18 comments/ 26417 views/ 1 favorites Still Life By: MungoParkIII Life was like that now, Harry, leafing through a magazine, would spot a photo of a single vase and lose himself into the image. The soft porcelain curve reminding him of his wife, a glimpse of her in bed, her naked body partially exposed from beneath the rumpled sheets. Looking closer at the photo in the magazine he would see more, the delicate folds of the solitary rose in the vase took him between her legs, his tongue gently opening the blossom and finding the nectar within. Sliding back on his empty bed, he would enter his vision, pressing his tongue deeper into the wet folds, savoring the tangy taste, breathing in the earthy scent of her. He would feel the soft skin of her thighs brush against him as she wrapped her legs over his back, raising her hips up to his face, grinding on him as she moaned loudly. In their early years together, she would come quickly and often, later it took much longer until his jaws would ache. In spite of the pain, he would continue carrying her into the trembling throes of her orgasm. After she came, Harry would pause, letting her wetness dry onto his face as he simply breathed in the humid, fragrant air between her legs. When they both had caught their breath and her trembling subsided, he would move upward, running his tongue through the dark, kinky pubic hair up over the curve of her belly and onto soft fleshy mounds of her breasts. Rolling his face over her hard nipples, he would slip them between his lips, run his tongue over them and feel the firm texture. Unable to hold off any longer, Harry leaned onto his back and imagining his cock slipping into her wet pussy, he wrapped his fingers around himself and began to gently stroke. Thinking of the moist softness inside her, he moved his hand up and down over his cock, almost feeling the soft folds of his wife open to him. He quickened his pace, remembering how she encouraged him, whispering, "Come on, yeah, give it to me Harry." Her voice would fire him as he thrust himself deep inside her, feeling his balls slap against her ass and seeing her breasts bounce jiggle with the impact. Lost in the image and sensation, Harry looked down at his cock, and seeing the purplish head disappear and reappear in and out of his fist, he would remember the sight of his cock slipping in and out of her. The pleasure jolted though him as he watched his cum spurt lightly over his fist and out into his pubic hair. Remembering the thrill he often had thinking of the cum he had left inside his wife, he reached over to the stainless steel toilet and unraveled some toilet paper to clean up. Dabbing the thick globs of cum from his hand and hair he dropped the paper into the toilet and pulled his pants back on. Picking up his magazine he laughed to himself. "All the other guys have porn and here I jack off looking at Architectural Digest and the paintings in art magazines," he said to himself a bit too loudly. "What's that Harry? You talkin' to me," came a voice from the next cell. "Nah Johnny, just talking to myself," he replied. Dropping the magazine onto the floor, Harry picked up his sketchpad and a pencil, continuing something he had been working on earlier. Trying to remember the shape of a pear, the way the sun reflected off the skin, the transition from shadow to bright light, the gentle feel of her skin... He tossed the pad to the ground in frustration and closed his eyes. Try as he might, he couldn't stay focused to sketch the image, any single image. The pad was full of unfinished drawings, a single vase with a flower, any number of different fruits, each one realistically shaded, precise in dimension, yet only half completed. It was always the same, regardless of the original image he started to sketch, it would be wrong, unbalanced. Sadly, Harry knew the problem, it seemed each time he started to work on the single image he would compose the page as if for a second image, a second fruit, a second vase. Each time the sensuous curves of his drawings brought his wife to mind, that second image was there goading him, haunting him. In his magazines he could find and study any number of individual images where the artist could focus on a singular fruit, a flower, a woman without anything more. But for Harry it was impossible, that other object, another fruit, that other person was burned forever into his consciousness. "Hey Harry, I heard they reduced your sentence," Johnny called out. "Yeah, some technicality; they think they can beat one of the decisions," Harry replied monotonously. "That's good man." "Good? They still got me for what I did to her." "Yeah, but now it's better, you might get out, especially with parole." "Parole?' "Yeah Harry, good behavior and all that, I mean you cause no trouble, that's got to mean something." "Johnny, for parole I have to have remorse, I have to show I'm sorry. I'm not sure I can do that." "Can't you fake it man..." "Fake it, not when I see it every day, it's burned in my head Johnny." "You really loved her." "I really loved her," Harry replied, his voice cracking. "Still man, they cut your sentence, there's got to be hope... somewhere there's hope." "No Johnny, don't you see? It's still life," Harry groaned, "It's still life." Still Life Christine was having trouble deciding whether or not she was dreaming. She was in a grassy field with no recollection of how she got there. The sky was going dark. She was, for some reason, dressed in nothing but a thin white gown that was almost transparent. An enormous willow tree drooped overhead. Nothing was familiar. Yes, it must be a dream, she thought, but she still wasn't sure. Everything felt solid and tangible. She could hear her heartbeat. The air was so crisp that it stung her throat when she inhaled; had she ever noticed her breathing in a dream before? Something rustled in the brush nearby. "Hello?" she said. Her voice sounded strange. It was like an echo coming out of her own mouth. "Is someone there?" More movement, but she saw nothing. She pressed her back against the trunk of the tree. It's all just a dream anyway, she thought. None of this can be real. I will wake up any minute. The sound of approaching footsteps through the tall grass was unmistakable now. The sky was going dark, and something was getting closer, and it was just as she felt the touch of an unseen hand at her throat that the scream welled up inside of her, and- *** Christine woke to sheets tangled around her body and staleness in her mouth. It was hot. Everything was damp with sweat. She kicked her way out of bed and stuck her head out the window. Three stories below she saw the pavement baking. She was sure she had been dreaming a moment ago, but now she couldn't remember anything about it. The clock told her it was ten thirty. She dressed without even knowing what she was putting on. Her mind was already on the thing that was waiting for her in the living room. She had been up all night working on the painting. She felt a little thrill when she saw the canvas: the scene showed a pale, blonde, nymph-like woman in a barely-there gown, lying in a green field under a rather dreary willow tree. She reclined on her side, head propped on one hand, chin tilted down, all daintiness and gossamer fabric and flowing hair. She looked (or at least, Christine wanted her to look) carefree and distracted. There was a second figure in the painting too, a lean but muscular man who was covered in shadows. He stood over the distracted nymph, apparently unseen, his posture hunched, one arm reaching toward her. His fingers were a few inches from her throat. The idea for the painting had come to her out of nowhere six weeks ago. One second it hadn't been there and the next it just was. Dazed by the sudden inspiration, she'd wandered for hours until finding an art supply store, where she spent hundreds of dollars on brushes, paints, canvasses, and other essentials. That very night she had drawn her concept sketch, and then made her first attempt at the real thing. Disliking the result, she had tried again the next day. Christine had painted the same scene over and over, day after day, for weeks, but it was never quite good enough. The rejected versions were stacked by the dozens all over her apartment. She considered the new painting from every angle. It still wasn't right. She had fixed the problems with the woman's proportions, but she still didn't like her face, which didn't seem to express anything. And there was something off about the man too. He should be darker, to set him apart from the woman's paleness. And something about the way he was reaching out? Was he going to touch her or strangle her? She couldn't tell. She frowned. The male figure had always made her uncomfortable. Sometimes she was afraid to turn her back on him. This one was an improvement, she decided, but