in the seat next to her own, so Secord put her drink on the table and sat down just as the college president took to the podium. The microphone clicked and hummed, teachers and spouses turned their attention to the inevitable welcoming speeches, and waiters began bringing food to the tables. 

Sharon Hastings was by the time speeches ended into her third tumbler of gin, and had apparently decided to further humiliate her husband, calling him 'sweet cheeks' in a loud, obnoxious voice as she recounted his inadequate sexual prowess more than once. Dennis tried to ignore her, something no one else at the table seemed able to do, and when she asked for a fourth drink he told her she'd had enough. That ought to, Secord thought, set the fireworks off nicely.

Instead he felt Sharon's hand on his thigh, and he tensed as her fingernails began tracing lazy circles up his leg. She hit pay dirt after about a minute, and then pinched the tip of his dick – and Secord jumped enough to rattle glasses on the table. Lansing looked down at Secord's lap, then at the furiously tight expression on his face, and quickly, miraculously, asked him to go fetch her another daiquiri. He stood and left the table; when he returned Lansing had taken his seat and left hers vacant for him. 

He whispered 'thanks!' as he sat, and she smiled at him, and held him in her eyes for a moment. A jazz trio had set up and was playing as dishes were cleared, and he asked Michele if she'd like to dance.

"In these heels, on this lawn? Are you kidding?"

"They're nice. Old fashioned, I guess. I take it you don't normally wear heels."

She nodded, smiled, then took a long pull from her daiquiri. "So, you like them?"

"Yes, yes I do. They set off your legs nicely. Which are lovely too, I might add."

A few sidelong glances settled over the table so Secord backed off, turned to the woman next to him and started another polite conversation. He danced with Sharon, and she asked what he knew about 'that Lansing gal'.

"Not much, I guess. Just what she told me at dinner."

She smiled, then moved on to safer ground. "You have a car here? You're not going to want to miss the leaves."

"The leaves?"

"Autumn. Take the back roads to Woodstock, then over to Rutland before heading back. The colors are really impressive."

"Good idea. Maybe you and Dennis would like to ride along, show me the best route?"

"I'd be happy to," she said as she pressed a thigh into his groin, "if we can stop off somewhere and play."

"Are you and Dennis...?"

"In the middle of a long, downhill slide to dissolution."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear..."

"Don't be, my dear. He's half the man he used to be."

"Well, I'm sure it's none of my business."

"Just fair warning, Jordan. Dennie has developed a taste for boys. A student, as a matter of fact."

Secord looked away at that, not sure what to say or how to change the subject. He looked to their table, saw both Dennis and Michele watching him, and they both seemed rather amused – in a cavalier sort of way. They finished the number, then he helped an unsteady Sharon back to their table, and he was anxious to get away from her as fast as he could. He sat for a while, until it was apparent the party was winding down, then he made his excuses and bid the people at his table good night. He made his way to the president's table, thanked him for the evening, then walked through the mingling crowd for the door.

The evening was decidedly cooler, in fact it was quite nice out now, and as he crossed the street he admired the last faint glows of the sunset. He turned on his street and saw his house ahead – and Lansing's little Prius parked out front. 

'This could be interesting,' he said to himself as he walked down the granite sidewalk. It had been a while since he'd had time for sex, but he assumed things hadn't changed all that much in the past couple of years, and he felt a stirring in his groin to go along with the flurry of anticipation he felt. As he approached the little car he was dismayed to see it was empty, but then he saw her sitting on the porch swing beyond his front door.

"Nightcap?" she said as he walked up the steps. She looked sexy as hell, he thought for the umpteenth time that night.

"That sounds like a good idea," he said, smiling, and she stood, followed him inside after he opened the door. He studied her closely as she walked in, and was even more impressed now. She was, perhaps, five-six, five-seven at most, maybe a hundred and ten pounds. Her breasts were decent, neither too big nor too small, but her legs were just perfect, and the bone colored pumps she had on were just perfect, too. 

He was still staring at them when he noticed she was staring at him.

"You like what you see, I take it?" she said.

He shook himself back into the here and now, then looked her in the eye. "Few women have the grace and style to dress the way you do, Michele. Fewer still look as sexy as you do right now."

She walked over to the entry and flipped off the lights, then came to him and kissed him hard. She drove her tongue past his lips, and a hand was soon pulling his belt free. His trousers were around his ankles seconds later, and she was on her knees in an instant, his cock in hand as she playfully nibbled his thighs. He wouldn't, he realized, be needing a Viagra that night, either.

She took him in one hungry motion, began swirling her tongue around the head of his cock, pulling him insistently one moment, lightly pinching the shaft with her long fingernails the next. She then took him all the way in one deep motion and began bobbing her head up and down with a ferocity that left him weak-kneed and breathless, and with little build-up or warning he exploded in her mouth.

Maybe he'd expected her to gag and run from the room, but she simply kept her rhythm and he felt her swallowing all he had to give, then she was swirling her tongue around the tip until he felt his legs might buckle and drop out from under him. He was aware of his heartbeat then, and how heavy his breathing had become, and then he realized he was holding her head, running his fingers through her hair.

"Michele...I'm sorry...that just hit me so hard...I had no idea..."

"Jordan, for heaven's sake – don't apologize. What you've given me tonight is the greatest compliment you could have, and you have no idea how much I appreciate..."

He helped her up then, kissed her on the forehead and held her close. After a moment, he kissed her gently on the lips, and he could just make out her eyes in pale moonlight. He could see tears falling, tears he simply could not understand, then she ran her fingers over his face once before running from the house.

He stood just in silence, suddenly completely off balance emotionally. 

"What the hell just happened," he said to the emptiness. He fumbled for the light switch, walked into the kitchen and fixed a glass of ice water, then walked back to the front door. She was still out there, her little car still parked out front, and he could just see she was still crying. He flipped on the porch light, and instantly the car slipped into gear and sped off into the night. He went out and sat on the swing for a few minutes, then went inside and got ready for bed, stopping on the way to pick up his laptop.

He settled onto his bed and opened up the college's portal, and went to the faculty listing, found Michele Lansing's entry. Yes, there she was, adjunct prof in psychology, also working in the campus mental health center, specializing in gender identity issues. BA in psych from Loyola Chicago, LCSW and PhD in Clinical Psychology from Northwestern, seven years at Reed College as Michael Thomas Lansing – before completing gender reassignment.

Jordan Secord felt the emotional equivalent of an 7.0 earthquake rumble through his soul, and he ran to the bathroom as bile rushed up his throat. He sat up all night in the living room, almost finishing a bottle of Glenlivet during his journey into deepest despair.

+++++

He was scheduled to teach three classes his first term at the college: a freshman seminar in American History, an American Foreign Policy survey course, and an upper division course covering American foreign policy during the Cold War. He'd have, in total, less that thirty students under his wing, a far cry from the two hundred or so students he'd had at USC – in just one class! He read over the names and backgrounds of all his students, making notes here and there in his attendance book from time to time. He went to the kitchen and made tea, returned to his little office while he worked, and did everything in his power to keep all thought of 'Michele' Lansing from fucking with his head.

He was, he knew, still in a state almost bordering on shock. Disbelief had come and gone, so had revulsion and self-loathing. Still, the one thing he hadn't felt was anger, and that surprised him. Was he really so analytical? So out of touch with his own feelings? He didn't understand what had happened, or why, but anger seemed plausible to him. So, why did he feel so empty now? 

And what had she said? That he'd paid her a great complement? Why? What complement? That he'd responded to her as a woman? That she gave great head? That he'd been emotionally available to her, hadn't rejected her out of hand? Well, of course he hadn't! He had no idea what sort of masquerade she'd been playing at, had he? Had she, he, whatever the hell 'it' was, been playing him all along?




Second Comings III The Mask of Anar



(Note: this is Part III of the Second Coming series. Part I was released last December, Part II a few days ago, confusingly titled Second Comings - Sex Type Thing. This current posting is Part III, and they should be read in order for the tale to make much sense. Thanks to "rightbank" for pointing this out!)

Second Comings III: The Mask of Anarchy

May

Justin Lake sat behind Sharon Hastings as she drove towards Boston on the Mass Pike; Jordan Secord sat beside Hastings, looking out the window, his face a mask – lost in thought. Alternating between hope and despair, Secord ignored the world around the car, his thoughts oscillating through extremes as he felt his way through all the possible outcomes of this day. Michele...his Michele...was dying. What was left of this world but darkness?

A half hour into surgery she had crashed. Multiple cranial fractures created an almost impossible surgical environment, then fractured ribs and a punctured lung complicated the series of life-saving procedures her surgeons needed to get done simply to stabilize her. Both were general surgeons, however, and as events unfolded she desperately needed both neuro- and thoracic surgeons. The closest were in Hanover and Boston, the best at Mass Gen. A helicopter was summoned, the patient prepped for transport – still under anesthesia. Two physicians jumped in the helicopter before the patient was loaded, then the aircraft rose and dashed to the east. A Volvo wagon sped from the hospital, it too bound for Boston. The remaining general surgeon dashed back to the ER, to the gunshot wound that had just arrived – and he was now the only surgeon in the house. The on-call surgeon was summoned, an orthopedist, but she wouldn't arrive for a half hour.

This new patient had three gunshot wounds, all from 9mm rounds: one in her upper right arm, two in the upper chest, both near the right subclavian artery, but her pressure was steady, the apparent bleeding minimal. She had been stabilized in the ER, taken up to OR5 and while he scrubbed-in he looked at her chemistries on the blue LCD display. Something didn't look right, so he ordered a narcotics panel while the anesthesiologist prepped her. He went in quickly, wanted to talk to her before she went under.

"What's her name?" the surgeon asked. 

"Grier, Laura Grier," a scrub nurse said.

He went to her, pinched her earlobe gently, waking her slightly. "Miss Grier, I'm Dan Wilkins, and I'm about to try to get these bullets out. Do you understand me?"

She nodded. "Yes. Where am I?"

"You've been shot, and you're in the hospital now. Can you tell me, it's important now, but can you tell me what drugs you've taken today? Any medications? Any cocaine? Anything like that?"

"Yeah, so what? Fuck you – why don't you just let me die!" Grier said raspily, then she turned away and closed her eyes. 

He saw she was crying now. Not good. "Okay," Wilkins said. "That's that. A soon as we get those labs let's take her under. I wanna get to work while her pressure's good."

A police office stood in the corner of the operating room, taking notes.

+++++

Tony Bianchi sat in the small interrogation room, wondering what had happened to his life, what had gone wrong that morning. All Laura Grier wanted, she'd told them, was for them to rough her up a little, but when he saw her, right after they'd broken into that house, something inside him broke loose. He remembered kicking the bitch, stomping her head, then Kyle was pulling her panties down, fucking the fag-bitch in the ass, and all of a sudden it was like some kind of fucked-up war movie...like someone flipped a switch – the four of them were out of control. Animals, he thought, they'd turned into animals. He shook his head, looked around the little room again, then down at the handcuffs on his wrists – and the ankle shackles binding him to the floor. 

Acoustic tiles, a one-way mirror, all props right out of central casting, Bianchi thought. A gray metal desk, three grey metal chairs, two lights in the ceiling, everything coated with the brown sheen of cigarette smoke. Decades of oily shit, coating everything, probably his lungs now too, he thought. None of it mattered though. He knew his dad would get him out, and get him off. He was a good lawyer, and he'd told him not to say a word until he got there. The detectives had given up on him and he smiled, but perhaps that was because Kyle Chandler, his friend from the Lacrosse team and the one who'd approached him about doing this shit in the first place, had been talking non-stop ever since they'd been caught inside the Secord residence. He wouldn't have smiled if he'd known Chandler had blamed it all on Bianchi, and had proof to back up his assertions.

+++++

Hastings made her way to Storrow Drive, then to Fruit Street, looking for the main parking garage entrance as she got close to the Mass Gen campus. Both Lake and Secord were, she thought, impossibly quiet now, but she'd seen Secord's hands shaking several times during the drive. Once she parked the car, she went to his door and helped him out, but she could tell there was something seriously wrong with him now. Secord could hardly breathe when he stood, and his gait seemed unsteady. Lake came over and they helped Secord walk, first across the glassed in walkway above the street, then into the Lunder Building, to the information desk, and this was where Secord fell to the floor.

Orderlies picked him up, put him on a gurney, and Sharon rushed with him into the ER. "I don't believe this," Lake said as he shook his head and took off behind Hastings.

+++++

Wilkins looked at the films, looked at the bullets in Laura Grier's arm and thorax, and due to the amount of damage he saw he decided to start on the arm first, as he looked at the latest labs. Worse than expected, he thought. Very high levels of Xanax, SSRIs off the charts, as well as what profiled out as a possible anti-psychotic. 'Ah-ha!' he said to himself: residual levels of cocaine too, but most unexpected were trace amounts of heroin in her system and almost undetectable levels of an amphetamine.

"Whoa!" he said to the anesthesiologist. "Jack, look at those T-cells; they're kind of whacky. Can we get a quick-count HIV going?"

"Yeah, I'll pull a tube, but you do the paperwork, okay?"

"Yeah. Is she under?"

"Yup. You about ready?"

"Yeah, coming in. She's got a pretty serious cocktail on board. Everything from coke to H, uppers and downers and anti-depressants."

"A real happy camper. Her chemistries are a anemic, Dan, and her sats are falling. We better not dawdle on this one..."

Wilkins went into her arm, peeling away layers of muscle rather than cutting through them, hoping to preserve function and speed healing, then he got to the humerus. He looked up, saw Jane Wilson, an orthopedic surgeon, scrubbing in; he continued to expose the humerus until he had the head was fully exposed. "I can see a lot of damage in the brachial plexus, Dr Wilson, and the humeral head is just shattered. And I do mean shattered. Bullet must have hit there, then tumbled down..."

"How's the brachial artery," Wilson asked. "Intact?"

"Yes, but I see some pooling near the ulnar."

"What's going on up there," she said as she entered the room, pointing to the two entry wounds on her chest. "Was this woman shot?"

"They didn't tell you?"

"No. Looks like 38s, maybe 9mil."

"Cops tried to arrest her, she resisted, with a knife," one of the nurses said.

"Just what my dad always told me to do. Go after a cop with a knife. Smart. She a local?"

"English prof, at the college," the cop in the corner said.

"What are you doing here?" Wilson demanded.

"She's under arrest. The chief told me to stay here and take notes."

Wilson looked at Wilkins; both shrugged. 

"What did she do," Wilson asked.

"Basically, it looks like she put out some kind of a hit. That's all I know."

"Well, well, a real go-getter," Wilson said. "Dan, change places with me, would you? I want to look at those fragments. Would you go ahead and expose the clavicle? Let's see what kind of mess we have there..."

+++++

Secord was on a gurney in Trauma Room 14, EKG and pulse oximeter readings just coming online, an intern looking at the screens.

"He's having a heart attack," the intern called out to a passing nurse. "Get Dr Anderson in here, stat!"

Sharon watched the transformation, almost in shock. The quiet little room exploded into frenzied chaos, yet even so everything seemed well-choreographed, almost like a ballet. Lines were started, IVs hung, stats called out, medications injected, then one of the nurses told her to leave. She backed out of the room, crying now, then turned and looked for Lake. She couldn't see him, not anywhere, then a clerk from admitting was on her, asking about insurance and next of kin. She told the clerk what she knew, then asked about Michele: there was a Lansing in surgery – that's all the clerk had now.

Lake was there, out of the blue. "She's upstairs, they're operating on her now. What's up with Jordan?"

"He's having a heart attack...they pushed me out of the room."

Lake shook his head, sat down, put his face in his hands. "This isn't happening," he whispered. "This just can't be happening..."

He grew restless, went and called called the hospital back in Vermont...

Grier still in surgery, nothing new to report... 

He called the police department. Four suspects in custody, charges pending, arraignments set for tomorrow morning...

He found Sharon, they walked to a lounge and sat down, waiting for the world to make sense.

"Did you find out anything about Laura?" Sharon asked?

"Nothing. She's still in surgery too."

"What in God's name are you going to do about her, Justin?"

"I'll have to talk with her, find out why..."

"Why? I mean, what could she say to justify this?"

"Oh, she can't. Not ever. If what's been alleged is true. Still, I can't help but think people are innocent until proven guilty."

"Okay, but let's say she got those boys to do it. And she used sex to manipulate them into doing it. Then what? Then what can you say to her?"

"Oh, Sharon, I don't know. Perhaps the only words that matter at that point will come from the judge that sentences her. You know, I've been thinking about, well, something I recall from a Renaissance Lit class. "Nothing is so firmly believed as that which we least know." I can't recall who said it, but..."

"Montaigne."

"Oh, yeah, that's it. But I was thinking how much I loved her, how much I believed in her, and how little I knew her."

"Knew? Is she dead yet, Justin?"

"No, of course not. I'm sorry, it's just that..."

"You know, Justin, Montaigne wrote something else you might want to think about now. "He who fears he shall suffer, already suffers what he fears."

Lake nodded his head, because he was afraid.

"When you love someone, it's a bond. As much as I detest what Dennis has become, what he's done to our marriage as a result, I still love him. He's still my friend. I can't ever turn my back on that friendship. On him."

"Are you saying I should stick with Laura? After what she's done? How could I..."

"I always thought if you love someone that's what you do, Justin. It's not that you're giving her the benefit of the doubt, or even that you forgive her. It's that you love her, they need you now, and you're there for that person. It's a part of our humanity, Justin."

"You know, Jordan's been sounding more and more like some sort of evangelical..."

"Jordan? Hah! There may be a bigger atheist on campus, but I doubt it. Don't confuse the Will to Goodness with some sort of Christian line, or any other religion for that matter. Religion is a cloak, Jordan told me once. The heart needs no shrouds, it needn't hide in the shadows of ritual and dogma."

"Jordan? An atheist? I can't..."

"As you said, he's a historian. And a good one, too, as it turns out. He knows Christ as a historian knows the man, not as a Christian might, perhaps, and he knows Buddha, and the Prophet in the same way – through the same eyes and ears. I think, from the little we've talked about these things, he sees that religions have more in common with one another than they have differences. I know he believes in goodness, but that goodness isn't defined by or restricted to any religion, but that's about as far as it goes with him. And you know, I doubt there's a religion that would officially condone his relationship with Michele. I think about that too. Think about what his love for Michele really means, what it says about his humanity. Now I think about Laura's, I don't know, hatred, and what that says about our world. Your world too, I guess."

"If it's true, if what they say she did is true, there's no way I could ever look at her again, much less talk to her, or as you say, love her."

"You said she's a monster, didn't you? That she's...sick? Don't marriage vows have something to say about that? You know...like 'in sickness and in health?'"

"We're not married. And you still think I should talk to her?"

"Whatever she's done, Justin, she's a human being. Something's caused her immense suffering, maybe something beyond her control. You might be the only one able to help her get to an answer, maybe get to an understanding of the causes, and maybe help her."

"Maybe she's just crazy, Sharon. Broken, a broken monster. I don't want to spend my life taking care of someone like that. Someone who might just be sick, full of hate. She was dishonest, Sharon. If this is true, she was living a life of lies. Lies, as simple as that. Lies of acts and omissions, to me. If all this is true, she was using me. She was using me as a shield, and I became a part of her mask. She used me, to get at Michele, maybe even to Jordan. I'm not going to spend another minute with her if this is true. Period. End of discussion."

"Well, it's something to think about, Justin. I hear you, understand what you mean. If I can help, let me know."

"You did this when Michele had her problem last year, didn't you?"

"What?"

"Helped Jordan. Helped him get the whole thing under control?"

"Yeah. Rough time."

"I guess Michele has caused you a fair amount of trouble this year. As a result of these things."

"Trouble? I wouldn't call it that."

"Why not? If so, goodness seems to be just another mask. Humanity is good? I don't know..."

"I do what I think is right, Justin. What I'd hope people would do for me."

"Do you have kids, Sharon?"

"Nope. We never got around to it."

"Oh. I wonder if we could be so dispassionate if she was our daughter."

"What about her parents?"

"Her mother's dead. Never knew her father."

Sharon shook her head, then fell silent. An hour later a doctor came to the waiting room, asked for the family of Jordan Secord, and Sharon got up, Justin with her, and joined the doctor in a conference room.

"Pretty good heart attack he had, not major, very little underlying pathology. Probably stress induced. You know of anything...?"

Sharon filled him in, and when the physician understood he went back to the OR suites and got an update on Michele's status, then he returned.

"She's still on the table, but they're wrapping up now. Her right orbit was fractured, the bone around her right eye, and that took time to fix. The eye's okay. Ribs are stabilized, the puncture repaired. Fingers in her hand and wrist have been set, some with pins. There's some concern about a thoracic vertebra. Won't know the answer for a while." He looked at his notes. "Some anal injuries. Those I don't know about. Uh. Let's see...this is being treated as a sexual assault. I don't know about the rape kit. You want me to get that going?"

"Please," Justin said. "I don't think the police back in Vermont had time to do that."

"And you are?"

"A co-worker. He's my friend."

"Okay. I'll get the police here to supervise that, get it into custody. He's a professor? What's he teach?"

"History," Lake said. "And Goodness."

The physician looked at Lake, then nodded his head. "Okay. Here's my name and cell; call me if I can help. Secord will move up to CCU in about an hour. No visitors 'til day after tomorrow. You'll need to get with patient information for Lansing's information. They won't have it for a few hours, though."

"I'd better call Dennis," Sharon said. "Why don't you call the hospital?"

+++++

Wilson had tried for an hour to reconstruct the humerus, but with many fragments either missing or too small she now looked down on a hopeless mess; Wilkins had had even less luck with the mangled shreds of nerves and blood vessels in the area. "We're getting nowhere fast," she said after looking at the anesthesiologist. "How's she doing?"