still not good enough. She'd have to start over. That would mean buying another canvas, and they were expensive, but if she just let the cable bill go for the month she could afford it. A few weeks without television would probably be good for her anyway. Her phone beeped, telling her she was going to be late. She had cancelled all of her recent appointments to afford more time for painting, but there was still one meeting she couldn't miss, even now. Just try not to think about it she told herself as she grabbed her purse. Just as she got to the front door, there was a knock, and she jumped. Settle down Christine, she thought. "Who is it?" she said. No one answered. She fumbled with the knob. "I'm sorry, but you caught me just as I was leaving. Maybe we can-" No one was there. She looked in both directions. No one in sight. She realized she was holding her breath and exhaled all at once. She looked back into her apartment as she was closing the door. If something had been there, she thought, I would have let it in just now. Now I'm locking it inside. It will still be waiting for me when I get home. Stop it, she thought. You're making yourself late. She put one foot in front of the other and resisted the urge to turn around. Instead she thought about the painting. The cool green field relaxed her almost immediately. Behind her eyes, it was perfect. She wanted to put that perfection onto the canvas. She wanted it so much she could hardly breathe. Maybe tonight would be the night. Maybe tonight she would finally make it perfect. She would start as soon as she got back. She just had to do this one thing first. *** "No," said David. "Don't say it. Don't say 'I'm sorry I'm late.'" Christine slid into the booth, where a cesar salad was already waiting for her. "I'm-" "A wonderful person without a thought in her head, yes, I know, which is why I've already ordered for you, and look, here it is. Wine?" "It's not even noon?" "That's why I'm drinking white. Is that blood on your sleeve?" Christine looked down. "It's paint." "Redoing the living room?" "No," Christine said, poking at her salad. David looked tired, but David never exhibited the same marks of exhaustion that made other people unattractive when they became run down. It was one of the things about him that annoyed her the most. "You look-" he started, and she jumped to cut him off. "You look exhausted!" she said. "Is it the job?" "Oh God!" He made a big gesture of putting his head in his hands, and she took a bite to disguise her smile. "It's slow death. I feel like I've been there for a million years." "It's been three weeks." David pantomimed stabbing himself with his fork. "Why am I doing this?" "The money, I thought." "Oh no, of course not, people who only do jobs for the money are sell outs. I'm doing this because I have an all-consuming love for patent law, right?" Well it would be nice if you loved something, she thought, but chose to stuff her mouth full of croutons rather than say it. They lapsed into silence for a few seconds. "I'm glad you came out," he said. "I've missed you." "I've missed you too," she said, moderating her tone. "I was surprised when you called me." "I don't know why. We agreed to be friends. Friends see each other, from time to time." "Yes, but after last time-" "Let's not talk about that." More silence passed. Christine mentally composed dozens of statements about David, herself, and the general state of the world, then discarded each of them in favor of extending the silence. David cleared his throat. "Okay Christine, you were late after you swore you never would be again, and that means it's time. It's time for the question." "No!" Christine said, wincing as she swallowed. "I'm sorry, but as per our agreement, you must hear me out." "I never agreed to that!" "I agreed for you." "For the last time, I'm not interested." "Troy is a great guy, I don't see why you won't at least meet him." "Because I said no, I've said no repeatedly, and that's just the end of it. I don't see why you think this guy is SO right for me. Just because he's a doctor-" "Intern. And he's thinking of quitting. That's all got nothing to do with why I want to fix you up." "Non-doctor then. I think I can find a non-doctor on my own, if I wanted one." "Christine, I worry about you. You haven't worked in six months, you haven't dated anyone in a year-" "That's not true! I go on dates all the time." "One night stands who you never see again." "I'm playing the field. There's nothing wrong with that. You did," she said, sounding more hostile than she meant to let on. "When was the last time you talked to someone other than me?" Christine scowled. "I don't keep track. Correct me if I'm wrong David, but I thought you no longer had a controlling interest in my love life?" "I'm not trying to control you, I just thought-" "Well stop thinking." "Christine, you don't-" "Don't say that! Don't say 'You don't know what you want,' I hate it when you say that." "Alright, fine, I'll drop it. So," he said, switching gears without a pause, "what is this about painting?" Christine hesitated. Almost any change of topic would have been welcome, but somehow she didn't feel comfortable telling David about the painting. "It's just something I'm doing," she said. "Since when?" "A while ago. I wanted to try it out." "I didn't know you were interested in art." "Maybe there are lots of things you don't know about me." "I'm having trouble believing there's even this one." Christine sighed and closed her eyes, and as soon as she did she saw it again: the grass, the tree, the woman, and the dark man. The scene fluttered in and out of view as fast as she blinked. "You look like you have a headache," David said. Christine opened her eyes. "I do, all of a sudden." "Do you want something for it? I have-" "No, it's okay. I'll do something about it when I get home." Christine's fingers curled around the brush she wasn't holding. "You know who I heard from the other day? Trina. She's pregnant, apparently. Eight weeks along and due in August. You remember that guy Eric? He's the father. I thought we should all get together sometime." Christine nodded, but she wasn't listening anymore. She was looking out the window, squinting against the bright light. There was a tree across the street, with a bent trunk. A willow tree? Had it always been there? She had never noticed it before. "I have to go," she said. "Now?" he looked down at his wrist for the watch he no longer ever wore, like he always did. Christine stood, went for the door, remembered her purse, found it, then went for the door again. "It's this headache. I really have to go David, I'm sorry." "It's okay," he stood as if to follow her, but stayed where he was. "If you want I can call later and-" But she was already gone. *** She went straight to the art supply store, then home, and then she painted for eight hours straight. Her fingers were sore from gripping the brush, and the chemical fumes had stung her eyes pink. Her back and knees ached from standing in one spot so long. She barely made it to the couch before passing out, and there she slept, curled into a ball, hands still spotted with paint. She closed her eyes and- She was in a grassy field, under a willow tree. The breeze was mild, and she felt it tickle through the sheer fabric of her gown. She wondered, briefly, where she was, but soon stopped caring. Something rustled in the brush nearby. "Hello?" she said. She squinted, but it was too dark to see anything. "Is someone there?" Silence, then the sound of a branch breaking. "Hello?" she said, louder. "Please don't go. Who are you?" She jumped when a voice came from only a few feet away, although she could see no one. "I thought I'd frightened you," it said. Christine spun around. "Only just now," she said. "Not now. Last time." It was a man's voice, but it was soft and slightly hoarse. "Last time? I don't remember-" she stopped in mid-sentence. "Wait...I remember. I felt something touch me?" "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to hurt you." The uncertainty in the voice almost made her laugh. Whoever he was, he sounded like a grade school boy asking a girl out on a date for the first time "You didn't hurt me. I was just surprised. And I didn't know what was going on. And I still don't. Where are we?" "We're dreaming," said the voice. "I am?" "We are, you and me both. I dream for you all the time." "You dream about me?" "Not about you. For you." Christine frowned. "Where are you? Aren't you going to come out?" "If you would like me to. But I warn you, you might find me..." "Frightening?" she said, and laughed. "If it's all that bad, I can just wake up." "As you wish," the voice said, and then someone was sitting just three feet away. It was a man who was barely older than a boy, with a narrow face, large brown eyes, and long, unruly hair. His naked body was lean but muscular, and his complexion was a strange dark grey. When he shifted his position a little she saw that rather than feet, he had hooves. He ducked his head, blushing. "I must look terribly ugly to you," he said. Christine wasn't sure how to respond, but after a few seconds she came out with the truth: "Not at all! I think you're beautiful. Strange, very strange, but beautiful. I just don't...that is to say, I'm not sure...what are you?" "That is a very difficult question to answer," he said. "Just know that I am your most devoted servant, and that I've spent many, many years dreaming about the moment when we would finally be together." Christine blushed. His words were halting, but there was an earnestness about his expression that made her believe them. She touched his cheek with the tip of two fingers. She was amazed by how hot he felt, and by the rough texture of his skin. "Are you sure this is a dream?" she said. "It feels so real." "Only in dreams do perfect moments like this happen. Only in a dream could I talk to you, or be touched by you. If this were real, you would hate me." "I'm sure I wouldn't," she said, not moving her hand. "What's your name?" "Komos." "Well Komos, I don't know where you got that idea, but I'm sure I would never do any such thing." "Ah, that's what they always say, in dreams." Christine laughed. "This is a dream, isn't it? I keep forgetting. "And if it's a dream, then...I suppose I can do anything I want." She cupped her hand against his cheek and, acting before she had even thought about it, she kissed him. His lips were rough and coarse, and they were hot, so hot that she thought she might be burned. Rather than pull away, she pushed closer, turning her initial, hesitant kiss into a fuller, deeper one. The heat of his mouth made her lips tingle. At first he was perfectly still, body rigid, and then he began to tremble. When she laced her fingers behind his head, running them through his long, luxurious hair, he sprang to life, wrapping his arms around her so tightly that she gasped. He was incredibly strong, and for a second she was afraid she would be crushed, but then she relaxed, realizing that he was not using enough force to actually hurt her. The translucent gown she wore did very little to separate them. The contours of her body hugged his, breasts crushed against his chest as he pulled her into him. The surface of his skin was so hot that she began to sweat immediately. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her lips still pressed against his, her tongue nearly cutting itself on his sharp incisors when she slid it into his mouth. He pressed his mouth to the side of her neck, rough lips massaging her soft, sensitive flesh a few seconds before his sharp teeth sank into her throat. She clung to him, head lolling to one side, eyes rolling as she moaned while the sharp edge of his tongue lapped at the bruised red mark his teeth had left behind. It took all of her strength to push him away even for a second. His shyness and boyish hesitancy were gone, and it was all she could do to keep him at bay now. She smiled, then turned and, glancing at him over her shoulder, went down to all fours, arching her rear into the air and wiggling her hips back and forth. The sharp point of one his nails pressed between her shoulder blades. His fingertip traced along the curve of her spine, shredding the flimsy fabric of her gown until it slipped away and off, leaving her naked and trembling in the tall grass. She gasped when his hands took her hips, dragging her an inch or two back toward him. He leaned over, kissing the nape of her neck, burning lips gliding over her bare shoulders, sharp edges of his tongue and teeth pricking her naked flesh. She ached whenever he pushed against her. His hands slid down the sides of her body and up to cup her breasts as they swung underneath her with the rhythm of her squirming, gyrating hips. He squeezed, once, and her knees went weak. Pinching pressure on her swollen nipples made her head swim, and she bit her lower lip in an increasingly futile bid not to cry out. She wanted to direct him, but didn't dare. She heard his hungry panting as his hands wandered across the curves of her body, seemingly testing how much she could take. He was as hot as a furnace now and she thought she might catch fire under his touch. There was a throbbing ache at the center of her and a wetness between her thighs that he couldn't possibly miss. Ever other second she let out a tiny, panting gasp as he continued to fondle her. After a few helpless, panting minutes never being able to form a word, she finally managed to push out in a single, breathless exhalation: "Please..." Then he took hold of her, one hand on her hip and the other gripping the hair at the back of her head, pulling so hard that she screamed and then screamed again as he entered her and then began to thrust violently, almost painfully against her sex. It was impossible to measure the passage of time in a dream. Minute, hours, days, Christine had no way of knowing how long this went on, her body bowed underneath his, the steady, mechanical, pumping rhythm of his cock rocking her back and forth, over and over again. She imagined that, in reality, they would both have passed out from exhaustion long ago, but here there was no limit. Untethered from the world, Christine was plunged into an ocean with no bottom. Komos was a raw, raging torrent pouring himself into her. She shook, gasped, moaned, screamed, panted, clawed, swore, sweated, bit, writhed, and ached to the cues he provided. He held her hand, pushed her over the edge, and then caught her, just barely, before she struck bottom. She forgot everything except bliss. After, he lay with his head in her lap as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Komos?" she whispered. "Yes?" "Is this really just a dream?" "Yes." "Are you real?" "In some ways." "I wish I could be with you when I was awake." "You can." She blinked. "How?" "I'll come for you when you're finished." "Finished?" "When you're finished calling for me." "I don't understand?" He rolled over to face her. "You will." Then he was gone, vanished right out from under her. "Komos?" she said, standing. "Where did you go?" There was no answer. The wind was blowing harder now, and it had grown cold. The boughs of the tree leaned in the dark. A few drops of icy rain spattered her bare skin. And then- *** It was the pain in her hands that woke Christine up. In the dull, fumbling state just after waking, she couldn't place what was wrong. Then she realized that in her sleep she had balled her hands into fists in her sleep, and her nails had dug crescent-shaped gouges in her palms. She was stiff from spending all night slumped on the couch. The flotsam of a particularly vivid dream floated across her mind, then disappeared. She sleepwalked to the kitchen. It was a sweltering day again, so she decided to forgo hot coffee in favor of the cold pot left over from last night. Her stomach growled and she realized that she hadn't eaten anything since the salad at lunch yesterday. In fact, she wasn't sure if there was even any food in the house? Still Life But then she saw the painting and forgot about everything else. It was almost perfect this time: the glade looked fresh and alive, the sky was the faintest shade of blue, streaked with orange, and the reclining nymph now appeared suitably enchanted by her surroundings, lost in her own little world. The shadow man was a shadow no longer, now solid and real. His hunched pose as he reached toward the nymph reminded Christine of the leering gargoyles in old churches. By some trick of the light, the shadow man's chest appeared to rise and fall with heavy breaths. She was sure that if she touched it the canvas would feel warm, like the body of an animal. She put her hand out... A knock on her door broke the spell. She jerked her hand back. For some reason, her heart was pounding in her chest. If she had touched it... A knock again, louder. "Just a minute!" she called. She was being silly, of course, and letting her imagination run away with her again. The painting wasn't even that good, she decided. Better than the last, better than an amateur like her had any right to expect, but still not good enough. She had another canvas, she would work on it tonight. She needed more paint, she decided, as she made her way to the door. Her palette wasn't wide enough, that was the problem. The scene itself was finally right, but the colors were off. If she could just get the color right, it would be perfect. Impatient knocking for a third time, and Christine bellowed "Hold on!" just as her hand closed around the knob. The door swung open onto an empty hallway. She peered out in both directions. No one in sight. "Hello?" she said, and her echo chased itself down the hall. Just as she was