"We're three hours twelve minutes in. Holding her own."

"Okay," Wilson said, "this is my call. We're taking the arm. Dan, start clamping the arteries..."

+++++

Detective Frank Marchand had worked homicide in Washington, D.C. for fifteen years, then grown sick of the life. He quit, moved to Vermont, starting doing what he loved most, doing finish carpentry on houses and building cabinetry, but keeping his wife and four kids fed and clothed had become difficult. When the local police department announced they were hiring a few years back he applied, was accepted, and soon found himself right back where he'd left off – doing detective work – nine to five. But while D.C. had hundreds of homicides a year, this town had a homicide about once every thirty years, and while assaults were more common, after the homecoming football game usually, Vermont just wasn't, he soon discovered, a hotbed of crime. Even the drug gangs had given up on the state; it was just too damn cold, and too close to Hartford and Boston. 

Marchand worked the few burglaries that happened, and all the assaults too, so he was called-in on his day off to work the Lansing case. His first impression, when he interviewed the kids from the college was that something was really wrong with the picture. Kids, college kids especially, didn't easily get pulled into this type of crime unless drugs were involved. Not in his experience, anyway. When he learned that the Grier suspect had lured the boys in with sex he thought that might fit, but still, something was missing. When he learned that Lansing was a transexual, and this was a 'hate-crime', he understood – and he just about lost interest in the case. He might have let it go but for the behavior of the suspects, the boys who'd assaulted this Lansing character.

What bothered him was the sense of privilege he heard in the boy's voices when he talked with them. The boys came from moderately wealthy families, and that wealth had conferred on them a sense of exemption, of being a little too above the law. The Bianchi kid was odious, too. His father was, the kid said, a lawyer and would get him off no matter what. "Why don't you go write some parking tickets, and stop wasting my time, Pencil Dick," the kid said to him. Marchand was in a bad mood by the time he got to Bianchi, and that pushed him over the edge.

"You know, Tony, you're a very smart kid. I know that. I know you know that. So here's the deal. Your buddy in the other room, Kyle? Kyle told me this was all your doing. You didn't like Secord. You didn't like the grades he gave you. You wanted to get back at him somehow. You had this Grier for another class, you two started fucking last fall, right after school started. Kyle says she was fucking everyone else too, lots of jocks. Anyone who needed a little extra help with their grades. She also wanted help beating up this Lansing back then, but someone ratted her out. This sounding familiar to you, Tony?"

"I ain't sayin' nothin'."

"Yeah? Well, so you two were still fucking, like once maybe twice a week, sometimes more, right up until last week. You know how I know this, Dickhead? Hmm?"




Second Comings III The Mask of Anar



"No."

"Because you aren't as smart as you think you are, Dickhead. You've been texting all this shit to your buddy Kyle. Since September, even. We have print outs now, of all your ideas and actions, of all your texts. Meeting her to fuck, how she likes it up the ass, all of it. Meeting with her last year to plan this thing, and again, over the past month, when she started getting you guys thinking about doing this again. I can't fucking believe you, Tony! So smart! So, you know what, Tony? I don't need you to open your fucking mouth, so do me a favor and keep it shut. Just keep in mind, kiddo, if this Lansing dies, you're going to stand for murder in the commission of another felony. That's mandatory life, no chance of parole. You know, we got some real big farm boys up here in our little prison, too. They'll fuck you in the ass so hard the heads of their dicks will pop out your mouth. You'll get used to it, though, so don't lose any sleep over it. But you know, I gotta ask, 'cause there's just one thing I don't get. Why? Why'd you do it, son. Why? Was it 'cause you love this Grier woman? Or because you hate this Secord guy? Huh? Which is it?"

"I love her. That's why I did it. Now fuck off!"

"Ya know, Tony? I think I will," Marchand said as he yawned, hiding his triumph. "I think I'll go home now, and yeah, I might just fuck off. You too, kid. You have fun tonight. You deserve to have some fun, so I'll seeya in the morning. The judge and I are going to have a little talk about you then. He's going to talk to you too. I think you'll like him, Tony. Really, I do. I think you'll have lot's of fun."

+++++ 

When Secord opened his eyes he saw what he thought was a gauzy impressionist's rendition of Mission Control; in this darkened room there were all kinds of blinking lights and beeping monitors, and there were women here too, but no engineers with slide rules sticking out of their shirt pockets.

"Where am I?" he said after several minutes, and one of the woman came to him, wiped his eyes with cool water and dried them off.

"Dr Secord, you're at Mass General, in the Coronary Care Unit. You were downstairs and had an episode."

"An episode? Of what? Gilligan's Island?"

The woman apparently had no sense of humor. "You had a heart attack, Dr Secord. Apparently stress induced."

"We came. Uh, we came when my girlfriend was transferred here from Vermont. She was sexually assaulted this morning. They brought her here by helicopter. Do you know anything?"

The nurses eyes squinted a little, her demeanor hardened. "Let me check with the doctor."

"Don't you want to know her name?"

"I know her name, Dr Secord."

She was gone about a half hour, and she returned with two physicians. They looked at monitors, held out long strips of paper, then looked his way.

'Oh, no,' he said to himself, 'she's gone...'

One of the physicians, a very petite woman, came into Secord's part of the CCU and took a syringe and pushed something into his IV, then she watched a readout behind his bed for a moment.

"Dr Secord?"

"Yup."

"My name is Linda Fiorello, and I was the neurosurgeon working on Miss Lansing. It's my understanding she's your girlfriend? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Well, we had a difficult time with some of the injuries, notably a T3 fracture that nobody caught."

"A broken vertebrae?"

"Yes. That's right."

"Is she..."

"No. We caught it. She's immobilized for the time being..."

"She's alive? Are you telling me she's alive!?"

"Yes, of course. You mean, no one's told you anything?"

"He just woke up, doctor," one of the nurses called out.

"Oh, I see. Well, yes, she's doing fine now. Her hand will be..." She stopped, looked at Secord. He was crying now and she gave him a tissue, let him get caught up.

"You said something about her hand?"

"Dr Secord, she had extensive trauma to her head and face, left ribs and right hand, as well as a punctured lung. There was concern the left renal artery might have been compromised, but we're convinced that's okay right now. The, uh, well, all forensic examinations have been completed and results will be forwarded to the Vermont State Police."

"I see. So she's stable?"

"Her condition is critical, but stable. Until we know how she is when she wakes up."

"She's still out?"

"She should come-around in about an hour. I'm staying here 'til she does, and I'll drop by on my way home to let you know. Okay?"

"Okay, and thanks for all you've done."

She took his hand and squeezed it, gave him a little smile before she walked out, then the other doc came in. With chart in hand he described Secord's 'episode' in glowing, technicolor detail, and what they'd be doing to him the next few days, then he too was gone and the nurse came back in.

"I don't suppose I could have a Coke or something?"

"A Coke!?" the nurse said, breaking out into a real laugh. "Doc? You've had your last Coca-Cola for a long, long time! A Coke?! Hah! That's a hoot!"

"Something to drink, then?"

"Ice chips for now, doc. Zero sodium for the time being. Like the next two years." She laughed as she walked from the cubby, laughing "coke" under her breath as she went, then Secord remembered he had a stack of term papers to grade...

+++++

Justin Lake took off his rain coat and looked at Laura's unfinished papers and wondered just what the hell the college would do about that. Maybe someone from her department could finish them? Then he looked at his own stack of ungraded essays and groaned.

He'd been home for an hour and suddenly felt about as alone as he ever had in his life, and grading papers was the last thing on earth he wanted to do just then. He got up and went into the bedroom – their bedroom – and he looked at her clothes. Some on the floor, some hanging in the closet...then he looked at the bathroom counter...and all her things. And he thought he'd known her so well.

'How well do we ever really know anyone,' he asked the reflection in the mirror. He didn't know what to do then...put her belongings in trash bags? Call the college? Let them deal with it?

He couldn't stand it...so many questions, all crowding in on him, pushing him, twisting him from one unanswerable question to the next.

A knock on the door. He looked at his watch...it was now after two in the morning. 'Who could that be...' he said as he went to the door.

Sharon Hastings, looking disheveled and very upset stood there in the rain.

"I got home," she sighed wearily, "went to the bedroom, and Dennis was there sucking off some kid. He heard me, no way he couldn't have. It's like he's forcing the issue, pushing everything in my face right now. Sorry, I'd have gone to Jordan's house, but..."

"God, no, please, come on in. Can I get you something?"

"Whiskey maybe, and a .357 Magnum?"

"Not sure this campus could deal with two fights in one day. Maybe just some bourbon?"

"Bourbon. Yes. That would be nice right about now." He came back with two classes and an unopened bottle a moment later. 

"I was looking at all her things, wondering..."

"College will store it. Call the Dean's secretary in the morning."

"Oh."

"Get all her term papers and grade books to the English chair's secretary too. That's their problem, not yours."

"Okay. Two down, a few dozen questions to go."

"Fire away."

"Well, Laura. What you said earlier. About helping her."

"What about it?"

"I'm lost."

"Fuck the bitch. Let her roast in hell."

Lake laughed. "Why the change of heart?"

"Oh, fuck, where do you wanna start? How about Dennis? How about Jordan, and Michele? I'm getting tired of all the good people I know going down in flames – while all the evil shits walk around calling the shots, and smiling all the way to the bank."

"And you teach political science?"

"Yeah, I used to believe in all that shit, too. I'm going to start preaching anarchy..."

"Jordan said something about fighting the good fight..."

"He would. He always takes the high road."

"Mind if I ask you something personal?"

"Justin, if you can't by now, no one can."

"Do you love him?"

"Secord?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is it that obvious?"

"No, not really. I just wondered...after watching you today."

"I fell for him last summer, slowly, but he grows on you." She took a long pull on her bourbon, swirled the ice around inside the glass, staring at it as she did. "We met at the faculty dinner, and I got stone drunk. Can you believe it? A conservative from Ws White House, and a liberal poli-sci professor from Massachusetts. We were destined for one another, just had to be, ya know?"

He laughed, she did too.

"Y'all ever have sex?"

Her eyes narrowed: "Wow, you really do want to get personal, don't you?"

"I don't understand why you two are so close. Things don't add up"

"When Jordan first met Michele, well, it didn't work out. He was pretty freaked out, and I helped him pick up the pieces. Some hand holding was involved, yes, if that's what you mean."

"Fair enough."

"Yeah, anyway, I could tell even then he loved her. It was an emotional connection, Justin. The sex thing freaks him out, though. Still does, I think."

"And you help him with that?"

"Not since they got together. No."

"But you still love him?"

She looked at him, hesitated. "Yeah. Madly, deeply and out of mind. I love the hell out of him. I didn't know Michele then, but I do now. I hate to say it, but I love her too. And no. Never. Won't happen, so don't go there."

He laughed. "You have a dirty mind, don't you?"

"You have no idea."

"So, what happens with Dennis?"

"Divorce. Tomorrow, as soon as I can get to my lawyer."

"So, you'll move down to Massachusetts, to Holyoke?"

"I guess."

"Away from Jordan?"

He could see it on her face right then. She'd never leave Jordan. Never.

"Do you mind if I bunk out here tonight?" she said, knowing she had to change the subject right away. "I can't go home right now."

"Sure, I'll take the sofa."

"Bullshit. Pillow and a quilt are all I need."

"Bathroom's in there," he said, pointing.

"Same floor plan as Jordie's. I know the way!"

I'll bet you do, Justin thought. I just bet you do.

She came out a minute later wearing just pale yellow panties and a t-shirt, and while she was pale as a sheet she was attractive enough, in a stocky New Englander way. She sat on the sofa and he continued to look, to stare, really, at her bare legs.

"Justin? Pillow? Blanket?"

"I'm afraid, Sharon."

"Afraid? Why?"

"I don't know why. I just am, that's all."

"We'll get this place squared away in the morning, Justin. You'll feel better then. Could I ask you something now?"

"Huh?"

"Why are you staring at me?"

He shook himself to, looked up at her – now almost embarrassed – but a sea change was rolling over him now. "I can understand why Jordan came to you. You're like a lifesaver tossed to a man who's just fallen overboard...easy to cling to...hard to let go of."

As she watched him, Lake began to tremble, to fall apart before her very eyes, and within the span of a single breath his was crying, coming completely undone, the events of the day finally catching up to him. She went to him more out of instinct than anything else, but she took him and held him and let him go deeper into his grief. She made gentle noises in his ear, ran her fingers through his hair and she felt his hands clinching her back through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. He was sobbing now, really out of control. Not knowing what else to do, instinct took over. 

She walked him into the bedroom and lay him down, took off his shoes and khakis, then covered him with sheets and blankets. He was facing her, and she sat beside him and draped herself over his body like it was the most natural thing in the world, then he looked up at her, his face a mess while she rubbed his head.

"I'm sorry," he said, trying to sound manly and in-charge again.

"For what," she whispered, because if anything she knew who was in charge now.

"For all...for everything..."

"Just relax," she said while she rubbed his face, then his head. She knew she was walking the razor's edge but she really didn't care anymore. Dennis and all his smoldering infidelities, Jordan and his impossible windmills, and all her hopes and desires drifting away on the wind. She brought her legs up onto the bed, let his eyes fall on them, let his gaze linger there as she parted her thighs – and soon, all his crying stopped.

+++++

She woke suddenly, knew she was coming out of a dream – no, a horrible nightmare – but everything was wrong. 

She was in a small room of pale green walls, a cotton curtain separating her immediate space from the world beyond, and there was a strange man sitting in the corner, reading a magazine, and it hit her then. Her name was Alice, and she'd followed a rabbit down his hole! There was no telling where she was now...so perhaps she'd finally get to meet the White Queen tonight...

Her nose began to itch and she unconsciously moved her hand to scratch it, but nothing happened. She struggled to move her hand – and nothing! She tried with her left and she felt the arm move, then something stopped it and she looked, saw a handcuff and sighed a kind of strangled sob of relief. 'So that's it!' she told herself, then the man and a nurse were by her side.

"You're awake now?" the nurse said. "How do you feel?"

"Where am I," Laura Grier said, now clearly very confused. "What happened?"

"I need to do a few things, look at your dressings, then we'll need to let this man talk with you," the nurse said as she moved to Grier's right shoulder. Laura looked and saw masses of thick white surgical dressings there, some blood-soaked and oozing, and panic gripped her.

"What's happened?!" she screamed, and the nurse just continued working, exposing the wounds, cleaning the area with saline and iodine.

"You lost you arm, Miss Grier," the man said, and she turned to the sound of his voice, looked up at him with red-rimmed, perilously frightened eyes. "Do you remember anything, Miss Grier?"

"My arm's gone? Is that what you said? My arm..."

Frank Marchand had interrogated so many broken human beings over his twenty years of detective work that he had developed a certain benign apathy for the feelings of others, especially for those who'd caused great harm to their victims, but suddenly he saw his own daughter laying there in the light, saw this girl's abject terror rise up from depths of her soul and reach out into the night for some small measure of comfort – and he was all she had. He shook himself free of his own restraints and cradled her face in his hands, then daubed her eyes with tissues, aware only that he had to meet this girl in her moment of need or somehow fail a very simple test of his own humanity.

"Miss Grier? Do you remember anything about yesterday?" Marchand asked again, when some of the terror he'd seen left the girl's eyes.

Wide-eyed and quiet, Grier shook her head. "No. Nothing."

This was a worst case scenario, Marchand said to himself. She had no recall, therefore no effective Miranda warning, so no questions for now. "Miss Grier, I have to advise you that you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, and that you have certain rights..."

"What! What are you talking about! Wake up! I want to wake up now! Somebody wake me up!"

Grier was thrashing around the bed, the nurse barely able to restrain her and with these wounds exposed she needed help. She hit the call button and asked all the nurses on the floor come to help, but now, when she tried to find a place to restrain Grier there was simply no good place to do so. She was struggling when the first nurse arrived, and now there was blood everywhere.

"Sedation!" the nurse called out. "In the IV, now!"

Marchand left the room – now completely shook up, and he looked down at his arms. He saw blood on his sleeves and on his hands, and he felt panic rising – like the sun outside. He went down the hall to a bathroom and went in, saw the splatters of blood all over his face, on his eyes, on his lips, and he felt a cold chill run through his body. He washed his face and hands, then washed them again, then he leaned over the sink, looked at his face in the mirror, shaking his head. When he had calmed down he walked to the nurses station. The two from the room were there, washing Grier's blood from their faces and arms.

"Excuse me, but does anyone know her HIV status?"

The nurses turned and looked at him, then at one another. "I didn't see anything on the chart?" one of them said. "Did you?"

"Someone would have flagged her. We have protocols for this..." but this nurse was flipping through Grier's chart now, then typing on her computer. Then Marchand saw her stop on a page and start reading, then this woman's hands were in her face.

"What is it!" the other nurse said.

"She's positive," the head nurse said, shaking her head. "Okay, someone fucked up. I'm calling the administrator; Anne, find out who's on call for infectious diseases, and call them now.

Marchand went to a nearby chair and collapsed into it, suddenly feeling very, very unsure about life – and what he was doing continuing to waste his in this ever encroaching sewer called law enforcement.

+++++

"How'd you sleep," Sharon asked as Justin rolled over and looked her in the eye.

"That was a lovely way to spend the night," he said. "Like I said, you're a lifesaver."

She smiled, kissed him again, held has face. "You're a good kisser, ya know?"

"No...no I'm not, but thanks."

"Men these days are so insecure!" she said as she laughed. "Want me to wash your back?"

"Only if I can do yours!"

"Deal! Let's go!" They got out of bed and almost ran to the shower; they let steaming water run run through their hair down their backs, held each other for the longest time, each lost to the other, wanting to reconnect. Each not understanding what had happened in the night, maybe hoping something important had happened, but each still unsure what that might have been. Tired. Shock. Disbelief. Relief. Release...all moves in a dance each knew about, but had never moved to before – together. Known music, but unknown all the same. Two confused people, suddenly alone, suddenly knowable.

What was she, he thought as he held her, ten years older? Fifteen? Her skin was still firm and smooth, her eyes alive, fresh and young and alive, but he'd seen bitterness there too. He remembered the first few times he'd seen her: she was old, he thought, and she looked like a bitter, burned out alcoholic.

So what had happened, he wondered. How could perception change so radically. How could someone look old and burned out one moment, then fresh and all life affirming the next? She was the same person. Nothing had changed, yet everything had. He ran his fingers through her hair, pulled all the hair from her face, looked at her again and he saw layer after layer of pain and hope, desire and anger, then she was looking at him, wondering if the spell had been broken, and he saw the goodness in her within that moment, and he wanted to hold it, caress it. He knew everything was the same now, yet nothing was. 

They were toweling each other off, and still he wanted to hold her. She turned around, her back to him, and he kissed her neck. She fell back into him, reached over her shoulder and pulled him close, rubbing against his need. She felt his face against her neck, his breath as it washed over her breast.

His phone rang. He tried to ignore the beeping, but he broke away, pulled back from the music and took the call.

"Hospital," he said, his face white. "I need to come down, for blood tests. You'd better come with me."

+++++

Marchand sat next to Bianchi and the three other boys, listening but not listening to the judge as he set bail and remanded each to custody, but he stood suddenly and asked the judge if he could approach the bench. The country prosecutor was caught off-guard when the judge acceded, and joined Marchand at the Bench with the huddled mass of defense attorneys. 




Second Comings III The Mask of Anar



"Your Honor, I found out this morning, just before I came here, that Grier is HIV positive, fairly well along, and she's not been treated, apparently it's undiagnosed. We need to get these boys tested, but there's a problem."

"Yes," the judge said. "Genetic tracers. That'll confirm whether she had sex with them or not, which could of course implicate these boys."

"There're both personal and public health issues to consider here as well, sir," the prosecutor interjected. "If the infection is not far along, aggressive anti-retrovirals could make a big difference in their future health, not just the trial outcome."

"And I'd object to any testing done at this time," Bianchi's attorney said. "The results could be prejudicial..."

"File your motion some other time, counselor," the judge said. "I'm signing warrants to get them tested right now. Bailiff, get someone from the hospital over to the jail and let's get this going. Frankly counselor," the judge said when Bianchi's attorney started to object, "I don't give a damn about the consequences right now – beyond seeing these boys get appropriate medical care. I'll seal the results pending our next hearing, but if they're positive I want treatment started."

Everyone nodded understanding.

"Detective Marchand? What's this all about?"

"She bled out on me at the hospital, sir, several of us, actually. Some of her blood got in my eyes, in my mouth. I started treatment this morning."

"Dear God..."

"Uh-huh. Well, I'm not so sure God is paying much attention to this case, sir. He seems to be out on vacation this week."

+++++

"We'll use a quick count test, Dr Lake, and we should have basic results in an hour or so. If you test positive, we'll start both you and Dr Hastings on anti-retrovirals immediately, and we'll go from there. I'll have to notify Boston, too, I guess."

Lake shook his head, then looked up at the physician. "It's been a real slice, doc. Thanks."

"You want to tell her, or would you rather I did?"

"I'll do it."

"Well, good luck. I suggest you hang around here, come by about ten."

"Okay. We'll grab breakfast then swing by then. Do you know what's going on with Laura Grier?"

"What do you know?"

"Just that she was brought here yesterday. I went with Sharon and Jordan Secord to Mass Gen yesterday."

"So, you don't know much, like about her arm."

"I don't remember. Yesterday is like this weird blur..."

"She's on West. You ought to drop by."

He pursed his lips and shook his head. "I can't."

"Whatever," she said. "But it wouldn't hurt, and I think you should."

"Okay, we'll see." He left, went out to find Sharon and he took her by the arm and walked to the exit. He found a bench, sat and waited for her to sit to.

"What's wrong?" she said at last.

"She's HIV positive. They're testing me. If I'm positive, we'll both need to start treatment."

She looked at the ground, then looked up to the sky, at the few clouds passing overhead. She sighed, looked at Justin again and nodded her head. "Well, that figures. How long do we wait?"

"Around ten." He looked at his watch. "About an hour or so."

"I'd like to see Laura," she said.

"Why? Want to kill her?"

She laughed. "Yeah. I do."

"So do I."

"Let's go."

They walked to the West building and up to a nurses station and asked if they could see her, and a nurse walked with them down to the room and unlocked the door. A uniformed officer was seated there, then they looked at Laura.

Her face was frozen in the rictus of a scream, and it looked like she had died in the middle of discovering some vast, existential terror. Her hand was raised, as if warding off a blow, and the officer said it had been like that for over an hour. Catatonic, the officer said, was what one of the doctors said after he examined her, then Lake looked at her right arm...or where her arm had been, and suddenly, he wanted to run from the room. He felt a hand on his arm then, and turned to see Sharon holding him firm, steadying him. 

Or was he steadying her?

He watched as she moved close to Laura, watched as she bent over and looked into Laura's eyes, and she stood there for what felt like minutes – hardly breathing, watching her – then she went to the dressing over the remains of Laura's missing arm and looked closely, then she turned and walked from the room, leaving Lake standing there – alone. He looked in her eyes, thought he saw some reaction – but he too turned and left the room. 

When he got outside he saw Sharon leaning against a wall, her forehead resting on her forearm, and she was breathing raggedly in desperate gulps. He went to her and held her, and didn't let go, then she turned and fell into his arms, crying in odd, desolate moans. Lake didn't understand. Why? Why was she so upset?

"Sharon?" he whispered. "Come back to me. Tell me what you're thinking..."

"Did you see her?" she cried, and in between these ragged gasps: "Two days ago? What was she? Now this? Mutilated! A mutilated human being! Reduced to what? How did this happen!? How? Why?"

And Lake felt himself shivering, not cold but even so frozen inside, like he'd been chased to the edge of a cliff and had stopped in time to face his pursuer. Only now? Who was pursuing whom?

"Let's go back to the docs office, see if they have any results yet."

He took her hand, led her through quiet hallways past all the measured machinery that is modern medicine, then they stood outside one Sara Epstein, MD's office and hesitated. He didn't know why, but he knew he was positive, that Laura's betrayals existed on so many levels none of them had ever had a chance.

And so it was. Sharon went in with him and they took the news together, and they left to get their prescriptions together. They went to the hospital pharmacy and filled their scrips together, then walked out to Sharon's car together. He opened her door, held her hand, kissed her, cried with her, cried for everything that had happened and held her more tightly then ever. He felt like a Tyson or Ali had boxed him into a corner and was beating his head in, then he felt her hand cupping the back of his head, felt her lips brushing his cheeks, and his face was buried in her neck and he was crying again, crying almost uncontrollably, and now she was holding him up, holding him and kissing him...

"You were going to talk to a lawyer today? Do you still want to?"

She nodded her head. "I was just thinking about that."

"Where do you want to go after?"

"Your place. Let's get your place cleaned up, then I need to go to Jordan's house, see what needs to be done there."

"I mean, where will you stay now?"

"I don't know...haven't thought about it yet."

"I think we should go to Boston."

"In the morning. There's nothing we can do there now, and a lot to get done here. Anyway... Don't you have papers to grade, her stuff to get taken care of?" 

"And breakfast. Can't take these pills on an empty stomach, and we've got to develop a timetable for taking these meds... 

+++++

Secord had been in and out of sleep all night long. Nurses came in and checked leads, drew labs for enzymes and gases and checked volumes in his catheter bag. A resident came in twice and talked with him about follow up care – the same conversation twice, then a priest came in after breakfast talking about Jesus and salvation, but when all was said and done Secord kept going over that neurosurgeon's second report. The vertebral break was bad, but the cord hadn't been damaged. There was swelling now, however, so either short term paralysis or weakness in one or both legs was possible. Too early to say yet. Her hand would heal within six to eight weeks. There could be facial paralysis. It was just too early to tell...everything was just too early to tell.

He asked a nurse if he could call home and that softly benign utterance was met just like his request for a coke had been. Kind of a 'You've got to be kidding' look. Incredulous. Not quite mocking contempt. 

"So how about a Coke?" 

She looked at him and shrugged, got him a coke and some crushed ice, and he smiled.

"Life is good," he said as he sipped his cola.

"Yes it is," the nurse replied. "'Bout time you woke up and smelled some of them roses, huh?"

"Do you have any word on my friend, Michele, last name is Lansing?"

"She's fine, no change. They're calling down updates every hour, and you might get to see her tomorrow. Someone named Sharon called a while ago, said she'll be here first thing in the morning. Some guy named Dennis called and said not to worry about your term papers, and to call him when you get home. That's about all, and you tell them folks I ain't no secretary, you hear?"

+++++

Sharon and Justin stood outside of the CCU, talking with Secord's cardiologist, trying to get straight in their minds the changes they'd need to help implement once they got him home: restricted diet, a large number of new meds, and help him get rid of as much stress as possible.

"How's he doing," Lake asked. "I mean, when can he come home?"

"He's doing okay, but he drinks too much Coke."

Sharon laughed. "That's Jordan!"

"He's also restless. Worried about Miss Lansing, and about getting his grades done by the end of term. Aside from that? He wants out of here. We'd normally keep him a week or so, but he's young and there's no underlying vascular disease, so there's no real danger as long as we can keep his stress levels under control."

"We've cleaned his house, fixed what we could, so there won't be too many reminders about what happened in there," Sharon added, "so I was thinking? Do you think he could come home today?"

"I was thinking about it," the physician said, "but I want to see how he responds when he sees Lansing. They're getting him in a wheelchair now, and we're going up if you'd like to come along."

"If you think it's okay, sure," Justin said, while Sharon just nodded.

Secord came out a moment later, dressed in hospital scrubs and disposable paper slippers.

"Well, as I live and breathe," Secord said when he saw Sharon and Justin, "here we are, the three musketeers ride again!"

Sharon came and hugged him, Lake stood back and watched the change that came over her. She seemed caught in a tempest, torn between love and concern, lost, really, without Secord to anchor her emotions. A part of him felt happy for her, then sad, because he knew the road she was on could only lead to a great deal of unhappiness. Let alone he was falling in love with her now, or at least the idea of her. She had become his anchor, and while it wasn't quite jealousy he felt when he watched her now, it might have been a very close cousin.

They walked down to a bank of elevators, the nurse taking care to keep Secord's IV lines clear of the wheelchair's tires, then they rode up in silence, getting off on the neurology services floor. 

Michele Lansing was in an extraordinary contraption of a bed. The bed itself was suspended between two large rings, so that the bed could be positioned at almost any angle, and Michele was suspended almost six feet above the floor – face down – held in place by what almost looked like a screen of some sort, and, the physician explained, because all weight could be kept off her spine in this position. Her right hand was in a pink fiberglass cast; her head and face swaddled in gauze bandages, but her eyes were open, and she reacted when Secord came in to the room.

He rolled right under her face and simply looked up into her eyes, and she looked into his. 

She just smiled as she looked at him. "Looks like you had a rough day at the office," she said at last.

"It's no big deal."

"A heart attack? At your age?"

"I was worried."

"You're going on a diet."

He laughed. "Really?"

"Your appetite for Coca-Cola is becoming legendary around this place."

"Breakfast of Champions, darlin'."

"Not when I get home! It's protein shakes and smoothies for you, bucko!"

"For us?"

"For us. Is that Sharon over there? I don't recognize the shoes!"

Sharon came over and scrunched down under the bed. "How you doing up there, girl? Looks like you're in astronaut training!"

"Kinda feels like it, too! Is that Justin over there?"

Lake walked over, knelt down and said hello, but he seemed shy, reserved.

"You two taking care of each other?" Michele asked, and she watched as Justin turned red and Sharon as she dodged the question. "Oh, I see, said the blind man! Well, isn't this interesting? Do I hear wedding bells?"

Sharon laughed. "Strangers in the night. You know how that song goes."

Just then Secord raised his hand and touched her face. "I love you," he said, and everyone could see he was starting to tear up.

"I love you too."

"Okay," Secord's cardiologist said, interrupting, "we'll come up again later. Let's head out now..."

Secord nodded, understood what was going on. He could feel the pressure in his chest, in his left arm, but still he looked at her as he was wheeled away.

"How do you feel," the cardiologist said when they were out on the hallway.

"Pressure," Secord said, pointing to his arm and chest, "here, and here."

"Okay, downstairs, now."

August

"I still can't believe they're gone, both of them," Daisy Evans, one of the women around the table said. "Here one day, gone the next, you know?"

Sharon and Justin had just sat down at the President's table, drinks in hand, waiting for this year's faculty dinner to get under way. She was doing ginger ale this year, and she sipped it slowly. 

"That's the way it goes sometimes," the college president said. "Hard to keep faculty these days with so many better paying gigs in government and industry."

"So, Sharon," Daisy asked. "Do you know? Where are they? I heard Idaho?"

"Mid-coast Maine, near Boothbay Harbor."

"What'd he do? Buy a house there?"

"Yup. He might teach a course at Bowdoin, I don't know, though. He's back in the White House again, every week or so, and is going to China next month, with Clinton."

"Does he think she'll run," Evans said excitedly.

Sharon shrugged. "No idea. He's kind of apolitical now."

"How's Michele doing?" The president asked.

"Better. She's walking now, able to see well enough to type again. I expect by Christmas she'll be up and around, wanting to get back to work."

"Wish we could get her to come back here," Daisy said, and Sharon turned away, tried to hide her anger. Evans had been the most vocal dean against hiring Lansing the year before, citing having a transexual on campus would be polarizing.

"I suspect," Justin Lake said, "you'd have a hard time prying those two apart."

"Yes, of course," Evans said. "Such a tragedy."

"I just couldn't believe the verdicts," the president added.

"Oh? Why's that?" Sharon asked, knowing full well the man had done everything in his power to keep the entire episode out of the papers. What else had he done?

"Well, not guilty based on improper Miranda warnings? Really? I thought that was a little unjust, after all Jordan and Michele went through." he said. 

"Going through, sir," Lake corrected. "She might be back where she was in a year, maybe two."

"Justin, what do you think about the Grier verdict?"

"Not guilty by reason of insanity? Well, you can't very well try a mushroom," a man said, just now joining the table. "From what I hear, she's unresponsive, hasn't said a word in months. Paranoid schizophrenia, that's what I heard..."

Lake kept his face impassive, dared not respond. He'd taken what Laura told him last January and started digging. Mother a grade school teacher, dead a few years, and no father at all, so he'd looked up her birth certificate using Social Security information. He found a name, called the number he found and talked to Laura Grier's mother – and father – in Boston. He told them some of what had happened, though not all. There was no reason to hurt them like that...they'd been through enough just getting Laura through high school, it turned out.

Borderline Personality, her father called it, with sociopathic tendencies. She was bright, too bright, he said for her own good. She'd always liked to twist up people, wind them up, get them caught up in intricate plans then pull the rug out from under them. One boy in high school had committed suicide over one of her schemes, another girl had tried, but failed.

Lake had hung up and walked away in disgust. Not only had Laura never been hospitalized or prosecuted, she'd been left free to become a teacher, a professor, and so to hatch ever more creative and destructive ways to destroy people. What, he wondered, would this smarmy college president do with that little bit of knowledge? How far would he sweep it under the rug? How far would people run to hide their complicity in a system that had turned, by and large, into a system where self-serving grifters milked their institution's reputations for increasingly delusional outcomes?

Goodness, Secord told him, was the only path through such hatred. Now Lake saw that path as not only a righteous course of action, but perhaps the only means by which one could preserve some small shred of sanity. Everywhere he looked, not just in education, but in government, in banking, in the medical-industrial complex, he saw nothing but grifters and con-artists, swindlers out milking more victims every day. Swindlers and their lawyers creating deeper and deeper layers of deceit, taking more and more every year, everything teetering on the brink now, the entire world seemingly just one more lie away from imploding in on itself.

He grew angry. He wanted something revolutionary to happen, he wanted to see the people get angry enough to tear it all down and start over again, but then he went to Maine. 

He and Sharon helped Secord move belongings into their new house, and all the while Lake talked about his anger, his despair, and Secord listened patiently, smiling from time to time, and then once he spoke:

"Stand ye calm and resolute, like a forest close and mute..."

"What's that?" Lake said, and Secord smiled.

"It never fails to amaze me how far we've fallen. Anyway, it's from the opening of Shelley's The Mask of Anarchy. Do you know it?"

"No, not really, though I've heard about it, of course."

"Well, it was a bedrock document of the romantic movement, and so as long as you're teaching romanticism you might as well look it up, get used to using it in the classroom. Shelley laid out the entire principal of non-violent resistance to oppressive tyranny in this poem, and it's been used and referenced by revolutionary leaders from 1842 on, right up to Martin Luther King. Union organizers at the end of the 19th century used to read entire passages at organizing meeting, but today all that nonsense has fallen out of favor. Like I said, if it ain't on Facebook these days, it might as well not even exist."

"We can't all be luddites, Jordan."

"We can open our eyes, too, Justin. We don't all have to play the doomed species so convincingly."

"So, you still see goodness as the only way forward? Is it still that simple, really?"

"Remember Montaigne," Sharon said, carrying a load up from her Volvo, "all those things we talked about."

"I like Montaigne," Secord said. "Ahead of his time."

"I was thinking about him the other day," Sharon said: "'Every man bears the whole stamp of the human condition,' and I was thinking about that when I read about Laura and those boys during the trial. Was he saying we are, in the end, our brothers' keepers? He was, wasn't he?"

Secord stood and caught his breath. "We can't avoid those responsibilities. We are all in this together, so I guess we'll either fix things together – that, or we'll all go down together."

"Have you been keeping up with the trial?" Justin asked.




Second Comings III The Mask of Anar



"No. I could care less. Some lawyer will get them off, either there or on appeal – you can be sure of that. Those kids have money, you know. If they were poor they'd be in prison already."

"Now, now, Jordan, are we angry? What about the whole 'goodness' thing?"

"Goodness doesn't have anything to do with ignorance and sticking your head in the sand, Justin. It's about how you deal with all the miscreants that surround you!"

They laughed then, and Justin looked around the table now, at the president and all of his deans, and Lake laughed again – with the man, and at his memory of that day.

"Justin? What's so funny?" the president said, looking dismayed.

"Funny? Oh, nothing, sir. I was just thinking about Laura."

"Well, surely there's nothing very funny about her condition, is there...?"

"No sir, of course not..."

And Lake recalled the last time he saw her. How he came into her room at the hospital, how he looked at her once, at her face, at her features – frozen in time. All those memories. All the love he spent on her warped view of life, her broken view of the living.

And he continued to stare at her, not sure whether to pity her, or try to forget her. And then her eyes moved, and she was looking right at him in that last moment, then she smiled at him, and winked an eye.

(C)2016 Adrian Leverkühn | ABW

[As always, this is a work of fiction, and all characters, places and events are fictitious, and no persons, events or academic institutions are inferred in this story, or should be inferred.]



Second Comings - Sex Type Thing



Sex Type Thing

"This snow is, like, totally outrageous, dude!"

"Outrageous? How so?"

"What? Dude! Look at the snow, wouldya? It's coming down so hard, it's like so totally bogus, ya know?!"

"Bogus. Ah. So, what was your question?"

"That thing in your last lecture? You called it the romantic impulse. I just don't get it."

"Ah, I see, what has you confused?"

"Well, the whole romanticism thing? The whole concept has me, like, bummed out, man."

"Indeed. You said you were a History major, did you not? And you're a junior?"

"Yeah man, that's right."

"And Romanticism? That has you stumped?"

"Yeah man."

"I see. Well then, can you give me an example of romanticism in literature, any literature you like?" 

"Wow, man, like maybe Jackie Collins? She writes a bunch of that romanticism stuff, right?"

"Ah, well, I think I see where you're coming from, uh, man. Interesting. Don't quite know what to say right now, so let me think this over, and I'll talk to you after class next Monday."

"Cool, Professor Lake. Yeah man, see you then..."

'Professor' Justin Lake looked up at the clock on his office wall and shook his head. Twenty minutes more – then office hours were over, and he was not sure he could take another student like that last one. Tony Bianchi, wasn't that his name? Some kind of honors student. A big jock from a boarding school near Cape Cod, he seemed to recall. Lacrosse scholarship, he remembered, a rough kid. Kind of mean, he'd heard.

Two weeks into the winter term and he was stumped, genuinely confused. He thought he'd been engaged to teach at what he'd always assumed was a fairly prestigious little college, but now he wasn't sure what he'd gotten himself into. The kids who'd dropped by for office hours so far weren't quite morons, he told himself, yet those he'd talked to this afternoon seemed like, at best, barely engaged middle school students. Their general academic knowledge was pitiful, yet even their basic understanding of the world was stunted, too, just like any ten year old he'd ever run into. 'Jackie Collins?' he asked himself. 'A romantic? That's news to me!'

There was another knock on his door and he looked at the clock again. "Open!" he called out. "Come in!"

The door opened and a girl he'd thought rather bright came in, and he looked up expectantly. "Yes? Ms Myers, isn't it?"

"Yessir," Jennifer Myers replied.

"What can I help you with this afternoon?"

"I know you said we didn't need to have our thesis proposals turned in before next Friday, but I wondered if you would look mine over now and see if it's any good?"

"Sure. Let me have a look."

The girl handed a page over and he sat back and began reading. "Structures of Time in the Romantic Imagination: Goethe and Wagner and the Revolutions of 1842," was the working title and he groaned, then he looked up at her, tried to take a quick visual inventory. Yes, she had that look. Studious. Too studious. A little overweight, glasses, blue jeans, thick fleece jacket – everything unconsciously designed to obscure, to hide. Dishonest body language. Evasive eyes. Borderline cute, but very insecure.

"Interesting. Give me a run down on what you hope to prove."

"Well, looking at Faust Part Two as the primary source material, I want to look at early Christian and Greek imagery in the story and how Wagner appropriated these and incorporated them as signature leitmotifs in Lohengrin, and how these musical phrases were incorporated into revolutionary music, in France, in 1842."

"Okay. Not bad. Now, assuming you've read chapter three, and the, er, poetry, where do these revolutionary impulses lead?"

"The Revolution of 1848?"

"Yup, that's right. Now, what is one of the key outcomes, in terms of political philosophy, of the '48 revolution?"

"Uh..." She was stumped, completely flustered.

"You've taken History 103 and 104, I assume?"

"Yessir."

"So? What might your conclusion be?"

She looked down, clearly fidgeting now.

"Ms Myers? I suggest you try again, however, next time with your own ideas. While I know it may seem appropriate to purchase term papers to some students, and there are probably a few professors who don't check, please keep in mind, for future reference, that I do, and oh! I check each footnote too. And I've seen this particular "research paper" several times, by the way. I even know how much it costs." He handed the page back to the girl and she fled the room in tears, leaving his door open as she ran.

He heard Elizabeth Gordon's Birkenstocks shuffling down the wood floor in the hallway outside his office, and he looked at her as she came and stood outside his door. Six feet tall, maybe three hundred pounds, regarded as brilliant once upon a time, she taught the European survey course as well as courses about the medieval church.

"Can I come in?"

"You may."

She took the seat Ms Myers had just left. "What were these last two about?"

"Excuse me? Are you listening to my conversations?"

"Walls are pretty thin, Justin, and those two are my advisees. I like to keep up with them."

"Ah, well, then I guess that makes it okay. So, let me see. Mr Bianchi is of the opinion that Jackie Collins is an English Romantic; beyond that, he seems to have very little awareness, if any, of nineteenth century romanticism. Little things, like what it is, why it's important. You know? The basics."

Gordon frowned. "Go on."

"Miss Myers wanted to turn in her thesis proposal a week early."

"Oh, that's good to hear. She's always been a favorite of mine. How was it?"

"Plagiarized. From a Term-papers-R-Us site I'm familiar with." 

Gordon frowned again. "I see. And what did you tell her?"

"Better luck next time. Nice Birkenstocks, by the way. Love the color."

"Oh?" she said, blushing. "You like them?"

"Yes, they're quite...charming."

"What's your plan, for Tony, I mean?"

"Oh, I think I need to step back and make a little informal assessment of the general state of knowledge I'm dealing with. I've made some unwarranted assumptions, I think."

"Oh? Such as?"

"That our underclassmen have at least a basic understanding of history after completing their survey coursework. These are 300 level students, Ms Gordon, yet their grasp of basic concepts seems to me rather basic, and they're used to cheating. Not a good sign, I think."

"Well," Gordon said, standing, "good luck with that."

"Oh, thank you. I'm sure I'll need it." he turned back to his desk, shook his head, thinking there was little need to unpack many more boxes before he was summarily dismissed.

"You will," the woman said menacingly.

He shook his head, started to clear off his desk and wondered if he should go talk with the department chair.

"Gosh, you sure like making enemies, don't you?"

He didn't know her name, and that was a pity, he thought. "Gosh, these walls really are thin, aren't they?"

"You got no idea."

"Oops. Me bad."

"You just started here, didn't you?" the woman said.

"Yeah. Got the call in November."

"Right. That would have been just after Tischmann passed away. That makes sense. I was wondering if they'd wait 'til summer to replace him."

"Well, now you know." He smiled.

She smiled. "Oh, my name's Laura. Laura Grier. I'm in the English department. Are you teaching 302?"

"Yup. And I'm finding basic concepts difficult to assess."