turning back, something caught her eye; on the carpet, just outside the door, a black mark she didn't remember ever seeing before. She got down on her knees to look at it. It was a splotch of black paint, in the shape of an oval. No, not an oval, she realized. She leaned in even closer, scrutinizing it from a few inches away. It was a hoof print. *** In her rush to the get to the art store she had forgotten her phone. The message alert greeted her when she got back in. There were two voicemails, the first from David: "Hi, I just wanted to let you know I'll be at the office until five, you can call me here if you want to yell at me." She frowned. Then the second message played: "Uh, hi, Christine, my name is Troy Owens, I'm a friend of David's. This is a little awkward because I don't usually do this kind of thing, but David told me all about you and, well, he thinks we'd really hit it off..." That was all she heard before the droning pulse of her own anger drowned out everything. Her hand shook as she dialed David's office. He answered in the middle of the first ring. "No, this is not because I feel guilty," he said. She was momentarily stunned, and in the face of her silence he kept talking. "That's what you were going to ask, right? Am I trying to play matchmaker because I feel guilty about our breakup? Well no, I'm not." "You asshole!" "I knew you'd be angry, but I thought this was the only way to give you the push out the door that you needed. You never know what you want, Christine." "You UNBELIEVABLE asshole, how dare you?" He didn't seem to hear her. "I'm not going to lie Christine, I'm worried about you. You're in danger of becoming a shut-in. And, honestly, Troy is a great guy, but he needs someone to shake him out of his rut too. I saw the both of you and I thought how much you'd both enjoy meeting, so if I have to take a more active hand in getting you together then that's what I'll-" "Shut up! You had absolutely no right to go and do that after I repeatedly told you not to! For you to sit there and give me this smug, condescending bullshit about knowing what's best for me when you didn't give a damn what was best for me ever, EVER the entire time we were dating is just so...so...YOU!" David sighed. "You have to get over me sooner or later Christine." The phone landed somewhere near the bathroom door. Christine stuck her head out the window, taking deep breaths to avoid bursting into tears. She hated him. She hated the sound of his voice, she hated his smug face, she hated the worn-out shoes that he always wore and the fact that he put honey in his coffee and- The phone rang again. "You are STILL an asshole!" she screamed into the receiver. "Um, hello?" Another declaration of "asshole" died at the back of her throat. "Hello, is this Christine?" She swallowed hard. "Yes. Yes! I am so, so sorry about that, I thought you were-" "Yes, I know who you thought I was, I was just telling him that same thing myself. This is Troy Owens again, I just got done talking to David. I'm calling to apologize, I had no idea that he had given me your number without your permission." Christine took a few more deep breaths.. "It's alright. I mean, I know it wasn't your fault. David can be so pushy when he thinks he's right, and you just got caught in the middle of it." Troy sighed, and although she had no idea what he looked like, she could picture his long-suffering expression. "Yeah, I know it. He's been pushing me about this for weeks, and I kept telling him I wasn't really interested-" "Me too!" "I mean, nothing personal, it's not about you, I don't even know you. I mean, that's the point of course, but-" "No no, I completely understand." "I finally gave in just to get him off my back. Not that I'm saying that dating you is only preferable to constant harassment." "If you were to say that, I'd probably agree. David would definitely agree." There they both tried to decide if it was acceptable to laugh. It was. "Wow," he said, "so neither of us wanted anything to do with each other?" "Not a thing. I won't be offended if you aren't." "What if I am?" "That's okay, I reserve the right to be a little offended even when I say I'm not. Woman's prerogative." "I think I want to go back to the harassment." "Too late, you already made the call." "I'm being punished for one mistake?" "Two mistakes. You called me back. You're calling me back right now. This is the call." "Ah yes, the old two strikes law, I think my parents used to use that one." "I know, I called them and asked." Christine frowned. She should not be talking to him like this. "Called my parents before we'd even talked huh?" "I was checking if you were good stalking material. Afraid you didn't make the cut." "There's some sort of tailoring pun to be made here about cutting 'stocking material', but my better instincts tell me to avoid it." "That sounds like the first time today that your better instincts have worked out." She realized she was smiling and scolded herself. Another pause. They both tried to talk at once, then she let him go ahead: "Of course," he said, "If we were ever to meet up, even once, it would validate all of David's unethical methods." "Yes, I suppose it would." "So even if it seemed like a good idea, we could never do it." "Nope. We'd never hear the end of it." "Right. Kind of a shame though." "David really knows how to spoil a good thing." She was counting down silently in her head. "He does. Of course," she could almost hear him summoning up his courage, "if we were to meet and then hate each other, that would be the ultimate repudiation." "It would, wouldn't it?" "Because then everything he did would have been for nothing." "And he would realize once and for all that he doesn't know us as well as he thinks he does." "Right. Almost sounds like a plan, doesn't it?" "It does." "So it's agreed, we'll meet up once, just long enough to realize how bad we are for each other, and then we'll never speak to each other or to David again." "Except to harass him about how bad we got along." "Right, except for that." "And it will be entirely about petty, passive-aggressive revenge, right? Nothing more than that." "Nope, nope," he said. "That's all there is to it." "Well good." "Do we have time to hate each other tonight?" She looked at the bag of paints and the easel in the next room. "Well, I had plans, sort of...but I can cancel them." "Why don't I call around and make some reservations? That way you'll at least get a decent meal out of this tragic, ill-fated meeting." "My, how considerate. It's a shame we're not going to hit it off at all." "Well, we can't. It's a matter of principle." "That's right," she said. "I almost forgot. Principles are important, of course." *** "Help me unzip this," Christine said, pulling Troy's hands around her waist to the zipper on the back of her dress. She stood on the tips of her toes so that her mouth could reach his neck. He must have shaved in a hurry, because tiny, coarse bristles tickled her lips when she kissed him. She exhaled in relief as the tight dress loosened and slid halfway down. "It'd be a shame if you really quit the hospital," she said. "You have a surgeon's hands." The tips of his fingers grazed the bare part of her back. "I'm not that kind of doctor," he said. "You're not any kind of doctor from what I hear, but don't spoil my happy illusions. She leaned up even higher, trying to kiss his earlobe. For the record, she thought as she kissed him again and they both tumbled onto the bed, I am only doing this to get back at my ex. It's not because I have any sort of genuine interest in this man at all. If I did, then I would probably never live it down. So instead, as far as the official story goes, this is about me using him to work out my anger at a third party. Anything else you might hear is malicious slander. Christine sat up just enough to wriggle out of her dress, then kicked it to the floor. Stripped down to bra and panties, she sat on the edge of the mattress, fumbling in the dark with Troy's belt. He tried to help and she batted his hands away playfully. There was a satisfying click when it gave way, and she pulled it off in one motion. She heard him grunt and realized she must have given him some friction burn when she did. Oh well, she thought, I'm sure I'm about to make up for it. "You like to take it fast," he said as she tugged his pants down his hips. "Keep up," she replied, leaning forward and, using her hands to guide in the dark, pressed her mouth to the tip of his cock. Spreading her lips, she kissed it wetly just below the head, extending the tip of her tongue and tracing a tiny, close circle along the shaft. She heard him swallow whatever he was about to say. She continued to tease him, licking her lips to wet them and then trailing open-mouthed kisses down his cock, stopping at the base and then tracing all the way back up with the tip of her tongue. She completed this circuit three or four times, listening for that distinct change in the pitch of his breathing that let her know when he was on edge. When she finally heard it, she responded by swallowing the head into her mouth, sliding her lips down and around it, then pursing them tightly. His shudder was extremely gratifying. Christine wrapped her arms around his legs, tickling the backs of his calves as she swirled her tongue around and around the head. She tasted a stray drop and opened her mouth wider, sliding down him, letting him feel the hot, wet, soft touch of her lips gliding over one inch at a time. She stopped halfway and bobbed her head, swallowing, and his hips bucked a little, almost on command. She liked that he was responsive. It invested her with an urge to toy with him. For a long time she continued to provoke him by never taking the full length into her mouth, always stopping just halfway down and tickling his shaft with her tongue, pursing her lips to make an obscene but gratifying sucking noise. In the dark she could hear the faint sound of his hands knotting the sheets. Come on Troy, she thought, just show a little initiative and it'll pay off... Deciding he needed a bit more motivation, she cupped his balls in her hand and gave a gentle squeeze at the same time she ran her tongue around the rim of his cock. This finally elicited the reaction she wanted; Troy tangled his fingers in her hair and pushed down once, hard, at the same time that he thrust with his hips. Good boy, she thought, opening wide and taking him all the way in, gagging slightly as he came to the entrance of her throat. Now she let him set the pace, responding to the touch of his hand on the back of her head and the increasingly needful, rhythmic thrusting of his hips. She adjusted the pressure of her lips, gently gliding across the sensitive skin of his shaft. She tasted a hot, sticky dribble on her tongue, and decided it was time to move to the next step. Pushing away, she slid further back onto the bed, the springs groaning under her, pulling him along, so that he almost fell down in the dark. They lay in a tangle, her limbs twined around his, her lips seeking and finding the ridge of his ear, kissing, then whispering: "Well come on; show me what you have for me..." He didn't respond for a few seconds, and at first she worried she might have miscalculated. Then, in one motion, his right hand pulled her head back by the hair so hard that her back arched, just as his left hand grabbed a fistful of her panties and pushed them aside. All at once he was on her, pinning her, and then inside of her, the hot, tight confines of her cunt accepting him. She gasped, shocked at the sudden, violent force of it, but before she had time to recover he was moving again, thrusting up into her, rocking back and forth. She purred: "Mmmmm. Good Troy. Just like that..." Later, she half-dozed naked in his arms, and when he switched the lamp on she felt warm and satisfied at the sight of his boyish face and blue eyes. They lay and talked for another hour, her head on his chest, then he had to leave for an early shift at the hospital. She promised she would call him and realized that unlike all the other men she had said that to that this time she probably would. She was still smiling when she opened her front door, but the smile soon collapsed into a scowl. She hadn't realized how dreary this place had become, or how stuffy it felt. And it was a mess! Boxes and bags and art supplies everywhere! She looked at the painting as she went by, and tsked. How could she have spent so much time on something so ugly, she wondered. She particularly disliked the shadowy man's face now. I guess I'm just not meant to be an artist, she thought, setting the canvas aside and collapsing the easel. What on earth am I going to do with all this? Throw it out, she supposed. She'd worry about it tomorrow. It was nearly five AM now. She had just barely enough time to undress and land on the mattress before sleep caught up with her, and then- Drops of icy rain fell on her through the boughs of the tree. She huddled underneath it, and heard Komos' voice mixed with the wind. "You've been with someone else." She blinked, looking around for him. "Komos? Where did you go?" "Where have you been?" "I don't know what you mean! I was right here, and then you were gone, and then-" she stopped. She was dreaming again, she realized. What had she done while she was awake to make him sound so angry? And how did he know? "Who is he?" Komos' voice was vacant, like someone who has been so angry for so long that he can't summon up the effort anymore. Christine leaned against the tree trunk. "I don't know," she said. "What does it matter anyway? This is just a dream." There was silence for a while. Then: "Just a dream?" "Wait, I didn't mean it like that. All I meant was-" "Just a dream. Fine. Then we'll see exactly what a dream can do." And then he was gone, and she was alone, in the dark and the rain. *** She woke to pounding on her door. "Not this again!" She dressed in a hurry, bare feet kicking through the disaster area in her living room. Heads would roll if she ever found out who was doing this every morning (or afternoon, according to the clock?). She flung the door open, expecting to find the usual empty hallway, and nearly fainted when instead there were two strange men on her doorstep. The oldest of the unfamiliar pair held something up to her face. It was a badge. "Miss," he said. "We'd like to have a word with you." Am I still dreaming, she wondered. Out loud she said: "What is this about, exactly?" "This is about Troy Owens and David Sanderson. If you haven't heard already, then I think maybe you ought to sit down." For the next fifteen minutes she let their words wash over her, seemingly disconnected sentences and phrases drifting by, occasionally breaking through the fog of shock: "...both found dead between the hours of five AM and six AM..." "...separate incidents, but we have reason to believe they're related..." "...apparently you were one of the last people to speak with both victims..." "...friends say that David was upset over a fight the two of you had yesterday..." "...doesn't look like a break-in. In fact, it looks like they both just opened the door for their attacker..." "...blunt-force trauma to the head. We'll spare you the details, but suffice to say..." "...I'll be frank, I've seen a lot of murders, but never anything like this. There was... an unusual amount of force used. A very unusual amount of force..." "...if you can remember anything either of them said that might give us an idea why someone would do this..." "...we realize how you must feel right now, but the early stages of an investigation are the most important. If you can remember anything, anything at all..." Christine said nothing until the detectives were getting ready to leave. "We can see that you're not in any condition for this right now," one of them said. "And that's understandable. We'll come back. In the meantime, if there's anything you want to tell us-" "Did you find any kind of mark on the floor?" she asked, the first words she had spoken in some time. "Something like this?" She traced a hoof print in the dust on the coffee table. Neither detective answered, but the look that passed between them told her what she needed to know. The younger one (she had forgotten their names already) appeared particularly troubled. "Why do you ask?" he said. "I found a mark like that painted on the floor outside my door yesterday. You walked right by it when you came in." They both sat back down. "We can't give out specific information about the crime scenes," said the older one, "but, hypothetically, do you think that this mark might be a message or a threat of some kind? Do you have any idea who might have put it there?" Christine tried to answer, but instead she started crying. She cried and cried and every time she tried to talk she only cried more, because all at once she was remembering things that had been said to her in dreams. The detectives told her they would be back, and that there would be officers watching her apartment tonight. They were sure she wasn't in any danger, they said, but it was a basic precautionary measure. They told her they were sorry about what had happened. Christine could read the looks that passed between them, the ones that said: Well, if she's dead by tomorrow, that means she didn't do it. She locked the door as soon as they were gone, and then she sat, and thought. She remembered something now, something that someone told her in a dream: "I'll come for you when you're finished calling for me." And then she knew what to do. Christine set up the easel. She gathered up the supplies she had bought the previous day, and the one blank canvas she had left. Her fingers