She held up a single finger to her lips, pantomimed a little s-s-h-h and cast a sidelong glance down the hall. "Maybe some evening you'd be free for dinner?"

"I am tonight. And tomorrow night, and the night after..."

"Yeah. Nothing like winter in Vermont to drive home the feeling of celibacy."

He laughed. "You free? I still don't have a handle on the restaurants around here."

"I might be free. Let me ask my social secretary..."

"Well, I'm headed out now if you want to come along." He stood and made for the door, and she followed him down the hall and out to the lot. 

She watched him as he walked, watched as he opened the car door for her, taking in the Stanford Cardinals license plate frame and the red and white UCSB parking permit on the windscreen. The interior of the car was spotless, just like his office.

"You better take Overlea to 7A. Miss some traffic that way. What kind of food you like?"

"You know," he said, "it's so cold out...how 'bout soup...maybe French onion soup?"

"Good call. Madison's on Main. Turn right, here..." she said, and soon they were parking on the town's little Main Street.

"Damn," he said when they walked in the door, "smells good. What is it? Pub grub?"

"Yup, pretty good brew-pub. What else in a town like this?"

When they were seated he looked over the menu; she didn't bother and he shrugged. "Know what you want?"

"Um-hmm."

He signaled their waitress. "How 'bout a beer?" he asked.

"If you do."

"What's brewed here," he asked the waitress.

"We have an IPA and a wheat beer tonight."

"Two wheats?" he asked Laura.

"Sounds good."

"Food?" the waitress asked, and he pointed to Laura.

They both ordered onion soup and fish & chips, then sat back at looked at one another.

"So," she began, looking at his hands now, "you're not married, I take it."

"Nope."

"Divorced?"

"Nope."

"Military?"

"No."

"You're like, uh, a man of few words, right?"

"Yup."

"What else have you done? Besides school."

"Not much. What about you?"

"Same."

"School, then teaching?"

"That's pretty much the whole story."

"So, Laura, what else are you into?"

"You mean, when I'm not with my husband?"

He smiled but he tensed up, expecting the worst.

"Gotcha! I'm not married."

Their soup came, a huge wad of Gruyere bubbling away on top of the bowl. "This looks like the real deal," he said as he took a spoonful. "Yup. Good grub."

"Good chef back there."

"Know him?"

"Her. And yes, I do. Very well, as a matter of fact."

"Ah."

"That's a pretty big 'ah' you got going on there, you know?"

"Sorry. So tell me about you. How'd you wind up here?"

"Boston College, then Duke. Got my PhD there. You?"

"Stanford. UC Santa Barbara."

"So, PhD in History? Specialty?"

"Weimar. European, with an emphasis on German."

"Have you met Jordan Secord yet?"

"The foreign policy guy? Briefly, last week. He seemed preoccupied."

"He probably was. Decent type, though. That's him, over there."

He looked where she pointed, saw a girl with Secord then turned back to his soup. "That his wife?"

"His friend. Michele."

"So, you specialized in English Lit.?"

"Yup."

"Interesting."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Well, I had a kid in the office today, I asked him to name just one author from the romantic era. Jackie Collins. That was his best guess."

"In 302? That's an upper level class for majors only, isn't it?"

"Yup. Who teaches the European survey course here?"

"Gordon does the European segment, from what I here. I think Secord did the US segment last Fall, but I'm not sure. He's a first year too, though."

"What did Tischmann teach?"

"All the upper level European stuff. The classes that matter, I guess you could say."

"So, Gordon..."

"Look, see no evil, hear no evil."

"Bad news, huh? Tenured?"

"Oh yeah. So, can I help out with the romanticism stuff?"

"I can handle it, but maybe we ought to think about developing some kind of prerequisite from your department, for the course. Something needs to be done."

"Worth thinking about."

Their fish & chips came, and Lake dug right in. "Man, really good grub here!" but when he looked up there was a man standing by their table. 

"Lake, right?" the man said.

"Ah, Dr Secord, nice to see you again," Lake said, standing.

"And Dr Grier? I see you're out corrupting the youth of Athens once again?"

Laura smiled. "Do you have the hemlock, Doctor? Or shall I just disappear?"

Secord laughed. "And Dr Lake...?"

"Justin, please."

"Justin, call me Jordan. And this is my friend Michelle. Michelle Lansing."

The woman held out her hand and he took it, though out of the corner of his eye he saw a gauze bandage on her wrist. "Pleased to meet you."

"You too."

"So, we've got to be going. Hope to see you around, Dr Lake."

"You too, Dr Secord."

After they'd left, Lake mentioned the bandages.

"Long story," Laura said. "Let's save it for another day."

"Sure. Save room for dessert, by the by?"

"No way!"

"Good. Wanna take a walk?"

"No, not really."

"Okay."

He paid the bill and they got up to leave. He helped put on her coat as they walked outside, and waited as she put on gloves.

"Look, I don't want to be coy," she began. "I'm not a flirt, and I'm not a tease, but I like sex. You interested?"

He looked at her then, but she was looking away – like she was embarrassed.

"You know, it's not a crime to like sex," he said, taking her gloved hand his.

"Oh, I don't just like sex, Justin, I love it."

"Anything I need to know about that?" he asked, now thinking about her exchange with Secord.

"I guess some people around here think I have a reputation."

"Oh? Like what, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Well, words like 'slut' and 'nympho' come to mind. Does that bother you?"

"Slut is a meaningless term," he said. "'Nympho' isn't. Do you know the difference?"

"Yup. Do you care?"

"I do. I tend to monogamy. Do you care?"

"I think I'll disappoint you, Justin. In the long run, I mean."

"Okay. Can I drop you somewhere?"

She shook her head, seemed taken aback. "You mean you're not interested? Tonight?"

"Of course I'm interested, Laura. But not if this is going nowhere."

"Nowhere? I...well...all I want is..."

"A fuck-buddy?"

"Well, yeah."

He coughed, hid a slight laugh in there somewhere. "It's hard for me to think of another person that way." He stopped at his car, opened her door and helped her in, then went 'round to his side and got in. "Man, it's getting cold out!"

"Take 7A North," she said, but when they were out of town she asked him to pull into an empty parking lot. When the car stopped she was on him in a flash, pulling down his zipper, taking him in her mouth, and there was nothing subtle about her actions. Within a few minutes he was tensing, then erupting in her mouth, his hands straight out gripping the steering wheel, his left leg cramping as the intensity of the release hit him. He fought the urge to pull her off as she bit his engorged head, as she swirled her tongue over the tip, then she was up, licking his cum off her gloves, licking her lips, now looking somewhat like a feline predator.

"Oh, that was so good," she purred as he rubbed his left leg back to life. "I love big loads. Can't help myself, really."

Lake was too stunned to say much of anything, but he looked at his semen running down her chin and wanted to grin. 

Still, he couldn't, not really, if only because the evening's end had taken him so by surprise. There was something so predatory in her eyes, too, that unsettled him even after he'd dropped her off at her house.

+++++

He thought about how to work through the whole romanticism problem all night long, when he wasn't thinking about Laura Grier, anyway. He had an idea concerning the former, and no idea what to do about the latter, then sleep came. When he woke up, he decided to head to a local diner for breakfast, and was surprised when he saw Secord and his girlfriend just being seated ahead of him.

"Can you join us, Justin?" Secord said when he saw Justin standing by the hostess at the entry.

"Sure, if you don't mind." He saw the woman, Michele wasn't it, look down, down like she was uncomfortable, and he decided to tread lightly there. "Thanks," he said as he sat opposite them in the little booth.

"So, you met Laura Grier yesterday?" Secord began. "How'd that go?"

Lake shook his head. "Not sure I have a handle on her yet."

"Oh, she's easy enough to understand," the woman said. "Oh, I'm Michele, by the way."

Secord took her hand as he sat and he held it firmly, as if there was something cautionary about the motion, something very protective. The gauze bandages were still just visible, weren't they?

Secord was looking at the entry again, then he stood and walked from the table. Moments later another woman joined them, and Lake slid over to make room for the new arrival – and was slightly curious when Michele and Sharon hugged. 'Lot of intensity there,' he thought as he watched them.

"Justin? This is Sharon Hastings, Dennis' wife. Sharon, this is..."

"Oh, I know who he is." She held out her hand as she smiled. "Dr Lake, nice to finally meet you!"

"You too," he said as he shook hands.

"Sharon teaches poli-sci at Mt Holyoke. Taking a year off, making a career trying to crucify me, I think."

"Oh? How sweet?" Lake said. "Why, if I may ask?"

"She seems to think Bush and Cheney are war criminals. Oh, yes, I worked in the White House after 9/11."

"Ah. That'd do it," Lake said. "And you came to teach in Vermont?"

"Damn straight he did," Sharon added, tossing fuel on the fire. "Damn fool! So, Michele, how're you doing?"

"Good. How's Dennis doing?"

"At Stowe this weekend, polishing knobs I hear."

"Now Sharon," Secord said, "let's be civil."

"Dr Lake met Laura Grier yesterday," Michele said, changing the subject.

"Oh, really?" Sharon replied, looking at Lake anew. "Had your shots, I hope."

He laughed. 'God, what a fucking Peyton Place this is turning out to be?' he thought. "She seemed kind of nice, if a little single minded," he said to Sharon.

Sharon laughed out loud. "Well said, Dr Lake! She is that!"

"Justin. Please."

"Well, Justin, it's none of my fucking business," she added, "but be real careful with that one. Laura can be a little, well, indiscreet, if you know what I mean. And she's not a force to be trifled with, either. Very well connected all over campus, and she seems to enjoy fucking with people's heads."

"Good to know," he said, his stomach suddenly very upset.

Secord seemed uncomfortable with all this innuendo, so he picked up a menu and got serious about ordering eggs, while his girlfriend seemed content to keep her wrists out of sight. Sharon, on the other hand, was looking at him, then Secord was looking at Sharon. 'What the fuck is going on here?' Lake said to himself.

"So," Lake said, trying to change the subject again, "you said your husband is up at Stowe? Skiing, I take it?"

"Sucking his boyfriends cock, Justin, probably best describes what he's up to right now."

Secord and Michele looked down, stifled their anxiety. Sharon, however, seemed to relish his discomfort. Fucking with people's heads, indeed, he thought.

"Sorry I asked."

Their waitress came and they ordered.

"Life's kind of three-ringed circus around here, isn't it?" Lake said to no one in particular.

"On the good days," Sharon replied. "On bad ones? Look out! So, like your house?"

"It's, uh, quaint."

"That means small, when translated from Vermontese, doesn't it?" Secord said, grinning.

"Small, yes. And those top of the line appliances!"

"Top of the line. In 1943," Michele added. Everyone laughed; soon breakfast came and they attacked their plates.

"What's with Gordon?" Lake asked when it looked like Secord was finishing up.

"Beth?"

"Yup."

"You run into her, I take it?"

"Yup. I'm teaching 302. Seems like half the kids have no idea what romanticism is, and one term paper proposal came straight from a paper mill. I kind of thought this was supposed to be a top-tier school."

"Welcome to the internet age, Justin," Sharon said. "No one learns anything anymore, they just need to know how to look it up on Wikipedia."

He laughed.

"Look at that, Jordan. He thinks I'm kidding."

"He'll learn," Secord said.

"Oh, come off it," Lake sneered. "It's not that bad."




Second Comings - Sex Type Thing



"Depends on the school, I guess," Sharon said. "It is here. The Ivies are still holding their own, for now."

"Things are still pretty tight in California," Lake said. "What's going on here?"

"Facebook," Secord said.

"Twitter," Sharon added. "And everybody's texting. All the time."

"So? Confiscate phones!"

"Can't," Sharon said. "Courts here ruled that's theft. Depriving the owner of their property without their effective consent. Don't try it. Cops'll handcuff you in front of your class."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"It's a brave new world, Justin," she chuckled. "You have to be an entertainer these days, because being a teacher hardly counts for anything anymore. If you can't compete with Facebook, you might as well not show up for class."

"We'll see."

"You do any skiing?" Secord asked him.

"Not much since college, undergrad, I mean."

"Ah, Sierra cement. I remember it well."

"Yeah, we used to go to Squaw all the time."

"Can you ski on ice?"

"Nope." 

"Well then, don't bother here. It's a whole different world. Like an ice skating rink that's been tilted to about 45 degrees."

"So I heard. It's really that bad?"

"Worse. A powder day here is when there's two inches of fresh on top of ice."

"Guess that takes care of that. What do people do around here for fun?"

Secord looked at Sharon who looked at Michele, and everyone shrugged.

"Well," Lake said, "maybe Dr Grier is onto something."

Everyone laughed again.

+++++

He drove home and she 'just happened' to be walking down the street when he pulled up to his house.

"Hi!" she said, walking over to his car.

"Hi, yourself!"

"Had breakfast?"

"Yup. Just coming back. Ran into the Secords and Sharon Hastings."

"Oh," she said, her face falling. "Members of my fan club."

"They had nothing but good things to say about you."

"Yeah, sure. How was Michele?"

"Quiet. What's the story with her?"

"Look, I need some breakfast. Got any eggs?"

"If I did, I wouldn't have gone out. You out walking? For real?"

"Every morning. If I don't, I start to look like a blimp..."

"So, I need to get you fed. Is that about the size of it?"

"Feel like going to Boston?"

"What? For breakfast?"

"Tomorrow. After the snow stops."

"You're shivering. Come with me." He led her to his car and got her belted in, then he turned on the seats and the heater; moments later the interior was toasty."

"Thanks."

"Yup. So, Madison's, or the diner?"

"Breakfast, please. Eggs Benny!"

"Right. I know the way."

She was quiet then, and all the way through her breakfast, too, then she opened up a little as he drove with her back to his house, but still, she had little to say. 

"Can I drop you off somewhere?"

"No, if you don't mind, let's just go back to your place."

He nodded his head, thinking about what Sharon had said about her career wrecking tendencies all the way home. He pulled into the little driveway and stopped, but he left the engine running.

"You heading out again?" she asked.

"Nope."

"Going inside?"

"Yup."

"You horny?"

He looked at her for a long while, not quite knowing what to say, then it hit him as he sat there looking at her. "Yup."

"Good."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe. I told you. I'm monogamous. And I can get a little bent, a little possessive. That's me. You want me, those are my terms."

"Terms?"

"You want to be with me again, then it's you and me. No one else."

"What if, well, maybe there was someone else, but that someone else was a she?"

"What?"

"I have a girlfriend."

"You're what, bi?"

"Yup. Does that bug you?"

"Look. I want a girlfriend. Someone who lives with me. We cook for each other, help make the bed together. That kind of girlfriend."

"So, no fuck buddy, huh?"

"Nope. No my thing. The emotional side is as important to me as the sex."

"You're old fashioned."

"Very. Can I drive you home now?"

"That's why you left the engine on, huh?"

"You know, for an English major you're pretty smart."

+++++

He was back at his house fifteen minutes later, only now there was a Volvo wagon in the drive, the engine running.

"Now what?" he asked angrily. He pulled up to his drive and the Volvo backed out, let him pull in, then he saw Sharon Hastings as she pulled back in behind him.

"Hello," he said as he got out of his car. "Long time no see."

She was serious, he saw, as she got out of her car. "Let's talk."

"Sure, I'm not doing anything now, by the way."

"Cut the sarcasm. Let's go."

"Where?"

"Inside."

"Okay."

When they were inside she looked around the room. "Wow, just like Secord's. What is it with you men? No pictures on the wall, furniture looks like it just came from Wal-Mart."

"Thanks. I've spent years honing just the right look."

"Small town, Justin. Were you really just with Laura? After what we said at breakfast?"

"She was here, waiting for me when I got home. I told her I wasn't into anything other than a monogamous relationship..."

"And of course she told you she's a lesbian?"

"Bi, she said."

"That's a crock."

"What?"

"Part of her game. Listen, don't let her pull you in. You'll burn. She'll enjoy watching you burn."

"Okay. I get it."

"Now. Michele. What have you heard?"

"Nothing. I asked Laura, twice. She said it was a long story, and maybe later."

"It is. Wanna hear?"

"Sure."

Sharon told him what she thought he needed to know, and she watched his reaction.

"So what? They're lovers now?" he asked, incredulously.

"Nope. Separate bedrooms."

"I don't get it."

"No one around here does. All you need to know is he loves her. I mean Love, with a capital L. He's very protective of her now, too, because she's fragile as hell."

"She? How can you call it a she?"

"Listen to what I'm telling you, Justin. Whatever else you may think, whatever your preconceived notions about these things are, Michele is a woman. Don't you ever imply anything other than that, never around Jordan, and especially around her. She's a very bright, very decent person, warm-hearted, but those wounds on her wrists are very real. And they're recent. And remember what I told you. Jordan loves her."

"I can't get over this," Lake said, chuckling. "Secord's a fag and I've landed right in the fucking middle of some sort of twisted-up Peyton Place."

"You could look at it that way, I suppose" she said, "if you want, but you might consider you're way off base. Because things go much deeper than you might be able to understand." 

"You say so. By the way, is there anywhere around here to meet women, or is everyone a fag around here?"

"I don't know. Ask Laura."

+++++

"Romanticism? What is it? What was the movement all about?" Lake asked his students in 302 next Monday morning. "Anyone want to take a stab at it?"

He looked out over a class of 28 blank faces.

"Miss Myers? You want to have a go?"

She shook her head.

"Well, apparently you all missed that lecture in Foundations of Western Civ." He held up a packet of papers, pointed to it. "Because here it is, in the syllabus. Week 10, Romanticism and Revolt. So I'm curious. What did you study? What do you remember? Do any of you remember anything?"

No one moved. No one said a word.

"I see. Every one of you is a history major, is that correct?"

A few nods, a few shrugs.

"And what do you expect to do with a history degree when you haven't the slightest idea what you've been studying? Anyone want to answer that one?"

He looked around the room. "No one?"

"Hmm. Well, everyone take out of piece of paper. Don't write your name on the paper, but I want you to write down what you think 'romanticism' is. Take a few minutes, and get started, now."

He watched confusion settle over the group, then a few people started writing, more followed and soon everyone was writing. Thinking and writing.

He gave them five minutes, then called a stop. "Okay, take your paper and pass it to the person on your right. Now, pass the paper you just received to the right again. Okay. Ms Parker, read what you've got in your hand..."

They went about the room, reading and discussing answers and ideas, and while the poverty of their basic understanding of key historical concepts became apparent, so to did their interest in the subject. He understood the problem now, could see what needed to be done, yet even so he was a little angry. After class he went to see if Secord was in his office, and when he was, Lake asked if he had time to talk for a minute.

"Sure, come on in."

"I'm at a loss, Jordan. I've been..."

"Let me guess. You've been running up against a tide of academic mediocrity and have no idea what's going on?"

He looked at Secord, shook his head. "How'd you know?"

"This department is a shambles. Entrenched faculty teach competing political agendas. Radical feminists here, fire-breathing conservatives there, everyone teaching their own brand of hate, students watching, wanting someone to really teach them something and they're being shoveled ideologies without frameworks day after day. Some students follow along to win approval, others get turned off and go away."

"Is it just in our department...?"

Secord shook his head. "Are you kidding? Ever watch TV? Turn on CNN and you get one brand of hate, while Fox News sells another. Tire of that message and go over to MSNBC and get a whole new brand of hate. Understanding doesn't sell, Justin. Hate sells. Polarization sells. Above all, fear sells."

"What's that got to do with us? Last I heard we were supposed to be teachers?"

"Good question. Seems to me all our ivory towers became politicized, maybe as far back as the 80s. Conservatives saw colleges as bastions of liberal privilege and began shoveling money to oppose the threat. Supporting organizations, conservative foundations for the most part, helped spread the fire by starting up off-campus 'newspapers' to spread their gospel, until they could get professors sympathetic to their causes on board. Now it's a feedback loop. Campuses mirror all the discord you see in society, and the role we used to play – educating critical thinkers, helping people understand long term trends – has been subsumed to the new role of creating the next generation of ideologues, left and right. We don't create thinkers anymore, Justin. We've been suborned, coopted. We're supposed to join the frenzy, become a part of the noise, feed all the hate. It's really in it's infancy, I think, but it's a trend a lot of people are fighting. And I think it's accelerating."

Lake shook his head. "Sorry, I'm not into conspiracies. I'm just a teacher, you know?"

"Yeah? Neither am I, and that's all I am. Welcome to the war."

"You don't get it..."

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Open your eyes, look around, make up your own mind. Look at all these kids, look at their eyes. Half are looped out on heroin most of the time, tuning out the hate. Half are just trying to make their way into the world, but the blind are leading the blind now. My biggest fear is that no one thought this through, thought about where all this would lead. We're there now, right on the edge. Lots of questions, people are asking lots of questions, but it's getting to the point where nobody trusts the answers anymore."

"What's this got to do with teaching history...?"

"Nothing, and everything. We don't just teach history, Justin. Historians teach a way of thinking. A way of peeling back layers of bias, of getting to the truth. When the conservative foundations began going after high school curriculums, the first things they axed were history programs. It worked there, so they're trying the same, in a round about way, at the college level."

"And three men killed JFK, right? Oswald was the patsy? Oh, and Roswell? Not a weather balloon, was it?"

Secord laughed. "Thank God. Another historian! Keep on questioning, but keep your eyes open."

"Not quite what I wanted to hear, but..."

"Look. Hastings might have been a good historian, once upon a time, maybe Beth Gordon was too, but you're dealing with their students now, you're dealing with the product of their efforts. You ask around, see where they tried to take their students. It's all right out there in the open..."

"So, CNN, Fox News, hate. That's what's wrong?"

"Symptoms, Justin. Those are just the symptoms I see. What you see in your classroom? Academic laziness is just another symptom. But we, you and I and those of us who really believe in what we're trying to accomplish, we're on the front lines of a war. No one really has a clue what's going on because I think what we're experiencing is "unintended consequence" – a perfect storm of technology and naïve political engineering, cresting like a wave now. And things are coming undone."

"So, keep at it? Is that your advice?"

"What else can you do? Teach history, create historians. Show these kids how to peel back the layers..."

+++++

He went to his office, started to get ready for his next class, but Secord's paranoid rambling was really beginning to bother him. He opened up a folder on his computer and was searching for a file when someone knocked on his door.

"It's open!"

A student from 302 came in, one of the black girls who sat in the back of the class all the time, what was her name???

"Miss Davis? What's up?" 

"Good class today, Professor Lake. You opened some eyes."

"Did I? Well, good for me. What can I do for you this afternoon?"

"Could you read this over? My thesis proposal?"

"Sure," he said, taking the paper. "'Dialectical Materialism in Goethe's Faust.' Okay. Where are you taking this?"

"Well, this 'romantic impulse' you keep talking about, it's an impulse towards revolution, isn't it?"

"Yes indeed. And?"

"Well sir, Faust, at least the 'romantic' parts of Faust, seems directed at illuminating a crossroads in time. When emerging industrialization met ascendant capitalism, when the explosion of knowledge the Renaissance represented filled the gap in understanding left by questioning central institutions like the church, and the monarchies."

"Alright so far, but why drag Hegel into this?"

"Well sir, the dialectic Hegel constructed, where society was led by the church and the monarchies, and how these came into conflict with the reawakening of inquiry after Galileo, the re-emergence of Aristotle, well..."

"Okay, you're doing great. So, this dialectic leads where?"

"To the revolutions of 1842 and 1848."

"Okay. Which of those is most important to your thesis?"

"1848."

"Why? What's so important about 1848?"

"Well, Marx, and his Capitalist Manifesto was published."

"Okay, so what's the link?"

"The link? Between Faust and Marx?"

"Uh-huh. Where are you leading your reader?"

"Well, back to the idea of the 'romantic impulse' – the idea that artists were free to express ideas that more public intellectuals were not. That musicians and writers and painters began to shape dialogues in society that were otherwise repressed, and that these ideas were critical in shaping the response in those two revolutions."

Lake sat back, tried to keep his joy from becoming to apparent. "I like it, Miss Davis. So, what's the blueprint? How are you going to get there?"

She laid out a line between Goethe and Hegel, then took this Marx. She had three good sources to work from, and he saw this as an easy A if she could pull it together. He signed her proposal and wrote a few notes on the bottom of her page, more sources to check out, then he congratulated her, wished her luck and she was gone.

And there was Laura, standing in his doorway.

"Ah," he said. "Something work related you'd like to discuss?"

"May I come in?"

"Sure." 

She closed the door as she entered, took the seat across from his desk.

"I've been thinking about the things you said. The things you want. I think I want those things too."

"Secord seems to be holding a grudge. Towards you. And you, to him. What's it all about, Laura?"

She looked down, then away. "Michele."

"Michele? What about...?"

"I tried to hurt him, I mean her, when she first got here. I tried to undermine her, her acceptance on campus."

"You mean, like a smear campaign?"

"Something like that."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Something I'm still trying to come to terms with."

"Hate?" he asked, thinking about his conversation with Secord earlier.

"Probably." She looked away.

"That's a little ironic, don't you think? I mean, lesbians face hatred all the time?"

"Yeah, maybe misery loves company," she said bitterly. "And I'm not really..."

"I doubt it's that simple. Why is she a threat to you?"

"A threat? What do you mean?"

"Well, why else would you go after someone so vulnerable?"

"I didn't know she was..."

"Oh, come on now! Really? Aren't many lesbians vulnerable to emotional abuse?"

"Justin, I'm not really a lesbian. I like men, too."

"Oh, that's right. So, just what are you, then?"

"What? Why all this fascination with labels? Why not call me a 'human being?'"

"Or, why not 'terribly confused?'"

"You know, I came here to...?"

"To what? You want to make a change in your life? Did you and your girlfriend have a fight?"

"Yes."

"Oh, don't tell me...not about me?!"

"Yes, about you."

"Why? We've only just met. We have no history together. Why get into a fight about me?"

"It was the things you said, Justin. About being together. I realized I could never feel that way with Carol. Not only that, I didn't want to feel that way with her. I didn't realize how fucked up I'd become, like I'd been programmed to want girls somehow, but then I realized that's not really me."

"Biological clock ticking away? Time to settle down and make babies?"

"No! Women, lesbians, are doing that all the time now, men aren't integral to that equation anymore. It's, the feeling, what I felt was – something different."

"I'm not sure I understand, then. Why me? What did I say that...?"

"I don't know why, Justin. I don't know why one person chooses another. Why one person falls in love with another. Do you?"

He looked at her for a moment, lost inside the meaning of her words, processing them, hearing but not quite understanding, then he shook his head. "No. No, I don't."

"Well, all I know right now is I want to give us a try. I've spent time with you twice now, and I think I know the feeling. It's not just about sex, okay? It's about what you said. Wanting to wake up next to you. Do things together. Have a life. I want that. I don't have that now. So yes, I'm confused. I'm confused but I think I know what I want."

"Is there anyone on campus, a health service maybe, you could talk to? Someone familiar with these types of issues?"

"Yes, there is...there was. Not right now, though."

"Oh? What happened?"

"Michele. She was."

"What?"

"Michele."

"What are you trying to say? Did she work there?"

"Michele. She taught classes in gender studies, and worked at the mental health center."

"Is she, what, is she a clinician? A PhD?"

"Yes."

"Damn. Well, I'll be..."

"What did you think she was?"

"Jordan's girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Whatever."

"What?! Who told you?"

"Sharon Hastings."

"Oh, no."

"What? What's the BFD?"

"There isn't any, not really, I just didn't want you to know what I did to her."

He shook his head, things not adding up. "So she was the one person here on this campus you could talk to about the thing that's bothering you, is that about it?"

"Uh-huh."

"And when she shows up you tried to rat-fuck her?"

"Yes." She looked down again.

"And she knows you were behind what happened to her?" he asked quietly.

She looked up. "I don't know. Maybe."

He got up, left the room, left Laura sitting there, sifting through the ruins, so he missed her smile. He went to Secord's office, and they talked for a long time.




Second Comings - Sex Type Thing



+++++

"I feel so weird coming here," Laura said as she and Justin walked to Secord's house.

"He seemed to think this was worth a try, that it might be good for both of you."

"Will Hastings be there?"

"No, I don't think so. Why?"

"No reason. Is that his place, over there?"

"The silver Audi out front? I think that's it."

He knocked on the door, saw Jordan Secord coming.

"Welcome! Come on in, get out of this snow!" He stood aside, then quickly shut the door behind them. "Here, let me take your coats..."

They all went into the tiny living room and after he'd seated Lake and Grier, Secord asked if they'd like some wine. Both nodded and he left for the kitchen, returned with two glasses of Piesporter Goldtropfchen Spätlese and put them on the table in front of his guests, telling them what it was before disappearing back into the kitchen again.

"What are you two doing back there?" Laura asked. "It smells wonderful!"

"Salads first," Michele replied, carrying plates out to the living room. "We're using the dining room as Jordie's office now, so we eat out here. Hope you don't mind."

"Mind," Lake cried, "how could anyone mind food that smells so heavenly!"

Michele smiled as she returned to the kitchen.

He took a sip. "It's sweet," he said, surprised, and Laura did too.

"I like it. Complex."

Michele came back with a platter of cheeses and sliced pears, then sat down opposite Laura; Secord followed and sat next to Michele. "Oh, that's Emmentaler and kirsch gourmandise," he added. "Thought about a cheese fondue, but that's almost a cliché these days..."

"I've never had fondue," Laura said. "Always wanted to try it, though."

"Ah, well, maybe next time," Secord said.

"What's in the salad? It's amazing..."

"Lingonberries, gorgonzola and walnuts," Michele said. "And I made a Lingonberry vinaigrette. You like it? Really?"

"My God," Lake said. "It's amazing. Butter lettuce?"

"Yup. Get it up in Hanover, at the Co-op."

"Long way for groceries," Lake said.

"We go up once a week anyway. No big."

"That cheese, what did you call it? It tastes like cherries!"

"Ah, the Gourmandise? It's infused with cherry brandy. Good stuff." Secord stood and went back to the kitchen, then a door opened to the outside and shut quickly.

"Is he cooking outside?" Lake asked.

"Steak, on the grill," Michele said.

"Think he needs a hand?"

"Jordan? He always needs help. Just leave your plate, I'll get it."

He walked through the kitchen, saw pasta boiling and vegetables steaming and shook his head. 'They're going all out,' he said to himself. 'I wonder why?' He stepped out on the little wooden deck off the kitchen and saw Secord adding bits of soaked wood to the grill. "What are you up to out here?"

Secord stood and smiled. "Giving those two time to talk, I guess. Just put the meat on. That should give them time to clear the air."

"Clear the air?"

"Sharon filled-in Michele and a few of the Deans what was going on last Fall. The stuff Laura did was outrageous. Juvenile, really. Almost hate-crime stuff."

"Sorry, I don't know the details."

"Well, let's keep it that way, then. Better left unsaid, anyway."

"So, Michele knows?"

"Of course."

"Makes all this rather ironic, wouldn't you say?"

Secord grinned. "Rather."

"She's quite pretty, but I guess you know that."

"I guess that's hard to ignore," Secord said, then he pointed to his heart, "but her beauty is more than skin deep. I've never known anyone quite like her..." He was standing there, looking up at the sky when he said that, and Lake had the impression Secord was about to cry. "I feel so lucky to be with her."

"Indeed."

"So. You and Laura? Kind of sudden, isn't it?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure what I'm dealing with yet. Explosive is a word that comes to mind, and very confused."

"How's 302 coming along? I've got a couple kids taking foreign policy that are in your class; they say it's easy. Too easy."

"Do they, now? Well, I've been retrenching some, going over some basic concepts."

"Beth again?"

"Maybe she's one of those propagandists you were talking about?"

"Maybe. I'm keeping out of school politics."

"Been there and done that, eh?"

"And crashed and burned, too. I'd like to get tenure, have some stability in my life."

"With Michele?"

"Damn right. If she'll have me."

"Why wouldn't she? Does she love you?"

"It's complicated, Justin."

"I can only imagine."

Secord looked at Lake, saw the smirking sarcasm in the man's eyes and turned away to flip the steaks. He sighed, sighed at all the irony and hate in the air, but he faced it. With a smile.

"So, how do you like your steak? They're little filets, by the way."

"Medium ought to be fine. Man, it's sure snowing now."

"Yeah, let's get you inside..."

Michele was sautéing Brussels sprouts now, the pasta was drained and her sauce almost ready, so Secord went back and tended the meat, then carried it in a minute later. When everything was ready they carried dinner out to the table. 

"Sprouts have a red wine and cherry glaze, the pasta a sauce of olive oil, butter, garlic, shallots and a drizzle of Colatura di Alici," Michele told them. "Enjoy!"

"What's Colatura de whatever?" Laura asked.

"Tell me if you like it first, then I'll tell you!" Michele's eyes were bright and animated now, she seemed a little happier than before, and Lake hoped their talk had been helpful; now he watched as Laura twirled some spaghetti on her fork and took the bite.

"My God, it's wonderful! You have to tell me!"

"Anchovy syrup," Secord said, "and don't ask how it's made."

Lake smiled. "They've been making it the same way since Caesar's day. Grand stuff. Thanks, you two. What a grand dinner!"

Secord looked panicked and stood. "The wine!" He dashed off into the kitchen and returned with four more glasses and a bottle of red. "Just in case!" he said, sitting, and Lake laughed.

"You two are incredible!" he said, taking the glass from Secord. "A toast, to our hosts," he added, holding up his glass. "To ancient music, and magic nights!"

"Here's to swimmin' – with bow-legged women!" Secord added before he tossed off the last of his white. Michele and Laura smiled and drank some wine, then everyone turned to their plates.

When they were finished, Secord began clearing and Lake stood to help. "Can I lend a hand?"

"Absolutely!" Secord said.

"Really, Jordan, that was just grand. Haven't had a dinner like that in years. Many thanks."

"Oh, you're most welcome. We try to do something nice at home once a week, but she went all out tonight."

"She's, well, she's just amazing."

"She is. And I'm just mad about her, too. Can't help it."

"I think I understand," Lake said, looking at Michele in the living room. "It's indeed magic when we find someone, isn't it?"

"Makes life worth living, I guess."

"You two are sure quiet in here," Michele said as she came in the kitchen. "Better get out. I've got work to do."

"Come on, Justin. The boss has spoken."

"More?" Lake said.

"Chocolate fondue and strawberries," Michele said, smiling.

"Jesus!" Lake replied, and he saw Laura watching his every move, and the way he responded to Michele's artistry in the kitchen. 'Uh-oh,' he said to himself.

"This is what you're talking about?" she whispered as he sat by her again. "This is how you want to live?"

"There's no certain way I want to live, Laura. What I see here is two people working to make a life together. And yes, it's nice what they do together, but what we do doesn't have to be what they do..."

"I make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Jordan."

He kissed her, ran his fingers through her hair. "It's all in the peanut butter, baby. Gotta be crunchy."

"E-e-w-w! No way!" she said as she laughed, and he laughed too.

"No hanky-panky on the sofa!" Secord said, chuckling as he came in, now carrying a plate full of strawberries and bananas in one hand and more plates in his other.

"What's this," Laura asked as he set the platter down.

"Chocolate fondue," Michele said as she came in carrying a small fondue set. She put the pot down in the middle of the table, adjusted the flame while Secord set little plates and long forks out, then she took a strawberry and dipped it in the bubbling chocolate. "Go ahead, the heat's perfect now."

Laura took a fork and speared a piece of banana on it, then dipped it into the bubbling pot. "That's it?"

"That's right," Secord said, "just dip and put it on your plate, then dip another as you eat the first. Simplicity itself!"

"Heavenly," Lake said, then he speared one for Laura and did the next one for her.

She took it, smiled when she finished, but she seemed almost upset now.

"What's wrong, Laura," Michele asked, now clearly concerned.

"I'm sorry, it's just I've never had a dinner like this before. I didn't grow up like this and, I don't know, suddenly I feel very inadequate. Very small."

Secord looked at Laura, then at Lake. "Laura, people grow together. They learn what they like, together, and then try to find new things to enjoy. You're young, and you've got your whole life ahead of you. A lifetime to find new things."

"The world's what you make of it, Laura," Michele added. "Like we talked about."

Laura nodded, tried to smile. "Right."

"You two look good together," Secord said, and Lake put his arm around Laura.

"I think so, too," Michele added.

They finished dessert then Secord cleared the table and started in on the dishes. When Lake came in and offered to help, Secord told him to go back out and stay with Laura. When he was finished he rejoined them, but Lake was standing, making their excuses.

"Well, glad you two could come over, and hope it's not the last time!" he said, then Lake came and shook his hand.

"Great night. Thanks."

"Door's open. Anytime. Laura? You too."

"You know," Laura said, tearing up, "I didn't have a dad, but I watch you and now I know what I missed." She ran out the door and down into the snow that covered sidewalk, then she started walking hurriedly away.

"You better go get her, Justin. And hold on tight," Michele said, but then Lake leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

"Right. Later." He too took off through the snow but soon caught up with Laura.

"Interesting couple," Secord said. "A bit mad, but interesting."

He turned and looked at Michele, and she was watching them as they disappeared into the snow. "You know what, Jordan? I almost feel happy for her."

"I'm glad. But?"

"There's something in her eyes."

"And?"

"Never mind. Could I stay with you tonight?"

He looked at her. "I think I'd like that."

"Good. Me too..."

+++++

Lake took Laura's gloved hand in his and he watched as their frosty breathes drifted through the snow, how the two plumes seemed to mingle in the air as they rose.

"So, can you tell me what it was like, when you were a kid?"

"Do you really want to?"

"If you talk, I'll listen. And yes, I'm interested."

She seemed to gather herself before she spoke, yet again she hesitated. "Why?"

"Because, I don't know, don't you think I need to?"

"It's not a very happy story, Justin."

"Okay."

"My mom was a teacher, in Honolulu, very religious, very strict. She was never happy. That's what I remember most about her. She was always mad. Always angry, and really, she wasn't all that smart."

"What'd she teach?"

"Third grade. At a Catholic elementary school there."

"You father?"

"I don't know. Never did. Apparently he was in the military, the Navy I think. That's all I ever knew about him."

"Was your mother pretty?"

"She was gorgeous! Everyone told her that, too, but she ignored stuff like that. It wasn't 'godly.'"

"She was really into it, I take it?"

"Yeah, she helped out at Sunday school, went to Mass several nights a week..."

"Catholic, you said?"

"Yes. She told me once she'd wanted to be a nun, but that she wasn't pure enough."

"What do you know about her parents?"

"Not much. Her dad worked for a railroad, that's all I know. My grandmother was a housewife."

"Never met them?"

"Once, but I hardly remember them."

"Where's your mom now?"

"She's gone."

"You mean dead?"

"Suicide."

"Geesh, I'm sorry. When did this happen?"

"A couple of years ago."

"And you're okay with it now?"

"I was okay about it then. I hated her guts."

"Bad memories?"

"Nothing but."

"You know something, I've never seen you not fully clothed in layers of parkas and pants. What do you look like under all that nonsense?"

"Wanna find out?"

"I think so. Yes."

"Well, that's not an altogether ringing endorsement!"

"Laura? No one-night-stands, remember?"

"I do. You know, that's what's so weird about you. The only men I've ever known...that's all they ever wanted. Why are you so different?"

"Because my mom was probably the exact opposite of yours. My dad left her because of it, and he won full custody too."

"What did she do?"

"She drank a lot, I think what was called a country club wife, but then she started sleeping around, doing pills, that kind of thing."

"Sounds bad. What did your father do?"

"Does," he said. "He's still at it, a lawyer, up in Seattle. My step-mom, too."

"She's a lawyer too, you mean?"

"Yes, that's how they met. They do labor law at the same firm. Represent union workers, all very noble, really. Progressive democrats and all that nonsense."

"Nonsense?"

"I never got what it is, you know, that keeps them so motivated."

"And this," she chided, "from a man who teaches Marx to a bunch of rich kids? Oh, my..."

"I don't really think much about his theories. He set the world back, you know, not forward."

"I guess. Not my thing."

"What is your thing?"

"You mean, besides sex?"

"Uh-huh."

"Shakespeare."

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed that."

"Oh? What would you have?"

"Jackie Collins."

She slapped him, playfully, on the arm. "You're bad."

He laughed. "I hope not."

"Hmm? What do you mean by that?"

"I don't want to be bad. Not to you, not ever."

She stopped, looked up at him then kissed him gently. "Then don't be."

"Okay." He kissed her this time, and gently too, but so much longer than the first time.

"Are we there yet?" she asked, beginning to shiver.

"Yup. Wanna come in?"

"Oh yeah. And just in case you were wondering, I'm still hungry – and I'm gonna eat you up."

"Right."

They went in he turned on the lights.

"You still wanna see me without my clothes on?"

"I do, yes."

"You're sure?"

"You're a tease."

"Okay. Wait for me out here in the living room."

"You're serious?"

She pointed, and he left. A few minutes later she called his name, and he pranced in.

She was gorgeous, he saw, then he saw her left leg. And her prosthesis. Her left leg was simply gone from mid-femur down, and he couldn't help but stare. The he saw her face, expected to see disappointment, but no, she was smiling, enjoying his shock.

"Not what you had in mind, was it?" she said mockingly as she watched him. "Still horny, Professor?" She moved to put her clothes back on.

"What are you doing?" he said. 

"Leaving!"

"Why?"

She turned around, looked at him. "That's all right, Professor. I don't need a mercy fuck."

"I...what?"

"Look. What do you..."

"I think I understand, but give me time to catch up, would you?"

"What?"

"You know, you really are quite lovely."

"For a..."

"No. I mean you really are quite lovely." He walked to her, held her hands, helped her down onto the bed and he sat beside her.

"Justin, I'm cold."

"I'll keep you warm. I promise, Laura. I'll keep you warm."

+++++

He woke up the next morning unsure of his footing in this new, altered landscape, but he let Laura sleep while he went to the kitchen and started breakfast. He heard her get up at one point, and then head into the bathroom, yet after a few minutes – nothing. He left the bacon and went into his bedroom; she was sitting up, waiting for him.

"So, breakfast in bed," she said, beaming.

"Would you like that?" he said, looking at her over his glasses.

"First time for everything, I guess."

"So, are you ready to be spoiled just a little bit?"

"Are you?"

He smiled and went back to the kitchen. "Am I?" he said to the walls. 

He took her pancakes and bacon, a local maple syrup too, then he smiled at her smile, and as he watched her eat he had to admit to himself he was suddenly quite happy, maybe even content.

"What would you like to do with our Saturday?" he asked.

"You mean, besides grading papers?"

"Ah. There is that."

"Maybe you'd let me curl your toes again sometime."

"Do what?"

"When you cum, your toes curl. Really weird, but kind of cool."

"I don't think I've ever cum like I did last night. Massive."

"I nearly drowned, hot-shot."

"You're something else, Laura."

"I know. And you love me, don't you?"

He shrugged. "It's beginning to feel like that, yes."

"I know. Me too."

"Really. When did that happen?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe the first time I saw you. Maybe a minute ago."

"If you don't mind me asking, how'd it go with Michele last night?"

The change was instantaneous. "She's not back at the health center yet," she said, cautious now, almost calculating, "but she said I could come over and talk anytime 'til she is."