were still bruised and calloused from all the hours spent with a brush in hand, but she picked one up anyway and, careful not to think about what she was about to do, she started to paint. Still Life It took her all day, but when she finished, it was perfect. As it grew dark outside, she went to the closet and took the box down from the top shelf, the one her father had insisted that she take when she moved to this neighborhood. For emergencies, he said. Then she sat, staring at the painting, drinking wine, and waiting. At midnight, there came a knock on her door. She heard something scraping against the floor outside. As she reached for the knob with one hand, she gripped the gun in the other. The hinges squealed. "Hello?" she said. There was a dark shape on the threshold. It stirred. "Christine. You finished it. You called me." Her heart battered the inside of her chest. "Yes," she said. "I did." She kept the hand with the gun hidden behind the door. "I knew you would," said the shape. "Now we can be together, forever." Fear sweat broke out over her body. Her voice quivered when she spoke: "What do you mean?" "I'll take you away from here, and after you're gone people will find your beautiful painting, and they'll put it on display, and it will be us, we two, together forever, in that perfect scene that you made, just like in our dreams. It'll be like you always wanted." She took two steps forward, but kept the doorway between them. "Is that what I wanted?" "Yes. It's why I chose you." Fresh tears blurred Christine's vision. "You know," she said, "a man I used to love always told me that I never know what I want." And then she pointed the gun at the shadows, and pulled the trigger. Still Life The floor was cold against her bare feet. Goosebumps covered her skin as she stood there waiting. She shifted her weight from one side to the other nervously and pulled the robe in tighter as if someone was going to snatch it away from her. Through the door she could hear his muffled voice speaking to the class. His familiar tone was steady and strong. She tried to focus on him and not the sounds of the students. Paintbrushes and pencils clicking together. Easels being placed on tripods. Wooden stools scratching across the linoleum floor. For a moment she felt like running. Turning around and not going through with it. She paced back and forth in the small room as if to try and give herself a running start to flee. Suddenly she heard his voice getting closer. She could see his arm moving for the door knob through the small, frosted glass window. It was too late. No time to run. Taking a deep breath in she tried to collect her senses. The knob started to turn and the door swung open. Bright light flooded in, forcing her to squint momentarily. And as her eyes adjusted she saw him standing in front of her. His hand reaching out and took a hold of hers, guiding her to the forward. Lights hung from the ceiling and shone brightly on the small stage where she was to stand. Fear began to grip her, but the soft touch of his hand seemed to somehow give her the strength to keep walking. To put one foot in front of the other one step at a time. The soothing sound of his voice as he continued to speak to the class she was unable to see. Nothing but shadows in a dark room to her. Her feet finally found the stage as she stepped up and looked out across the dark room. She felt his hand slip away from hers and she turned around. Wanting to see his comforting gaze one last time. But he had already disappeared into the dark edges of the room. She stood there on the bright stage. Alone. And then she heard him say. "Then let us begin." He called out her name like she had heard him do so many times before in his bedroom. It was their little secret, though. No one else in the room could hear the familiarity in his voice. But she knew. It excited her and brought a tingling pleasure between her thighs knowing that she was his and no one knew. All the little college girls who would flirt and fawn after him. Probably most of the ones in this room now. For a brief moment her fears slipped away. Her hands found their way to the belt holding her robe together. And quickly, before her courage left her, she gave a gentle pull and the robe fell from her shoulders onto the stage. She was an elegant woman. Her soft, pale skin radiating under the stage lights. Her perfectly formed breasts and round bottom forming smooth curves and lines for the students eyes. And his. She knew he was watching her hungrily. He told her he would be. He told her to imagine his eyes on her body the entire time she was on the stage. To imagine his fingers tracing the edges of her body. As she posed there in front of everyone she could feel his touch across her neckline. Finding it's way down the curve of her spine and across her legs down to her toes. She had posed for him before. But it was always in the privacy of his apartment studio. Never in front of others. He would wrap her in red satin sheets until she was comfortable enough to let them drop and stand before him completely naked. Every time he sketched her it was as if she felt his pencil tracing along the edges of her delicate skin. And now it was as if every hand in the class was upon her body. Sketching her curves and taking in her body in details that only an artist could. He was right. The feeling was intoxicating. The room was completely silent except for the faint sound of pencils against paper and brushes clicking against water glasses. Every so often she would hear his voice from somewhere guiding a student. Drawing their attention to the curve of her breasts, the lines of her back or the delicateness of the soft, pink lips between her thighs. With every word he spoke a warmth began to grow inside of her that was starting to take over. The feeling of pleasure washed over her like a wave against the beach shore and she feared that everyone would see it. That all the eyes looking upon her now would see the ecstasy welling to the surface. But no one did. At least they didn't show it. The pencil scrapings and the brush strokes continued as they had been. So she closed her eyes and enjoyed the remainder of her time on the small stage. And afterward, when the last brush was cleaned and the last student had left, they stood in the empty room in silence. He walked up to her, slowly stepping out of the shadows. A smile formed across his face as he took her in his arms and kissed her lips passionately. Pulling the belt of her robe he let the fabric drop from her body once again. And she finally felt the delicate touch of his hands tracing the soft curves of her skin as she had imagined it all night long. Still Life in Shadow She was in her outlook a simple woman, and it had been said of her for as long as anyone on the island could remember that she had been unassuming even when she was young, when she first arrived here oh so long ago. Plain, some used to say. But that was long ago . . . She was considered brilliant, but then again she always had been, and that doesn't really account for what happened. Maria Louisa Delasandro was her name. She was Swiss, but after finishing her medical studies she had unaccountably settled in Horta, on the island of Faial in the Azores, and she had lived there for almost thirty years when I became a party to these events. She was a surgeon at the hospital on the island, and she ran an inter-island clinic for off-islanders as well, and was regarded as something of a saint by almost every inhabitant of the island chain. She was an oddity within the medical profession, too. She had trained in cardiovascular surgery and simply left that world - the bustle of Zurich, the promise of a celebrated career - and she had moved to this final outpost of the Portuguese empire, this end of the line, to get as far from that fast-paced world as she could. No one knew why. Those who spend their lives worried about such things often speculated that a man had been involved, but it wasn't really an open mystery anymore. It had, over the years, simply become irrelevant. Gone too were the days when the young doctor was looked on with suspicion because she wasn't native to the islands. The men who had once tried to win her heart were now, as well, all gone, gone to make homes with other women, gone to the sea, fishing perhaps, and thence on to their final rest . . . Yes, that part of her life was now little more than a memory, the mysteries of uncertain unions, too, were now all of an undefined past. Maria Louisa Delasandro had watched it all come and go, and with a kind heart, a patient heart, for she was in word and deed a kind soul. A Saint, if you really must know the truth of it. Maria lived in a small white house on the south side of the island in a little village outside of Horta known as Pasteleiro. Her house, like the others in the