"You think she could help?"

"Can't know 'less I try, right?"

"I guess. Do you like her?"

"I'm ashamed, Justin. Of what I did to her."

"Okay. Does she know how you feel?"

"I think so. She's insightful, intuitively so. Almost spooky, you know?"

"She's a psychologist. 'Intuitive' is her job."

"No. It's more than that; it was like she could see inside me. Even before I said anything."

"Interesting. But still, you trust her?"

"I do. Very much."

"Okay. So, do I need to take you home, to pick up papers...or would you like to move in?"

+++++

"You know, watching you cum is the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life..."

She smiled, looked in his eyes. "It feels pretty good from up here, too."

Justin slid up the bed by her side. "I mean it. I watched. Closely, ya know. It starts with your breathing, then your arms go out straight, you started grabbing the sheets..."

"And your hair..."

"Yup, I know...then your legs tighten, your toes point like a ballerina's. The muscles in your thighs got so tight. It was like watching a thunderstorm, lightning rippling from cloud to cloud. And I've never seen more perfect breasts," he said as he took one in his mouth. "God, I could stay here forever."

"Here? Where is here?"

"Here, in your arms, between your thighs."

"Justin...so sweet...I love your name..."

"I've never been so, I don't know..."

"Happy?"

"Maybe. Content might be a better word, but I don't know. To me, this feels like love. What I always wanted love to feel like."

"You do? Why?"

"I don't know. I guess I've never felt so alive, Laura. I can't imagine being without you, and I know I'll never feel this way unless you're here with me, by my side."

She grew silent, watched him closely, wondered where he was going with this. He'd been very quiet all week, consumed with his classes, particularly the kids in 302, but last night he'd been exuberant, more animated than she'd ever seen him, but now – this? She moved from silence to nervousness, then he looked at her.

"I met with the Dean yesterday," he said.

"And?"

"He said they'd been watching me, how I turned those kids around."

"In 302?"

"Yup. Long story short. They offered me tenure."

She drifted into his arms. "Oh, Justin!" She kissed his face as she hugged him. "I'm so happy for you," she whispered.

"I want to marry you," he whispered in her ear. "Will you marry me, spend your life with me? Please?"




Second Comings - Sex Type Thing



She let go, leaned back, looked into his eyes. "Justin? Don't kid around with me about that. You know how I feel about it?"

"I'm not kidding, Laura. I want 'us' – that's all. Us, you and me, side by side..."

"The old crippled girl?"

"You know that doesn't matter to me."

"Yeah, well, it matters to me. It matters all the time, and sometimes it feels like you're wearing me around like some kind of badge of honor, showing people how 'big' you are. 'Look, there he goes, the professor with the crippled girlfriend..."

"Stop it, Laura! Stop!"

"Or what, Professor Lake?"

"Please stop. You know that's not..."

"Aren't you listening? Can't you hear me? This is how I feel." She held up her leg. "Look! This is what I am!"

"What you are?" he screamed. "That!" he said as he pointed at her leg, "Is that all you are? Dear God in Heaven, you really do know how to sell yourself short, don't you? Why? Why, when you are so much more! When you have so much more to give the world?" He leaned down and took her leg and kissed it, but then she pulled away from him. "Yes, that's a part of you, too, who you are, what made you who you are, but can't you see? I love you! Every bit of you, this too."

She got to the side of the bed, began putting on her prosthesis.

"You're going to run away?"

"Don't try to stop me, Justin. Don't get in my way."

"Can I take you somewhere?"

"What? Goddamn you to hell! Drive me? What...is THAT what you really wanted? A cripple? Someone who has no choice but to become dependent on you? A wife, like the mother you never had, the mother who drank her way out of your life? Dependent, like she became on your father? Only this time you thought you could control me? You son of a bitch!" She pulled on her pants and laced her shoes, then walked out.

He sat on the edge of his bed, his face in his hands pinching the bridge of his nose, but he felt dry inside. Empty. He wasn't mad, he was confused. An empty kind of confused... 

'Where did that come from?' he asked himself. 'What made her think that? Have I acted like that to her?' Questions ran through his mind, ran from the present to that past. To his mother. His lonely mother, alone with her whiskey and drugs, alone when she overdosed, alone when she died in a shitty hotel bed in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of alone. He didn't want that for Laura. He couldn't, could he? Why did she feel that way? 

He was sitting in the living room looking out the window, looking at the leaves budding on every tree in sight, at the sun shining through the a million trees. Just a few patches of snow left, he saw, hiding in the shadows, huddled in cold corners – waiting for the warmth. Perpetual change. His letter from the Dean was on the table, and he looked at it again. His future assured, apparently. And now he was alone.

A knock on the door, he ran to open it.

It was Secord, he saw, and he turned away, walked back into the house.

"Mind if I come in?"

"No, come on in."

"I got thrown out. Needed somewhere to hang for a while. Hope you don't mind.

"Thrown out?"

"Laura came over."

"Ah. Sorry. I'm not firing on all cylinders right now."

"If you don't mind me asking, what the fuck happened?"

"Hmm? Oh, I asked Laura to marry me."

"Well hell, that sure clears everything up. Now, what really went down?"

"She told me I love her because she's a cripple, that I want her that way so she'll become dependent on me."

"Yowza. That's a lot of guilt for one trip. Where'd it come from?"

"My mother, I guess. Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"About Michele. She was a guy once, right?"

"Yup."

"And you're cool with that? The whole sex type thing?"

"Cool? Not really, not in the way I think you're asking, anyway. We're still feeling our way through that minefield, but I didn't fall in love with her because of the sex. Really, I guess that came between us for a long time. I fell in love with her the second time around, when her existence forced me to confront my own humanity. The flaws in my humanity, I guess."

"But you love her, right. I mean, really love her, even though she was a guy?"

"She's a human being, Justin. A human being, that's all. It takes a while to get to a place where you can see what that really means."

"What do you mean?"

"There are good people out there, everywhere, yet they're not as easy to find as you think. But there are lots of bad people out there too. They're real easy to find, as it turns out. They're out there waiting for you, as a matter of fact. Waiting for you to stumble, make the long fall, then they're with you, Justin, and it's hard to shake 'em loose before they take you down with 'em. What I'm trying to say is this: when you run into a good one, well, they're worth holding on to. Love is precious. Real love, that is. The bogus shit bad people try to sell looks a little like love, maybe even feels a little like love, but it's shit any way you look at it. It's need and want. That kind of love is revenge, anger at the world that 'made' them go bad."

"You think Laura..."

"I don't know Laura, Justin. I can't answer that question, but she's done some pretty bad things."

"Who hasn't?"

"True," Secord said, nodding his head.

"I love her."

"And you're sure about her love? About her doubts, what she said?"

"I'm sure. Yes."

"So, the Dean offered you tenure?"

"Yup. I heard you got it too? Going to accept?"

"If that's what Michele and I want, then yes."

"Everything was so clear yesterday, last night."

"What was?"

"My love for her. My need. She's all I want now."

"All through the night, I-me-mine, I-me-mine, I-me-mine," Secord sang, badly, trying not to smile at his butchered rendition.

"What?"

"From where I sit, all I heard was I-me-mine. Not 'our love for each other' or 'our need' – just I-me-mine. Maybe that's where you need to look first, before you look anywhere else."

"I know she loves me. I know it."

"So, that's why she's talking with Michele right now? She knows she loves you?"

"Damn right. Came out of nowhere, knocked her down, but she loves me. I know she does."

"Maybe so. I hope you're right."

"You do? Why?"

"Oh, no reason, really. Maybe you'd be happy. Maybe she would be too. That would be a good thing, wouldn't it?"

"You put a lot of faith in goodness, don't you, Secord?"

"I do. Once you understand how powerful hate is, how much of the human history you and I teach has been driven by hate, you begin to appreciate, even respect how much goodness matters. The superficial world matters less and less, because it's easy for hate to live there."

"We teach hate?"

"No, not at all. We teach the consequences of hate. Like we talked about a few months ago, we have to peel back the layers, not let the consequences of hate overpower our humanity. We have to let our students see that, and I think it helps them if they can see we live that way."

"That almost sounds like a sermon. Not a historian talking, anyway."

"I'm a human being, Justin, not a historian. And I'm not a label, or a caricature of a label. That's what Michele taught me, what she continues to help me understand everyday. And I guess that's what Aristotle taught her. To live a good life. Honest to one's self."

"And bad people don't love? I don't buy that."

"I think bad people use others. Means to an end, that kind of thing. That may feel like love, to them anyway, but it's not. And you know it, too."

"I do?"

"Well, I assume you know a little about Jesus. His life. So tell me, if he came back to earth right now, today, and he looked around our world, what do you think he'd have to say about us?"

"I think he'd smile. I think he'd understand. I think he'd see things haven't changed one bit. And that we'd crucify him again."

"Okay. So, where do you fit in? What would he think of you, and the life you've lived?"

"So, you really think we should try to live by example, for our students?"

"They watch us, Justin. They learn about life when they watch us. Actions speak louder than words. Always have, even two thousand years ago. Remember that."

"Walk the walk, huh?"

"Yeah, but in a relationship it's the things you do for each other that convey love. Telling someone you love them is all well and good, but actions always speak louder than words."

"Like?"

"Think of it this way, uh...well, here they come."

"What?" Lake turned to see Michele and Laura coming up the walkway to the house, and then he looked back at Secord.

"There's a way through this, Justin. Just don't push. Listen. Listen to her heart, and listen with yours." Secord stood, held out his hand and Lake took it. "Maybe you can make sense of all this."

"I'm not sure I'll ever understand you, Jordan, but I'm glad I know you."

"Yeah? Well, don't let your meat loaf, Amigo. And let me know what happens."

"I will."

"If it gets too heavy, just yell. We'll go to the pub, toss back a few."

"Sounds good, Jordan."

They went to the door, then Secord left, walked away with Michele.

Laura came in, she looked unsettled, upset, unsure of her world, and she walked past Lake and went into their bedroom. When he went in she was already out of her clothes and getting into the shower. 

"Mind if I come in?"

She didn't say anything. He went in and sat on the toilet, waiting, watching as she sat on the little stool he'd put in there for her. After a minute she rolled the door open, held out her hand. He took it. He felt her skin on his and couldn't help it, he cherished the feeling as he looked down, shaking his head.

"What are you thinking right now, Justin?"

"I was thinking how good your skin feels on mine."

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"It must've felt like I was pushing you. Like you said, controlling you."

"I'm just scared, Justin."

"I missed that, darlin'. Guess I missed a lot of things."

She squeezed his hand. "Not the important thing."

"How was Michele?"

"She's a lifesaver."

"Secord is, I don't know. He's a paradox."

"Why's that"

"I don't know. He talks about goodness and Aristotle and living a 'good life', and that we lead our students by example. Stuff like that."

"What's paradoxical about that?"

"Well, he's living with a guy, for one thing."

"She's not a guy, Justin. I wish you could see that."

"Oh, I get it, I just don't buy it."

"You said you love me, right?"

"I do."

"I don't think you have any idea how many men have looked at my leg and just about puked. How many have walked out, leaving me sitting in the dust."

"They can't see past that. They can't see you."

"So what is it about Michele that makes it impossible to see the real person inside?"

"I don't know, Laura. Maybe because your leg was accidental, beyond you control; Michele's life is all about choice."

"Being true to her self? That's a choice she made, I'll grant you that, but are you saying that was the wrong choice? And anyway, even if you had some right to make that judgement, why would you hold that against her? And Jordan? Why would you hold his acceptance of her against him?"

"I'm not. Not really."

"Aren't you?"

"I don't think so. I like him, appreciate what he has to say..."

"But you can't see why he's with Michele, right?"

"I can, on one level. But I never could."

"Well, you don't have to, do you? You have me, your cute little cripple, right?"

"I love you."

"He loves Michele."

"I love you, not Michele. Do you, you know, just maybe, love me too?"

"I do, Justin. And yes, if you want to get married, let's do it."

"That doesn't sound right to me, Laura. 'If I want to.' What about you? Is this what you really want?"

"What I really want? I don't know how to answer that, Justin. Up until a few months ago I'd look in the mirror and was revolted with what I saw there, with what I am. Getting married wasn't in that mirror, wasn't in my reflection, Justin. Know what I mean?"

"Changes."

"Huh?"

"Something Secord said reminded me of of that. All the world is change. Perpetual motion, perpetual change. Change, and that leads to acceptance, or conflict."

"Maybe he knows what he's talking about. Maybe he knows what's in his heart."

"I think," Lake said, "he's a good friend. And I think his heart is in the right place."

"What about me, Justin? Is your heart in the right place – about me?"

"I need you, Laura. That's all I really understand. I want to understand you. This pain."

"Do you?"

"I do, but I don't want to crush the life out of you. I'd like you to want me as much as I do you, but I guess that might come in time, when you're ready."

She turned off the water and stood up, so he handed her a towel.

"Dry me, would you?"

He dried her perfect body, hated the pain the loss of her leg caused, but he couldn't change that. He loved her, he thought, on those terms, terms the here and now had given him. Was Secord's choice so different, he thought as he toweled her legs.

"Do you think you could carry me to bed?"

He picked her up and she put her arms around his neck and kissed him as he carried her. He lay her down softly, then knelt beside the bed, his head resting on her left leg.

"I don't know what led you to me," he heard her say, "but I do love you, Justin. I can't understand what all this means, not yet, but I feel so lucky." She ran her fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry about what I said this morning. I know I hurt you, and I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter, Laura. There's nothing you can say we can't get over."

"Come up here...keep me warm, would you?"

And he saw that smile again, and wondered what was so funny.

+++++

She was grading papers, the stereo playing old Seattle grunge impossibly loud, and the music was fueling her, energizing her, and now she wanted to dance – but she focused on her papers, reading through an answer one time, checking off good points and bad, then re-reading for clarity. It seemed to take her about a half hour to finish off one paper for that first run-through, and the second time through she'd check sources and references, and only then would she assign a grade, so call it an hour per paper. She had seventy papers in her stack, about half through this first assessment when Justin came in, carrying his own stack of papers.

"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat! What the devil is that!" he called out, trying to make himself heard over the racket.

"What!?"

"What is that?" he said, turning down the volume. "Never heard that one before..."

"Stone Temple Pilots. Sex Type Thing. One of my favorites, when I was a kid."

"So, that's what happened to you!" he said, laughing now as he came into the room, laughing before he kissed her. "Well, this is it," he continued, holding out the file folder. "302's papers. This is where I learn if I made a difference. If I got through to them."

"I wouldn't worry too much about that, Professor," she said lightly. "My bet is most of them did just fine."

"Oh, why's that?"

"Because my money's on you."

It had been almost a month since his proposal, since her guarded acceptance. Laura had decided she wanted a simple civil ceremony, maybe here in the village, with just a handful of friends attending. No outrageous dress to buy, no pretentious invitations to mail out, no drama beyond the readily apparent. Just a simple ceremony. A simple 'I do' – then maybe a few beers at the pub before driving out to the Rockies for a vacation. Justin understood. He'd do it because that was what she wanted.

A Volvo wagon pulled into the drive. Sharon Hastings got out and walked up to the door. She knocked, an angry knock, insistent, almost menacing. 

Justin went to the door, opened it. "Sharon, what's wrong?"

She came in, looked at Laura.

"Well, you did it. You finally did it, didn't you?"

"Sharon? What are you talking about?" Justin said.

"Ask her, Justin. Ask her what she did?"

"Laura? What's she talking about? Laura?"

Laura sat motionless, very still and very quiet now.

"I'll tell you what she did, Justin. She found some more jocks, told them all about Michele, told them all about 'trannies' and 'fags' and how they were ruining the college. Then she told them where Michele lives. They got her this morning, in Jordan's house, Justin! They broke in and beat her. The destroyed her, you fucking cunt! Are you happy? Are you fucking happy now!?"

"Sharon! Wait a minute! What makes you think Laura has anything to do with this?"

"Because the police have them. They've confessed, they've implicated Laura. But this is what she wanted from the beginning, Justin, what she wanted all along..."

"Laura? Tell me this isn't so. Laura?"

And Laura stood up, but then she walked slowly into their bedroom, and shut the door quietly behind her.

"Where is she?" Justin asked. "At the hospital?"

Sharon nodded.

"Is Jordan there?"

"I just dropped him, before I came here."

"Take me."

The ran out to the wagon and were gone.

"Jesus," he said, "how'd they catch 'em..."

"In the act, I think. Neighbor saw them break in, heard it going down. Justin, they were, uh, raping her."

"What?"

"They were beating her, raping her at the same time."

"And they implicated Laura?"

"Chief of police told me that was the first thing out of their mouths. She told them all about Michele, where to find her, what they needed to do to get her away from the college."

"Why'd they do it? I mean, why'd they do it for Laura?"

"Justin, they said she was fucking them. All of them. Up until a few days ago."

Lake looked down, he didn't know what to do, what to think anymore, but somehow he knew it was true, all of it. Sharon had tried to warn him, maybe even Secord had too. All that talk about 'goodness' and 'bad people' – maybe he knew then. Or maybe Michele knew, and she'd told him. He felt sick to his stomach, like not only had he betrayed Secord and Michele, somehow he'd enabled this, too. There had been signs, after all... And he'd ignored them all.

"Does Jordan know about the confessions? The stuff about Laura?"

"Not yet, but it's only a matter of time. You'd better think about what you're going to say. What you'll need to do."

"Yeah. You warned me, didn't you?"

"I tried, but I didn't have any idea things were this bad last summer. Not the first time she tried this."

"You mean, this wasn't the first time she tried to set her up? Like this?"

"She tried, last September. One of the boys went to his coach, they called her in, she denied it all. No proof. Everyone thought it was too outrageous so they dropped it. You know, to keep shit out of the papers..."

"She's a monster. If any of this is true, she's a monster."

"I'm sorry, Justin. I hope this doesn't come down on you too hard, but yeah, she's a sick girl."

They pulled into the parking lot beside the ER and ran in. Jordan was in the waiting room, pacing frantically, but he looked up when he saw Sharon and opened his arms when she came to him.

"Hey, Justin, thanks for coming," Secord said when he let go of Sharon.

"Have you heard anything?" Justin asked.

He shook his head. "They just took her up to the OR. Skull fracture, some ribs, maybe internal bleeding. They got her good."

"Jordan, I'm so sorry."

The president of the college arrived moments later, Dennis Hastings and the academic dean as well. Then the chief of police and a phalanx of officers came in, and they walked right up to Justin.

"Doctor Lake, is Laura Grier at your house?"

"She is." He fished his house keys out of his pocket and handed them over. "And you have my permission to enter. She was in the bedroom when we left, Mrs Hastings and myself."

"Okay, thanks." The chief handed the keys to one of the officers, and they left at a run."

"What's going on?" Secord asked.





Second Comings - Sex Type Thing



Sharon stepped up, stood between the chief and Secord. "Not now, Chief, Jordan. Let's wait 'til she's out of surgery, okay? Justin, stay with him. You two go get some coffee. I want to talk with these folks." She pointed at Justin then: "I mean it. Get going."

"Okay," Lake said. "Jordan, let's get away from here for a minute."

When they were clear of the waiting area, headed for the cafeteria, Secord asked Lake if he knew what was going on.

"I know some of the details, not all. Apparently Laura was in on this, lured a bunch of jocks to do it, lured them in with sex. That's what Sharon told me on the way over."

"Dear God. Justin. Oh, no. She got us both, then. Michele was concerned, thought Laura was just angry, somehow angry at men in general. But she's focused all that anger on Michele. Why?"

"I don't know, Jordan. I just don't know. I remember once, reading about why Hitler ordered the killings of all those people, not just the Jews, but all the other people he singled out. The point of the article was that Hitler was a monster, and there's no way to know what motivates a monster, because we have no frame of reference. You have to be a monster to understand a monster, so there's just no way to completely understand what motivates them. It's a darkness beyond our understanding."

"What are you saying? That Laura's a monster?"

"I've been living with her for months, and this is all news to me, Jordan. She's kept this part of her life hidden away, but now? It's a whole other part of her. I don't know, maybe some sort of schizoid process? Michele would know more about this than I do..."

They came to the cafeteria and sat in a far corner, by a window. Secord looked out at the trees, at the green leaves drifting on an unfelt breeze. "This is all kind of hard to take in, isn't it?"

"Sharon warned me about her. I didn't listen. Now I feel like I enabled all of this. That I allowed Laura to get close to you two."

"It's not your fault, Justin. Don't go there."

"I'm going to get us some tea. Be right back."

"Yeah."

When he returned Sharon was at the little table, holding Secord's hand, and his heart lurched in his chest. "Any news?" he asked as he sat.

She shook her head. "Nothing."

They all turned their heads, listened as an ambulance arrived back at the ER, then Secord seemed to fall apart. "Please God," he whispered, "don't let anything more happen to her, and keep her safe if something does." 

"Amen," Sharon said. She looked at Justin – and he was crying – then one of the police officers was running into the cafeteria.

"Dr Lake? Would you come with me now?"

"What's happened?" Sharon said, and Lake looked up expectantly, suddenly feeling very cold.

The officer looked around, then leaned-in close: "Grier met the officers at the door, with a knife. She's been shot, it's bad, and she's asking for you."

"What!" Sharon said, but she was already up and running before Secord had time to figure out what had happened, then Lake was up and just behind her by the time he had. Secord looked at the tea on the table and wiped up a few errant splatters, then he picked up the untouched cups and walked slowly to the trash. After he had carefully put the cups in the bin, he too started for the ER – walking very slowly, very carefully, and very unsteadily into the future.

(C) 2016 Adrian Leverkühn | ABW



Second Comings



Then he thought of her not dancing with him. Why? Was she protecting him then? And she had been trying to protect him from Sharon Hastings? Why? What was going on?

He opened his old HP laptop and the screen remained black. He unplugged the thing, tried to restart it again and...nada. Nothing. Even the power light remained off.

"Swell! That's just what I needed today!" he said to his office walls. He called the Hastings house, and Sharon answered.

"Sharon? It's Dennis Secord."

"High, Denny. What's up?"

"My laptop. I think it's fried. Anyplace here in the village to pick up a new one?"

"What do you have?"

"An old HP."

"No, no, no. Everything's Apple up here, Amigo. The student's get papers to you over a proprietary system that's Mac only, and all faculty correspondence comes over that system too. They didn't tell you?"

"Nope."

"Well, that's just peachy. Know how to use a Mac?"

"No, not really."

"I should've guessed. Republicans use PCs, Democrats use Macs."

"So I've heard. But I guess when in Rome? Where can I get one?"

"Best bet, with classes starting next week, is Boston, at the Coop, or one of those new Apple Stores. Want some company?" 

"I'll have to let you know. I may do mail order. Not sure I have enough time to get into the city now. Thanks for the heads up though."

"Jordan, I'm home all the time this year, so if you need anything, just call me. Okay?"

"Thanks, Sharon. I appreciate that."

"Uh, Jordan? Did you look up Lansing in the faculty handbook?"

"Yup. Sure did."

"I'm sorry. I felt like I should've warned you or something, but Dennis said that would be inappropriate."

"Well, it's a brave new world, and I'm a little out of touch."

"I know. Look, I'm sorry I came on so hard the other night, but it get's lonely up here. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here. Okay?"

"Got it, Sharon. And again, thanks. I'll talk to you soon."

He rang off, rolled his eyes and shook his head. "That's gotta be the horniest broad in Vermont!" he said to the walls as he thumbed through a magazine looking for a Mac source. After a few calls, it looked like the Apple Store in Cambridge was going to be his best bet, but it was already too late to make the trip that day, so he decided to shoot for tomorrow.

Then without thinking he picked up the phone and dialed Lansing's number.

"Hello?"

"It's Jordan. Jordan Secord. You busy tomorrow?"

"No," she said, but he could hear the hesitation in her voice. "What's going on?"

"I've got to go to Boston. Do you know your way around the city yet?"

"A little. Where're you going?"

"Apple Store. Cambridge."

"I know right where that is. When were you thinking of leaving?"

"Seven-ish."

"That sounds right. Want me to pick you up?" she asked.

"I need to drive my car in for service. Why don't you swing by, we'll leave from here."

"Okay." He still heard the uncertainty in her voice, and he felt his growing by the moment too, then he felt himself adrift. Then: "Uh, Jordan, did you, well, did you read my faculty listing?"

"Yup."

"You're not, like, going to try to kill me, are you?"

He laughed. "Doubtful, but I did want to talk about things."

"Things?"

"Yeah, things. You, mostly. What happened, I guess." He felt like he was on autopilot deep inside that moment, just following the contours of his heart, not thinking things through like he ought to. "And I need to do a few other errands while we're there, so why don't you bring an overnight bag, just in case we run late."

"What?"

"In case we run late," he said again, stumbling through the fog of desire. "Just a few things."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure? About you? Hell no, I'm not sure. I'm anything but sure, but when it comes to you I'm losing my fucking mind right now. But you're a shrink, right? Who better to spend the day with than a shrink!"

She laughed. "I see your point." There was a long pause, and he listened to her breathing. "Jordan?"

"Yup?"

"I'm glad you called." Then the line went dead, and suddenly Jordan Secord felt a great calm descend over his troubled soul.

"Now why the devil did I do that?" He said to the walls.

"Because you need to," the walls said back.

+++++

"So, you've never been married?" she asked him. They were eastbound on the Mass Pike, still about an hour or so from the city. "Why?"

"Oh, I'd like to say I never met the right girl, but that's not quite right. I met a few, but things never really clicked. I've been accused of having an abrasive personality, you see." He smiled, but the words hurt.

"Abrasive?"

"I think pompous and stuck up are the words most commonly used to describe me."

"But you think you're shy? Is that it?"

"Sometimes. But I think I put on the pompous act as a way to keep a certain distance from people."

"Distance?" 

"Well yeah, but that's what got me about you the other night. I didn't feel that way. I didn't feel the need. That's what's been bothering me ever since."

"Bothering you?"

"Well, you're a guy, right? I mean, you were?"

"I still am in some ways, in ways I can never change, but I've always felt like I was a woman, and I've made some of the physical changes. Is that what bothers you?"

"Yes."

"What exactly bothers you?"

"You said you've made some changes?"

"Yes, but I still have my penis. Is that what you mean?"

"I'm not gay, Michele."

"And neither am I, Jordan, though some people would argue the point. I like men, but I've never thought of myself as a man. It's a tough idea to wrap your head around, I know. It took me years to get where I am now."

"And where's that?"

"I'm comfortable in my skin, Jordan. I'm a woman, just not the type of woman you're used to."

"A woman with unusual, well, equipment."

"Yes. I guess you could say that, but that's not how I define myself."

"Are you going to stay that way?"

"I think so. The surgery is daunting, the results often more trouble than they're worth. So, I'm just waiting to find someone who'll accept me as I am now."

"Do you think that'll happen?"

She looked at him then. "I'm hopeful, but maybe I'm just stupid." She looked around the inside of the car for a moment. "This is an Audi, isn't it?"

"Yup, a TT. It's eight years old now, and getting to be a pain in the ass to keep running. I wanted to look for something new in the city today."

"Like what?"

"Probably four wheel drive, something bigger. Maybe a Land Rover."

"This car suits you, Jordan. Why get something bigger than you need?"

"I want something that I can carry skis on, and maybe four people."

"Kids?"

"Me? I doubt it. I don't think I'd make a particularly good 'dad'."

"Why not?"

"I think I get too wrapped up in my work. I'd hate to short-change a kid that way."

"Is that what happened to you?"

"Geez, I forgot you're a shrink!"

"That's called resistance, Jordan, in case you were wondering."

"What? Changing the subject?"

"Um-m."

"What about you? Do you want to be a...mother?"

"Yes, sometimes I think I'd like to do that, within the obvious limitations."

"Adopt, you mean."

"Yes."

"Did you ever see the movie 'Shadowlands'?"

"You mean the one with Anthony Hopkins, as C. S. Lewis?"

"That's right. You know what I find most comfortable about that movie? It's Lewis and his brother. They live together, teach at Oxford, and no women complicate their lives until that poet, you know, the Debra Winger character, moves in after she gets cancer."

"I remember. You mean you find that interesting. The celibacy?" 

"In a way. It's living without the complications of a relationship, of any kind. What I find odd, at least when I think about it at all, is that men tend to get married and then spend a lot of their time plotting to get away from their wives. Play golf one weekend, go hunting the next weekend, always some excuse to get away from their wives, and be with their friends. Their friends, who happen to be man. Like brothers. Just men off having fun with the friends they grew up with, more often than not. Friendship, companionship. Not sex."

"That's called being a bachelor, Jordan. Nothing new about it, by the way. Many men are afraid of commitment, and so never marry. Most are content to have a series of brief, casual relationships in lieu of long-term partnerships, and they're happy. Does that description fit you?"

"So far, but people change. But, would you call bachelorhood a psychopathology, then?"

"I'd hate to apply a label like that with such broad strokes. It could be, certainly, depending on individual circumstance, like why a person avoids commitment."

"So, would I be a confirmed bachelor? I'm in my forties and don't feel compelled to marry."

"I don't know you well enough to answer that."

"You know, this is weird, but I find it easier to talk with you than I ever have with anyone else before. I mean anyone. You just feel comfortable to me, and that unsettles me."

"Why? Because I have a penis?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's as simple as that, yet even so the comfort is there. Like I'm talking a guy, but you're not really. Does that make any sense?"

"So, why Shadowlands?"

"I guess more than anything it's the idea of living without all the tension that comes from the sexual dynamics of a married relationship. That's the most attractive thing about that movie."

"Seems like that may have been a good solution for two older men, brothers at that, who also happened to be deeply religious. You don't have a brother, do you? And somehow I doubt you're the religious type."

Secord laughed. "That bug never bit me, but I consider myself a moral man."

"Okay. So, what you think you want is a long term, asexual relationship, with a brother figure. Have I got that right?"

"That's not what I said, is it? I said I found the idea comfortable. I also think I'd find it socially impractical, and probably emotionally very unsatisfying in the end."

He slowed for a toll booth, then continued into the city towards Brookline, and Secord wound his way through the city to Boylston Street, to an Audi dealer. He walked in, talked to a salesman for a while, then came back out to the lot. Michele was walking around the new cars, looking at a row of TTs.

"I like this one," she said when Jordan got to her. It was a bright silver hardtop, with a deep red leather interior. 

"Yeah? I do too. Classic colors, a very '50s combination."

The salesman approached. "I'll need your keys, sir," the man said.

"Work up a number on this one for me, will you?" Jordan said. The salesman smiled as he walked away. "Any others hit you?"

"No, this one suits you."

"And it suits you, too?"

"If I had the money to buy a car like this, it'd be this one right here."

"Then this is what we'll get."

She shook her head. "What do you mean, we?"

"I don't know. I guess that just kind of slipped out." He looked at her, saw the expression of dismay on her face before she turned away. The salesman came back a few minutes later and handed him a piece of paper, and Secord wrote down a counter offer. The salesman said he'd try and walked back inside.

"Are you really going to buy this thing? Based on what I said?"

"Yup. Provided the numbers work."

"Why?"

"Because I listened to what you said. You made a good case."

The salesman came back out, said he could go at that price, so Secord pulled out his checkbook and filled one out, then handed it to the man. "How long to get it ready?"

"Half hour at the most, sir."

"Got a ski rack for this thing?"

"Yessir, permanent or removable. Your choice. Price is the same."

"Removable, then. Just toss it in the back."

"This is unbelievable," Michele said.

"It's a car," Secord said. "No big deal. Besides, you like it."

She shook her head. "Right. Like that matters."

The salesman showed Secord how to work the electronics, including the GPS, and they were off, headed across town to Cambridge. They were at the CambridgeSide Galleria before noon, and left with a MacBook and an iMac a half hour later.

"Man, we're making good time," he said. "How about lunch?"

"Sure. You like Thai?"

"Yup."

"There're a couple of good places near the MFA."

"The museum? Sounds doable. Hope parking isn't an issue."

They drove across the river and found a parking place, then walked to the restaurant. She had on heels again and he still couldn't keep from looking at her legs every chance he got, and that unnerved him. They went in and he asked that she order for them both, which seemed to unsettle her a little.

"Something's bothering you," he said as they waited for their iced-teas.

"You seem to be making some wild assumptions about things, Jordan. That's all."

"Oh, I see that, but I'm not sure I agree with you. I like the car, a lot actually, and that doesn't have a lot to do with your liking the car. I'm glad you do, but it was either going to be another TT or a Land Rover, and really, I'm happy with this. Our tastes are alike, I guess."

"Okay," Michele said, "I'll buy that. But you seemed to imply you wanted me to be happy with your choice. Why?"

"Because I feel that way."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"And I'm absolutely sure I don't understand."

They both laughed at that, then ate a big lunch, and both immediately regretted it. Secord was sleepy now, and he said he didn't feel like making the two hour drive back to Vermont. Michele seemed content with that. "You look like you need a nap," she said, "or would you like me to drive back."

"I think I'd like to get a room."

She nodded. "One room, or two?"

"What would you like?" he asked.

"One, I think."

He called the Marriott Long Wharf and reserved a room, then they drove down to the bay and checked-in. He pointed down the wharf to an old two story building. "See that? The Chart House. Best rum drinks in North America. You game?"

"Maybe in a few hours."

"Sounds about right." They went inside then up the escalator to registration, and he had the concierge make reservations for eight at the restaurant, then he handed her bag off to the bellman. Their room overlooked the bay, and views of the waterfront were stupendous. After her bag arrived, she went into the bath and shut the door.

He was nervous, as unsettled as he'd ever felt in his life, and he felt oddly out of control – again – like he was on autopilot...like his life was suddenly veering off on an unexpected tangent. She came out a few minutes later, and he gasped when he saw her.

She'd pulled her longish hair up into a tight bun, and had put on maroon lingerie and gray stockings, and sky high maroon pumps. Her penis was stuffed inside lacy panties, and the sight was vaguely unsettling, yet oddly exciting at the same time. She walked across the room and lay on the bed, looked at him silently, expectantly. He went into the bathroom and showered quickly, then joined her on the bed.

"You know," she began, "what happened the other night was one thing. This is something else entirely. Jordan? Think about what you're doing...where you're at. Is this what you want?"

His eyes were wide, his expression more like a little boys, and he slowly shook his head. "I have no idea what I want right now, Michele. I'm terrified, but it's like I'm intoxicated. I look at you and I...well, you're the sexiest creature I've ever seen in my life. Then I look at that thing between your legs and I want to shrivel up inside. I want to run away. Then I look at you again, at your eyes, no, I look into your eyes...and I want to hold on to you forever."

"You're confused. I think that's natural, Jordan, and don't think we have to push this. We don't have to do things you're not comfortable doing."

He felt a great weight lifting, and he leaned into her and kissed her once, then he leaned back and looked into her eyes.

"The thing is, Michele, I feel something right now like I've never felt before. I don't really know what love is, but I always expected it would feel something like this."

"You're sweet, Jordan. But we're not there yet."

He shook his head. "No, we're not. I don't know what's happening to me right now, but I'm happy you're here with me."

"Maybe you want to fall in love, Jordan. Have you thought about that?"

"Not until I met you. Does that seem hard to follow?"

"I think it's supposed to happen that way," she said as she smiled. "At least, that's what I heard once."

He nodded and grinned, then kissed her. 

"Jordan? You're sure?"

"I want to try," he said, "but no, I'm not sure."

She took him in hand and began working his cock, and when he was steaming hard she leaned down and took him in her mouth again. He was out of his mind now, completely consumed with the idea of her – then she lay back on the bed and removed her panties. She spread her legs and pulled him up to her face. They were touching down there, rubbing into each other, when she whispered hoarsely: "Fuck me, Jordan. Put it in me now and fuck me..."

She put her legs on his shoulders and he felt her silky nylon sheathed legs caress his face, smelled the leather of her shoes as he placed his cock on her rosebud, and in an instant he was inside her. Her back arched, she began writhing beneath him as he plowed into her – and once again he was on the verge within moments and he tried to hold back...but it was too late...within the span of a few heartbeats he was on his elbows and toes, shooting his seed deep into her ass...then he was falling, falling into her arms, crying uncontrollably, holding onto her fiercely, whispering her name, telling her that he loved her over and over. 

And she was holding him as tightly, taking all he had to give and wanting more.

'Oh, I know you,' she said to herself, 'I know where you've been hiding all your life.' She held his face now, kissed the tears away while she continued to move gently under him.

"You are so beautiful," he said. "Everything about you...is so beautiful..."

She kissed him again, felt him growing inside her again, and when he was ready they moved slowly into the evening together.

+++++

She'd wanted him to take her in his mouth, in his ass, but he simply couldn't handle the idea and had pulled back. She understood, she'd said, yet she'd clearly been hurt by this semi-rejection. They'd showered together, kissed and held on to one another as his storms passed, then she'd soaped off his cock while the hot water ran down their bodies, yet he'd been reluctant to even touch her cock, and the more insistent her need grew the further away he pulled. 

Dinner was lost in a haze of rum induced denial, and he seemed to pull even further away as the evening wore on. She wanted to hold him there and then, tell him it was going to be alright, but the simple truth was she didn't know how to handle the pain of his uncertainty. He was confronting something so momentous, emotions so beyond his own set of expectations that he was, she feared, beginning to lose contact with reality, at least the reality he had known and taken for granted all his life.

This was an entirely new 'gender identification' problem for her too, something she knew existed in a clinical sense but that nevertheless represented an emotional hurdle beyond her own experience. Jordan was, after all, a man. A man with heterosexual patterns of relating to the sexual world. Now, over the course of a few days, decades of both experience and expectations were being challenged – and overturned. They were, she understood now, moving way too fast for his limited experience. She risked alienating him, or worse, fracturing his personality, if she pressed too hard, too soon.

They walked down to the end of the wharf after dinner, and she waited for his hand to seek hers. When he did, when he took her hand in his, she moved closer.





Second Comings



"This was such a wonderful day, Jordan. One of the very best of my life. Thank you so much for all this," she said as she waved at the expanse of the bay and the stars overhead. She leaned into him, put her head on his shoulder, and he didn't pull away.

"I love you too," he whispered, and she respected his need for privacy, for secrecy. Then he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

She squeezed his hand, her lips sought his and again, and again, while he didn't pull back from her she felt his unease. 'Oh, what have I done to this man,' she said to herself over and over again. 'Why must it always be this way?'

When they made it back to the room she undressed and they went to the bed and lay together a while. She still had on her garters and stockings and her heels, and he started rubbing her stocking tops once again. Soon they were kissing, and minutes later she felt his hands on her penis, tentatively at first, then more insistently. She rolled onto her back, let him explore her world with his hands, then she joined him. They rubbed together, grasped her need and jacked her desire to flaming heights, yet when he moved down to take her in his mouth she pulled away, moved her face to his and they kissed until he grew sleepy, then she held him to her breast and let him fall asleep there, and she held him through the night, hopeful she had stopped him in time.

+++++

He seemed quiet the next morning, almost too quiet, but he helped her into the car and they were soon headed west on 90 – in unsettled silence, then north on 91 towards Brattleboro. He remained quiet, almost distracted, until they were back in the village. It was just noon, yet he drove into the little one car garage and stopped the engine. She helped him carry his new computers into the house, and stayed to help get them up and running, but he remained distant all the while. As she watched him she thought he seemed fragile now, almost like a very old man, then he went into his room and lay down. He was soon fast asleep, and she watched him for a while, unsure what to do. After an hour she got her bag and drove home, now full of her own despair. 

She wanted to run away as soon as she got back to this strange new place she now called 'home', but nothing felt like home. She felt alone, alone like she had all her life. Alone with a body that had betrayed her every step of the way. She wanted to run, and keep on running forever, because everything she touched seemed to turn to dust, and the permanence she yearned for eluded her soul like fast moving shadows of clouds crossing distant walls of cold stone.

She looked at her reflection in a mirror, lost in wonder at what she saw there, but having no idea, really, who that was staring back.

 Part II: November

Secord's bags were packed and in the back of the Audi, his laptop and folders full of essays to grade stowed in a small leather carry-on. He walked through the house once again, checked the thermostat was reset and the water off. He looked out the window at the bare trees and gray skies of an early winter and shook his head, hoped the forecast snow would hold off 'til he made it to Logan.

It was the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and school was out for the week; he'd been invited to give a presentation at the annual ASEAN security conference. This year's meeting was in Tokyo – and despite the limited time available he'd decided to go. He was an acknowledged expert on China's emergent naval presence in the region, and besides, the speaker's fees were simply irresistible. Even more worrisome, once the college had learned of the invitation, from Sharon Hastings no less, the pressure had risen dramatically that he go. His speaking was a feather in their cap after all, and now all the talk in the department was that his tenure was all but in the bag. 

So he was southbound on 91 lost in thought – again. One step ahead of his dreams, still running from Michele Lansing and the impossible dilemma of her existence. He thought of the last time he'd been on this road – back in August with her by his side – and how completely confused he'd been that day. And the night before.

It had taken weeks – weeks! – for him to get that night out of his mind. The utter madness of that night had pressed-in on him from all sides, until classes began and he was able to force all thought of her from his head.

He thought he'd picked up whispers of rumors about his involvement with Lansing on campus, but he soon put an end to that, and Sharon Hastings had been instrumental in the success of that little diversion. Soon after the leaves began turning he'd taken her on that drive up to Woodstock, and he'd fucked her so thoroughly he was sure any rumors would be squelched. Soon enough all the Lansing whispers melted away, and he was left in peace to conduct his classes. A tangled web indeed... 

Then a call from D.C. had come; he was wanted at the White House. Not full time, but to give periodic assessments to NSC staffers advising the new president. He'd talked to Hastings, his class schedule rearranged, and soon every other Wednesday he was on Amtrak's Vermonter headed to D.C. Then the ASEAN conference invitation came along, and after that everywhere he went on campus, students and faculty alike looked at him with something akin to awe. All remaining talk about Lansing was forgotten by then. All that remained of her came in his dreams.

Because he rarely saw her on campus, as it turned out. They taught in different buildings, and he never went anywhere near the student clinic, so all was good in that regard. Even so, when he drove through town he caught sight of her every now and then, and he felt the distant rumble of thunder course through his veins when he did. Still, life had taken on predictable patterns, and the comfort derived from this predictability had no doubt saved him from a serious depression.

Sharon Hastings had helped, too. She wasn't quite the most gorgeous woman ever, but her eyes were something else entirely, and after he'd confirmed that Dennis was indeed involved with a male student he'd thrown caution to the wind. She simply waited until late at night and then slipped in the back door, and they took care of each other night after night. She asked for nothing more in return, and was indeed prepared to give nothing more than comfort, and Secord appreciated the arrangement for what it was: release from, and denial of all things Lansing.

Soon he was negotiating the morning traffic headed into Boston, then pulling into the long term parking garage at Logan. He checked his luggage through and got his boarding pass at the American counter, then made his way to the Admiral's Club. He was scheduled to meet Gary Patterson in the Club at eleven; Patterson was a former NSC staffer at the White House like himself, now teaching at the Kennedy School – and another Asia specialist. He checked in at the Club counter and went back to a reserved lounge and waited. There were already a couple of Naval officers in the room, War College types he saw, and he shook hands with them before grabbing juice and taking a seat. 