village, fronted a gently terraced hillside overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, yet it was in her garden - a world apart full of gardenia and azalea blossoms most of the year - that Maria found what peace there was to be had in this life. When not working in her clinic or at the hospital, Maria could inevitably be found on her knees in this garden, slowly, so slowly, so lovingly - working on the petals of her God's creation. Almost without exception, Maria would each day take her dinner at home. When the weather was stormy she could be found inside by the house's old, stone fireplace with Max, her playfully faithful, and very old Bernese Mountain Dog. She would on stormy evenings look out on the mad, storm-tossed sea and wonder what furies danced so to create such majestic anarchy. Max would watch her with all the love and affection of an old husband, and he was happy in this world, happy of his life with Maria in the true way that only dogs know. In the normal, sun-drenched evenings of her island home, Maria would sit in her garden as the sun set and have a light salad, and perhaps some cheese, with her wine, and invariably, no matter what the weather, she would sit in the afterglow of another day and read the poetry of Donne and Yeats. She often read these words aloud to Max, and he would sit by the wall of her garden with the last of the day's sun on his neck, and he looked at her with what surely must have been love on his face. Some might find such an existence quite mundane, even boring. But few people knew the meaning of peace or the myriad ways the soul of man can be ripped asunder the way Maria Louisa Delasandro did. Maria was an expert at recognizing a soul's dis-ease, you see, because hers had been dead for such a very, very long time. At least, she told me that was so after the events in this story were over. Yes, that was what she felt when she dared to think about herself. _____________________________________ I first heard David Latham's voice over the radio, and he sounded very stressed out. But I'm getting ahead of myself. So please, let me digress. Let me go back to the late afternoon of a blustery May day a few years back, and I was en-route from the States to the Mediterranean via Bermuda and the Azores on a friend's sailboat. I had done some sailing before, but this was my first long ocean crossing, and I had been - to say the least - hesitant to make the trip. But Harry Stinson, an old and most loyal friend, had begged and pleaded with me to make the trip with him, and in the end he simply hammered away at my resolve until I gave in. Harry was taking his wife and nineteen year old daughter with him, and they wanted company for the crossing, which they rightly considered the hardest part of the journey. My wife, bless her blackened heart, simply refused to join us, as she refused to do anything not of her own choosing. We had departed the Connecticut coast and made for Bermuda, and arrived there after a leisurely six days that I will always remember with a certain fondness in my heart for the amount of time that I spent on my knees hurling the contents of my stomach into the sea. I could write volumes on the subtle forms human misery can take when I think about the nausea that hit me that first night at sea, and of the avalanche that followed. Suffice to say that as Bermuda hove into view I swore I'd jump ship and never set foot on another sailboat for as long as I lived. That is, until I found out what a same-day purchase, one-way ticket home would cost. At heart I am frugal, some would say downright cheap. In the end, that's why I - allegedly - stayed onboard and agreed to finish the trip to Gibraltar. The other reason I refuse to talk about publicly. If it must be known, it was because I really enjoyed myself the last four days of that trip in so many ways I can't even begin to relate them all to you. I had never known such peace, or had such fun. Let's just say that Harry's daughter had a lot to do with my decision to remain on board. Could we just leave it at that? _____________________________________ We left Bermuda in mid-May and began the long, hard slog across the Atlantic towards the Azores. Ten days out and as the sun was rising we saw a sailboat ahead; not a few minutes later the young man on this boat tried to hail us on his VHF radio. "Hello, sailing vessel near three eight zero three north by three eight five eight west, this is the Bolero, over. Sailing vessel near three eight zero three north by three eight five eight west, this is the Bolero, over." "Bolero, this is the Sea Witch. What can we do for you?" Harry said. "Ah, Sea Witch, I think I'm pretty sick, could use a hand over here." That's when Harry sent his wife below to wake me, for you see, I too am a physician. That's also when Harry's wife found me seriously ensconced in her daughter. It was an ugly scene for a couple of minutes, but the exigencies of the moment prevailed. "Sea Witch, Sea Witch, this is Bolero. You still with me?" "Ten four, Bolero, stand by one, we have a doctor on board." "Oh thank God!" came the young man's reply. "I'm going to drop sail; can you head toward my position?" "Roger, Bolero, we'll be with you in an hour or so." _____________________________________ Jennifer Stinson, Harry's daughter was banished to the forepeak while Harry and Trina ripped into me back in the cockpit. I had violated there trust, Trina yelled, and Harry looked on me with barely concealed contempt. I'd earned it, I knew, but Jennifer was one in a million. I knew I was in love with her. I was willing to forgo everything I owned to be with her forever. I wanted to run away with her, journey to the far ends of the earth with her hand in mine, forever and ever. I had, in short, completely lost my mind. With these facts firmly in mind, it was with no small amount of regret that as we drew nearer to Bolero it was all too obvious to us that my time on the Sea Witch was drawing rapidly to an unhappy end. When we pulled alongside Bolero, we could see an emaciated young man wallowing in the cockpit, and we could see that he was indeed very, very ill. Despite the fact that Harry was a lawyer, he still had a few bits of compassion left in his heart, and he immediately took over responsibility for the lad in Bolero. "Pete, get your medical bag up here, then jump across; we'll stand by while you figure out what we need to do." A few minutes later and I was on Bolero's deck; I thank God to this day that the water had been calm enough to make the jump without incident. In rough seas we might never have made the transfer. In any event, Bolero was tiny in comparison to the Sea Witch. She was wallowing a bit now that her sail was down, but I hoisted the jib and she steadied up a bit, and tracked again to the east. I took in David Latham for the first time. He was a sturdy looking fellow, late twenties, but he was sweaty and obviously in a great deal of pain. "What seems to be the problem," I asked him after a while. "What kind of doctor are you," he asked me. "Not a shrink or something like that?" "No, David, I'm an anesthesiologist. A gas-passer." "Oh? You fart for a living?!" he joked. Always a good sign. "So, what's wrong, David?" "My balls hurt." "I suppose you've tried jacking off, cleared the mechanism, so to speak?" "No, it's not that. One of 'em hurts real bad, and is as hard as a rock." "That been going on long?" "Been a lot of pain down there for a couple of weeks; some shooting pains down there for a, well, maybe six months." Step back with me here, will you? Imagine this conversation in your mind. Imagine a doctor's office, clean walls, antiseptic smell, a nurse waiting in the hall to draw blood or set up tests. Everything seems nice and orderly in your mind when you think about this conversation David and I were having. Only problem here was that we were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and I was standing in the cockpit of his 34 foot long boat. I had no nurse with me, no tests to offer, and to make matters even more inconclusive, I wasn't a Urologist. What he was describing to me sounded dreadfully like testicular cancer to me, and if he'd been symptomatic for six months - time was of the essence. It could very well be too late. I hated to ask it of the young man, but I asked if I could feel the offending nut. Often times a testis can get wrapped in cord and swell up, causing immense pain; this usually results in loss of the testis but typically isn't a fatal affair. Some penetrating hernia can flair up and cause pain in the region, but typically in these cases don't present with an enlarged testis. In order to confirm my suspicions, I really needed to, well, get a handle on things. Anyway, David dropped his drawers and I felt the offending nut. One was normal, soft and pliable, and it's cord was soft, too. The other was