He took out a folder and began reading through essays, checking off good points and specious arguments in purple ink, reading each essay at least twice, grading on the overall coherence of the arguments presented, and on the key supporting facts included. He found it engrossing work, and he was proud of the work he had read so far. These were good kids, he thought. Smart, interested, concerned about the direction the world seemed to be taking; many were probably bound for government service, and he took his role in this process seriously.

Patterson arrived and took a seat next to his, and Secord put away his papers and talked with his friend until their flight was called, then the group walked down to the JAL 777 together. They were all sitting in business class, and as soon as the plane was airborne most everyone settled in for the long, over-the-pole flight. Secord, however, pulled out his papers and resumed reading – purple pen in hand. When he looked up, hours later, it was dark out. He walked to the head, grabbed a glass of ice water from the flight attendant, and stretched his legs over and over again, hating these fourteen hour flights more than anything else on earth.

He returned to his seat and turned down the lighting, then lay back in his seat and there she was, waiting for him as soon as he closed his eyes. Her legs, those stockings and high heels, her hair tightly coiled, the unbridled lust that came for him whenever he let his guard down like this. He opened his eyes, flipped on the video and of course it had to be Lost in Translation. The dominatrix masseuse was walking in on Bill Murray, leg up on his lap now, telling him to 'lip my stockings!' again and again. Like most people, Secord liked the movie but had no idea what was going on most of the time, then it hit him. He opened his travel documents and found he was staying at the same hotel used in the movie, the Park Hyatt, and he laughed at that. He sipped his water while he watched the film, lost in the couple's unfulfilled parting in the final scenes once again, the deeper meaning of the film – if indeed there was any – still lost in translation.

The plane suddenly banked sharply and Secord came out of his reveries; he looked out the window and saw flames pouring out of the engine on the right wing.

"Now that's something you don't see everyday," one of the Navy officers in the row ahead said.

Secord watched silently as fire extinguishers discharged, and soon the 777 settled into a slower speed with a slightly more nose-up attitude while he listened to the running commentary from the aviators in the next row. 

The captain came on a while later, explained that there had been an incident, but that the aircraft was fine now, though their arrival would be delayed.

"Now there's a master of understatement," Secord said. "Maybe we should ask him to join us at the conference?" This prompted nervous laughter from the people within earshot, but the rest of the flight was uneventful, even the landing seemed almost normal – if you could ignore all the fire fighting equipment lining the runway... 

+++++

The Shinjuku Park Hyatt Hotel seemed a decent enough place to stay, Secord thought as he unpacked and stowed his clothing, but he was seriously jet-lagged now and could care less about the room. He hadn't slept one minute onboard, and the little 'incident' had bothered him more than he let on. A twin engined jet, hundreds of miles from land, losing an engine? He vowed to make sure he was on a four-engined jet next time he made this kind of trip, but now he just wanted to shower and go to bed. As soon as he lay down, however, she was there again, waiting for him.

He couldn't go on this way, he said to himself as he threw his clothes back on. He went up to the bar, but it was still early and the place was eerily quiet. 

"You tired?" he heard a woman ask, and he turned to the voice. "Or maybe you like to party now?"

Secord looked at this 'woman', but once he looked at her hands and shoulders he was sure the girl was a tranny. "Maybe some other time," he said politely, but he felt completely shook up inside at the irony of this unwanted appearance. He asked the cocktail waitress for a Bloody Mary, then settled in and looked at a wall of clouds rolling in from the sea. He watched the hooker as she worked the room; her all black attire was certainly fetching enough, he thought, but she really wasn't all that convincing – and he was surprised the hotel was letting someone like her work the bar. Maybe someone was taking a cut... 

One of the military types from his group was sitting across the room, and the hooker struck pay-dirt with this guy, an Air Force colonel. The colonel paid up and walked with the girl from the room, and Secord just shook his head, wondered how that would work out. His drink arrived about the same time Patterson did, and a pianist sat down at the huge Yamaha and began cranking out a passable Clair de Lune. 

"Any booze in that drink," Patterson asked as he sat down.

"Too much," Secord replied.

"Sounds like my kind of place." Patterson signaled for the waitress and asked for another "just like his", then he picked up an appetizer menu and fiddled through it. "Jesus H Christ. Twenty five bucks for a beer. This is worse than Norway."

"Oh, that's right. You went to the NATO conference in Oslo last summer. How'd that go?"

They talked shop for a while, each tossed down three drinks in about a half hour, then Secord left – sleep finally calling out for him like the sirens.

When he got down to his floor there were dozens of police officers hovering in the hallway; there had been, he assumed, an altercation of some sort. He showed his room pass and was allowed to go to his room, and when he passed the room where the trouble had occurred he looked in, saw the hooker dead on the floor, and the Air Force colonel ranting on the telephone. Secord shook his head and went into his room, slipped off his shoes and fell onto the bed, then onward, into a deep sleep. 

His phone woke him before dawn the next morning; he ate two aspirin as he crawled into the shower, and after dressing he went down to the restaurant for breakfast.

Patterson was already there, and he looked worse than Secord felt.

"I feel like a horse took a shit in my mouth," Patterson moaned.

"Smells like it, too. I told you the drinks were strong."

"Strong? There was sodium pentathol in that last one."

Secord groaned understanding. "I slept like the dead last night."

"You hear about Jennings yet?"

"Who?"

"The Air Force guy. Picked up a hooker at the bar. Turned out she was a he. He broke the fucker's neck."

"What?"

"Jennings killed the little cock-sucker!"

"What? Why?"

"Why? Fuckin' fag, I guess. That's why. The local gendarmes aren't pressing charges, either."

"You're kidding."

"I think trannies are considered a nuisance in Japan. Not like Bangkok, anyway. Also, I think the hotel wants everything kept quiet, too."

"I saw her. She tried to pick me up. Jesus, what a terrible..."

"What'd it look like?"

"It?"

"Yeah, fucking 'it'. If some tranny dude tried to pick me up, I'd fucking kill it, too."

"I see."

"So, was 'she' cute, Jordan?"

"Cute? No, not really. And she was obviously a trans. Hands way too big, I guess. But my guess is some guys wouldn't pick up on that."

"Well, they say a stiff prick has no conscience."

"Is that what they say, Gary?"

"Man, are you taking the hooker's side, Secord?"

"Side? Gee, I always thought murder is murder, Gary. And that was, at the very least, a human being, not an 'it'."

"You're beginning to sound like some kind of bleeding heart democrat, Secord. Maybe you've been in Vermont too long."

Secord laughed. "You might be right, Gary. So, what's on the agenda today..."

+++++

Secord thought about that exchange all through the conference, but never more so than when Jennings was around. He heard Jennings speak about it only once, but the man was full of righteous indignation and expressed total satisfaction at having killed the 'faggot'. Most of the attendees apparently felt the same way, too, and that bothered Secord even more, but he wasn't surprised. He wondered about the status of these people, wondered if their rights really were taken so lightly. Homophobes were legion, of course, but after that University of Georgia study was released he looked at frank homophobes differently now. The old Freudian saying that overt homophobes were more than likely latent homosexuals had been given new life after that revelation, but to Secord – murder was murder, as simple as that. If that hooker had tried to roll Jennings, well, that might change matters, but apparently all the kid did was pull down his shorts and bingo, light's out.

He watched Jennings as they boarded the return flight home, and there wasn't anything about the man that reflected regret or concern about having killed another human being. Secord's seat was ahead of the wing this time, and he settled in as the flight boarded, pulled out the last of the essays he needed to grade and got to work.

Jennings came and sat down in the seat next to his.

Secord looked at the man and shuddered inwardly, then got back to his papers.

"I liked your presentation, Secord," Jennings said. "You really think the Chinks are going to make a move on the Spratlys soon?"

Secord capped his pen, looked up at Jennings. "It's inevitable, Colonel. Look, like I said in my presentation, the United States had no direct interest in Vietnam, none at all, until Chevron and Standard Oil found – potentially – bigger oil reserves than in the entire Persian Gulf region – and right smack dab in the middle of the South China Sea. NSC-68 only changed our political calculus; we went to Vietnam to contain communism, not to preserve Exxon's access to that oil. But think about it; China isn't going to ignore all that oil, are they, and they're going to say that's because the region is really in their back yard. The problem is going to arise when the other claimants object to Chinese expansion into their perceived territories. These other claimants are all former SEATO member states, as you well know, and all were frustrated by that organization's systemic failures. But it's as a result of those failures, really, that we're going to get pulled into these confrontations – whether we like it or not. We need to prepare, now. No matter the cost. Because China will make a decisive move there within a few years."

Jennings nodded his head. "Have you briefed the Joint Chiefs on this?"

"Too many times to count, Colonel."

"Really? I'm surprised."

"You shouldn't be. Iraq was a gravy train. There was simply too much money available for the taking, and China doesn't yet appear to be a threat, and won't, until it's too late anyway."

"What do you think we need to do now?"

"A strategic shift to Asia. That's priority one. Two: get the Philippines to let us reopen Subic Bay. Get Japan off their fat, lazy asses. China will implode, eventually, just like Japan in the 30s. Access to resources will define how bad that implosion is, and how dangerous their reaction is globally."

"Could you come out to Colorado Springs sometime soon? We have a lecture series there I'd sure like to see address, so you can make this case."

Secord handed Jennings his card. "Just call me. Personal number on the bottom."

"Thanks. I guess you heard about all that bullshit at the hotel."

Secord's jaw clinched. "Sure did. Sounds like a bad time."

"I don't know what to think about the whole thing."

"You know what? She tried to pick me up too. Before she went to your table."

"No shit?"

"Had big hands, shoulders. I kind of figured she was a trans. You didn't pick up on that?"

Jennings looked away. There it was, he had... 

"So," Secord paused as he looked at the colonel, "what went down up there?"

"Interesting choice of words. He did, as a matter of fact. Are you sure you want to talk about this?"

"Maybe you need to talk about this," Secord shot back, "before it eats you up."

Jennings nodded. "It has been."

"I know."

"Has it happened to you?"

Secord nodded.

"No shit?"

"No shit, colonel. It fucks with your head, too. You'll start to ask why you ignored all the signs, you'll question your manhood, you'll look at your reflection in the mirror and wonder if you're gay..."

"I already have," the man whispered, looking down at his hands crossed over his lap.

"Well, that's just one part of the story, colonel. The other part is much harder to wrap your head around. Most of these transexuals aren't men, not in the usual sense of the word, anyway. And I'm convinced they're not simply gay men out for a thrill. Most think of themselves as women, and I think the case can be made that, by and large, they are women, women who like men. At the same time, I'm not so naïve as to think that's the case one hundred percent of the time. There are bad actors out there. Gays fucking with straight men's heads, and straight men cross the line without understanding the emotional risks...but I'm not sure there are really many encounters like that. I see most of these people as women now, women trying to make their way through life under very difficult circumstances."




Second Comings



"Look, I killed that kid. I completely lost it in there."

"Yes, you did. And you're going to have to deal with that, live with the knowledge that your own demons got the better of you. But you can learn from the experience, too."

"Something's wrong with out country, Secord. This stuff is becoming too mainstream."

"Wrong? Maybe, or maybe it's just change we're afraid of."

"What was that poem? The Second Coming? Something about slouching towards Bethlehem to be reborn?"

"Brilliant work," Secord said, "for a Nineteenth-century mind. But our world is changing so fast now, I wonder what he'd make of all this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, look at what we know now, just about genetics and biology as one example. The more genetic diversity an organism has, and by extrapolation, the more diversity a society has, the stronger it becomes, the more resilient it is to external destructive forces. And from a moral perspective, how can we claim to be a just society when we're willing to kill so many of our own children. Children who don't conform to one group's expectations? We kill off our diversity, perhaps our future strength, in the name of conformity to an absolutism many of us already question."

"I'm not sure I buy that."

"That's understandable. But change is going to come whether you buy into the idea or not, and history is a pretty good indicator that when religious absolutists try to hold back change the net result is only to hasten change."

"Don't you find the whole idea revolting, I mean..."

"I know what you mean. And accepting change doesn't mean you have to indulge in activities you find uncomfortable. I think it does mean we need to accept people who embrace change."

"Well, I'm a religious man, and I find it hard to reconcile..."

"Reconcile what? Picking up a prostitute? Killing another human being?"

Jennings looked angry for a moment, then pulled back. "So, you grading papers?"

"Yup. Final exams after I get back."

"Well, I'll leave you to it, but thanks for hearing me out."

"Any time. You've got my number."

Soon enough he was loading his bags in the back of the Audi, and glad he'd put studded snow tires on the little beast. The roads were ice-coated and a heavy snow was falling, and westbound traffic on the Pike was snarled by one wreck after another. He got back to the village well after dark, just eight hours before he needed to wake for his first class of the day, but as he pulled onto his street he saw Sharon Hasting's car sitting in front of his house, the engine idling, steam pouring into the air.

"Uh-oh," Secord said, the hair on the back of his neck now on full alert.

He pulled into the drive and stopped, and Sharon was opening the passenger door before he shut off the engine.

"What's happened," Secord asked, his heart full of beckoning dread.

"It's Michele. Look, Jordan, she tried to commit suicide Wednesday. Here's the note. No one's read it. Just me."

Part III: December

She was up in Hanover, at Dartmouth Hitchcock, but she was improving – or so Sharon related. She'd overdosed, then gone after her wrists for good measure, and would have succeeded had a student not dropped by unannounced. Paramedics got her to the local hospital just in time, but the docs there were ill-equipped to deal with the amount of vascular damage they found, and had her transported north as soon as she was stable enough to make the move.

Secord read the note once he was in the privacy of his house, and Sharon stayed with him while he crumbled in the aftermath. She'd heard about the incident as soon as it hit the campus grapevine, and then rushed to Michele's apartment and found the note on the floor by her bed. In the note Michele apologized for the harm she had caused Secord, blamed herself for the uncertainty she'd introduced into his life, and Sharon had filled in the blanks remarkably well after that. There was a long history of pain and denial on that page, and Sharon cried when she finished the note, unsure of her own feelings, and her own role in what had happened. Now she watched Secord as he struggled with his pain.

"What happened between you two?" she asked as she handed him a scotch.

"Enough," he replied. "But not as much as you think. I was pretty shook up after. Still am, I guess."

"Apparently she was too."

"I had no idea. I haven't seen her since August."

"Could I ask you a stupid question?"

He looked at her, shrugged. "Sure."

"Do you still love her?"

He tried to look away, but couldn't because of the sudden tears.

"I see," Sharon said. "Well, your last class is out at ten-thirty. Meet me here; I'll run you up to Hanover."

"I'm not sure I can go."

"You're going, Jordan. Be here, or I'll hunt you down and kill your ass." She laughed at that, came and gave him a hug. "You look like shit. Get to bed. I'll be here to get you going in the morning."

"Where's Dennis?"

"Skiing, I think, with his...friend."

"Oh, Sharon, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I've got you to take care of now, don't I?" She laughed again, then helped him to bed.

+++++

He had an appointment with the psychiatrist handling Michele's admission at DHMC, and was surprised when he was met by an ancient looking Chinese physician. The man looked seriously old, Secord thought, too old to be handling patients with such complex, volatile history's, but after spending fifteen minutes with the man he wasn't sure about anything anymore.

They talked, and after a few minutes with the old man, Secord handed over Michele's note, and he looked-on as the physician read the note carefully, before handing it back.

"What can you tell me about this encounter," the old man asked, and Secord spent several minutes retelling the series of events, including the most intimate aspects of that second night. The old man listened carefully, asked questions here and there but remained generally quiet as Secord led him through the affair. When he finished, the old man seemed genuinely puzzled.

"This second night together? You knew she was transexual at that point. Why did you proceed?"

"I'm not sure I know the answer to that question even now, doctor. Believe me, I've given it a good deal of thought, but all I can say is that there was something I felt when I was around Michele that was impossibly comfortable. I felt at ease around her, like I could tell her anything, but it was more than that. I was attracted to her. Strongly attracted to her."

"You refer to her in the past tense. Is that deliberate?"

Secord looked down, shook his head. "I'm not sure. I haven't felt the same way about life, about anything, after that night. I think I began to fall apart when I felt my inhibitions slipping away. She was the one who pulled back, you know. She pulled me back, kept me from getting so close to the edge. Still, when I thought about what happened, what I almost did, I came unglued. I was depressed for weeks after..."

"What you almost did? You mean being intimate with her?"

"I hope you understand that for a straight male, having what amounts to homosexual contact is a bit of a stretch, emotionally. Maybe that's too simple a way to express the idea..."

"Oh no, I understand completely, Dr Secord, but while your attitude may seem appropriate to you, you leave me with more questions than I had before. Why you chose to escalate this relationship, first knowing what you did about her, and also knowing your own feelings about such contact? It's very confusing, is it not?"

"Yes. It has been for me on many levels."

"You told her that night that you loved her. Is that correct?"

"Yessir."

"I wonder? Do you still?"

Secord looked away, looked out a window at low rolling hills far off in the distance. "The only answer I can give you at this point is that I can't get her out of my mind. I can't dream without seeing her. I can't walk to the car without thinking about her."

"That's not an answer, Dr Secord. That's an evasion, and if that's truly how you feel, you are indeed very conflicted. You ought to consider talking to someone about this, professionally. And soon."

"I see."

"Actually, I doubt you do see. You say things on the one hand that would lead any prudent observer to believe you had fallen in love with this woman, then you turned away from her, abandoned her, distanced yourself out of an alleged instinct for self preservation, yet you went into this encounter with open eyes. I'm sorry, but I hope you understand this makes no sense at all."

"I know. But you see, I was afraid."

"No, Dr Secord, I'm afraid you don't know. And fear? You feared an encounter of this sort yet you must have known this was going to happen, indeed, you encouraged the situation, then you abandoned this woman. Those are the actions of..."

"A monster. Yes, I know."

"Why do you keep saying that you know? Do you simply want to distance yourself from all responsibility? These are the words of a child."

Secord looked away. He looked at Patterson, and Jennings, and all the hate in the world masquerading as piety and self-righteous fury. Were we all still just children?

"I need to know, Dr Secord, do you want to help this woman? Do you care for her enough to set aside your own internal contradictions and reach out to her? Help her on the next part of her journey? I ask this now because if you do care, if you can reach out, I could use your help. At the same time, if you can't I'd like you to leave now. Leave, and never see her again. Do you understand what I'm asking of you?"

"I wish it was that simple..."

"But it is precisely that simple, Dr Secord. She is a human being. You either love her or you don't. You either accept her as she is or you don't. It really is just that simple." The old man came and put his hand on Secord's shoulder, looked him in the eye. "Love is a gift, doctor, but love, like many gifts, brings pain and suffering. Still, with pain comes growth. With love, I mean true love, there comes growth."

While the old man spoke, Secord walked from the elevator to his room in the Park Hyatt Hotel. He looked in Jennings' room at the broken, lifeless body on the floor, and he imagined Michele lying on the floor of her apartment, bleeding on her way to a cold and desperate death. Alone. 

"I understand," he said, finally.

"I need your help, and she desperately needs your help too. But again, do not waste my time. Please."

"May I see her now?"

+++++

The last of his final exams scored, Secord turned in his semester's grades at the registrar's office and then walked home – as always lost in thought. Sharon Hasting's drove by, honked and waved as she passed, and Secord waved back. She'd turned out to be such a good friend, was such a warm hearted soul. None of this would have been possible without her help, without her daily support. It was almost funny, he thought, the unexpected detours life throws in front of us from time to time, and the unlikely friends we meet along the way.

He turned down his street, managed not to slip on the icy sidewalk once again, only now the lights of Christmas trees lined his way into the evening. A light snow was falling, and hints of smoke from burning fireplaces carried him along through memories of other Decembers, other Christmases now a part of the past. His history, his journey through time, had taken many awkward detours, but none so troubling as the past few weeks. He'd learned so much about Michele, and himself, and the unexpected byways the human heart takes on it's journey to love.

He saw a faint wisp of smoke coming from his home's chimney, and he smiled at the sight. He stopped at his mailbox, collected the few letters he found there, then walked up the steps to the porch. He stopped there and looked in the window. 

Michele was sitting by the fire, a cup of tea in hand, looking at the Christmas tree the three of them had put up only last night, only hours after her release from hospital. White gauze still covered her wrists, and she was very pale, but he looked at her through the snow frosted glass and he knew she was meant to be with him now. There was no other way to explain this detour, this simple twist of fate, no way that made any sense, anyway. He accepted all that had happened, and the simple truth of acceptance seemed the best way ahead. Maybe she'd simply be a friend, he thought, or maybe a companion – or yes, maybe something more than a friend, but none of that mattered to him in that moment. He cared for her. That's all he understood, and accepting that had become the greatest gift he'd ever received. 

He looked at her a while longer, standing out there in blue winter light. He looked at her through layers of reflections within the window, through all the layers of his life. Nothing had prepared him for this, nothing ever could have. Love came, now he followed. She was pure, radiant warmth, lost once – lost and found again. He closed his eyes for a moment, thought about the ferocity of love, the sheer, brutal honesty of real love. He looked past this moment back into the maw of darkness, into the cold hearted world of hate that waited out there in the night, that he knew lies in wait for every man and woman, then he turned back to the door.

Warmth and light reached out to him, reached out and pulled him back from the darkness, just as Michele ran into his open arms. He held her close, ran his fingers through her hair, and he felt her warm breath on his cold skin. What a gift this moment in time was, he thought as she wrapped herself around his soul. He held her, and he smiled at the thought of her saving him once again.

It was Christmas Eve after all, and she was home. 

 (C) 2015 Adrian Leverkühn | ABW