larger than a golf ball, and at least as hard. I could feel the cord - stiff and barely flexible for as far up as I could feel it - and I knew this kid was in for a rough ride. I took his temperature while I continued my history. He hadn't been able to hold food down for two days now, and was febrile, so I took him below and made him comfortable, then got on the radio when I got back up in the cockpit. "Harry?" "What is it, you son of a bitch?" "This kid's sick, Harry. I mean real sick. Cancer is my guess, and we need to get him to a hospital as soon as we can." The change in Harry was immediate. "OK, Pete," he said gently. "What do you need from here?" "I'm going to need to start an IV and get some pain meds in him, so I'm going to need an extra set of hands over here for the ship and to help out with getting him secured. You might want to see if we can get a hold of someone in the Azores, alert them to the situation." "OK, buddy. I'll send Trina over as soon as she gets the stuff together." I know I didn't mention that Trina and I had dated a long time ago. She'd been a nurse when I was an intern at Mass General, and she worked to put Harry through law school at Yale. She knew the drill, anyway. Now it was just a matter of her not killing me when I wasn't looking . . . _____________________________________ By mid-afternoon Harry had talked with Radio Azores on his single-side-band radio, and while we were out of helicopter range they advised that we call them the next day and relay our patient's condition. If he was deteriorating, they would come pick him up; if not, they would have medical attention standing by for our arrival at Horta. Trina and I got an IV working on David Latham, and I slipped him a small dose of morphine when it was apparent to both of us that lesser medications weren't doing the job. As the sun went down I could tell that the kid would have to be airlifted out of here as soon as possible; he was slipping into a deep fever and doubtless had some kind of septicemia working in the area of his groin or thighs, which were now hot and growing rigid. We started a bolus of antibiotics and crossed our fingers. Sea Witch sailed alongside us during the night, and at first light Harry called Azores Radio and apprised them of the situation. An hour and fifty minutes later we heard a helicopter approaching, and we made ready to transfer Latham to the aircraft. When the chopper settled in overhead, I was surprised to see a man in orange coveralls descending on the rescue hoist. He discharged static electricity from the rotors while he dropped, than helped us put Latham in the gurney they lowered. The man, who spoke in thickly accented English, then told me he would sail the boat into Horta, and that I was to accompany Latham on the helicopter back to the island. Conveying this to Harry by radio, we said good bye to one another and he advised they would see me in Horta - most likely the day after tomorrow. I was then hooked up in the hoist and raised into the hovering helicopter. I sat by Latham while he writhed in pain during the ninety minute flight back to Horta. He kept looking up at me during those tense minutes, thanking me with his eyes. I held his hands from time to time when his eyes were open, then I saw the islands of the Azores slip into view, and I was entranced by their timeless beauty as they grew larger and larger outside my window. The helicopter slipped over the northeast corner of the island and began it's descent into Horta, and we touched down at a Coast Guard pad near the hospital. We loaded Latham into the waiting ambulance and drove the few short blocks to the Hospital da Horta. A tall, dark eyed woman was waiting for us when we turned onto the hospital grounds. That was my first memory of seeing Maria Louisa Delasandro. A tall woman, dressed in a white lab coat over a long black dress; her huge black eyes standing in wild contrast to her alabaster skin, her expression almost unreadable at first. She stood in the quiet shadow of the hospital building, looking at us as we turned in that morning with what I mistook as contempt on her face. _____________________________________ She spoke English, of course, probably better than I did. She moved to Latham's side as we pulled his gurney from the ambulance, and she quickly checked his vitals out there on the driveway while I filled her in on my observations? "You are the physician?" she asked me as I spoke. "Yes, doctor, I'm an anesthesiologist at Brigham and Women's in Boston." "Excellent. Our anesthetist is in Lisbon this week. We can put you to work!" Nothing like a working vacation. We walked inside and directly to a radiology room, and a nurse with ultrasound equipment in hand was waiting for us. Maria took the hand unit as the nurse doused the area over Latham's groin and upper thighs with surgical jelly. When the machine was ready, Maria ran the wand over the area several times, looking at the screen as she did and nodding from time to time. When she was finished, she ordered an AFP test and called the operating room to book the procedure. She told them that there was an anesthetist on the grounds now, and I heard her tell them that she would ask. "Ask what?" I said. "There are about ten cases in need right now, but they are on hold until Doctor Avilas returns. They have asked me to see if you would consent to help out while you are here." "Well, whatever I can do to help. What about legalities, licensing and the like." "Ah, yes, You are an American. I forgot. Don't worry about that. We practice medicine here to cure the sick. It isn't a profit making enterprise. And the lawyer, well, he is a friend." I smiled, nodded understanding, but hated the implicit condemnation of America in her words. _____________________________________ We scrubbed and went into the operating room. Most of the equipment was, by current standards at least, somewhat antiquated, but the procedures used weren't unfamiliar to me. I put Latham under, and after the nurse shaved away his pubic hair, Maria made a four inch long incision just above his penis on the wall of his belly. She retracted the skin and felt for the cord, then pulled the affected testis out of Latham's groin and felt along the cord. She held the swollen gland in her hand and turned it over in the light; theoretically, if it wasn't cancerous she could pop it back in and sow him up and after a few miserable days he would be free to resume a normal life. I looked at the white lesions that covered the orb and knew as well as she did: Latham had a vicious cancer. "It is hard all the way up," she said to the room. "I was afraid of this." She snipped the cord and clamped it off, then put the shining pink orb into a shallow stainless steel bowl and walked it out of the operating room. It's standard procedure to do this. She was carrying it to the lab, where a waiting pathologist would cold section the testis and the cord to identify the cell types and classify the cancer, and therefore determine how far up the cord it had spread. With that information, a post-op treatment plan could be formulated. She returned a half hour later. "All three. Seminoma, teratoma, and granuloma. I'm sure it has spread into the lymph, but without a CT scan there's no way to measure the involvement. I suspect we should wake him and let him regain his strength for a few days. With more information we can decide how to proceed." She nodded to her nurse, "Okay. Let's close now." I brought Latham out of the ether a little later, when he'd been moved to the hospital's little post-op ward, and I was there when he popped out of his fog. "Howya doin', shipmate?" I said to him when it was apparent he could talk. "So. How'd it go?" "Well, David, you're alive. I'll let the doc tell you what she found." "Not good, is it?'" "No, not really, but I don't know the extent of it. She can better fill you in on your options. Right now, you get some rest." "Am I gonna die, doc?" "David, we're all going to die. Right now, we're all going to concentrate on getting you better. That's all. That's what you've got to concentrate on." I smiled at him as he drifted off to sleep . . . ". . . Doctor Patterson? Doctor Patterson? . . ." I woke with a start. Maria was standing over me. "Yo!" I felt like I was in residence again, pulling forty-eight hour shifts in the emergency room. "We have a critical cardiac case flying in right now; can you look over the equipment and see if you have everything you need?" "Do you have a nurse that speaks English?" I asked hopefully. "Sister Magdalena is on her way." I shook myself awake and walked from the Doctor's lounge to the cardiac care/operating room and found the Sister waiting for me. She walked me through the hospitals best equipment - it was surprisingly up to date - and we set about getting the room ready for the arrival of our next patient.