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The Improbable Tenant

By: standfast



The day had begun badly, and then rapidly worsened. She had slept poorly, and woke late; no surprise, she hadn't slept well in weeks. Now she had a mountain of mindless chores ahead, beginning with the lawn. Machines intimidated her; she wished she had kept up the lawn service.

Of course the mower had not started; it would rarely start for her. After five minutes of fruitless yanking she was in a sweat, and mad enough to spit. At that point her neighbor, her leering, dirty-minded neighbor, had appeared and offered his help. Things that don't get used enough get rusty, he observed. Things need a little lubrication and thorough, regular workouts and all would be well; he was always available. His comments were accompanied by a searching look that made her feel he was peering into her bedroom window. She could manage on her own, she told him, his help not needed, and the look she gave him told him he had gone too far. The bastard, she thought, why do they think every divorced woman is aching to jump into bed with them? He had never been even slightly suggestive while she was married.

The neighbor failed with the recalcitrant piece of junk as well, finally leaving it, cover askew, with a vague promise to try again later. Cathy was almost glad he had not been successful. After finishing some inside chores she showered, late for other errands.

She walked into her bedroom from the shower, only a towel wrapped around her, to be startled by the sight of her ex-husband standing in her doorway.

"Trent! What do you think you're doing? Get out of here!"

"Relax, will you? I told you I was coming for the pictures."

"They're on the kitchen table where I told you they would be. You walked right past them. Take them and go."

"All right, all right. I knocked first. The lady of leisure is sleeping in, I see. You know, you really should take better care of yourself. You're starting to let yourself go."

I'm not, she thought. I've never been out of shape, and I've lost weight since I got rid of you. He's just trying to get under my skin, wants to let me know he doesn't find me attractive any longer; is over me. But he had gotten to her. If he had never known, or cared, how to make her happy he still knew how to twist the knife.

She stood there while he left, feeling abused and helpless, waited until she heard the downstairs door close behind him, and wondered how her life could have become as empty as this.

She had just graduated with a degree in nursing, full of life and in love with her work when she met Trent Whitworth Richardson. An attorney, son of a partner and grandson of a founding partner of the most successful firm in the city, Trent exuded old money, prep schools and country club manners. In a matter of weeks he had entranced her with glimpses into a life she had never experienced. Why he courted her she could not imagine, but her friends and family encouraged her enthusiastically and their excitement, and his, carried her away. With no good reasons to say no, she said yes.

Later, after they were married and while she still felt kindly towards him, she decided that he chose someone of whom his family could not approve as a means of asserting himself against the life they had chosen for him and the career he could not escape. For Trent proved to be less than he appeared; while a very few men become somehow larger than life, many others are correspondingly smaller, as if nature sought balance. Cathy's husband was one of those who seek to elevate themselves by diminishing others, and he began at home. He disparaged her job; corrected and criticized her in public; disagreed with any opinion she might offer; made decisions large and small without consulting her; and handled all their financial affairs, including her own salary.

At first she acquiesced; over time, she lost the desire to resist and allowed him to take her for granted. He was far too well-mannered to fight; if she bristled, he ignored her. When her emotions drove her to assert herself, he patronized her with well-reasoned logic. He gulled her, and others, not with the skills of a con man – he had none of those – but with trained, legalese argument and a dismissive, to-the-manor-born air. He avoided conflict like a plague.

When they tried to have a child, and failed, he reasoned that she had been on the pill too long, or that she was border-line frigid. She suggested they both be tested, but the issue was closed. She began to feel lonely in his presence; there was nothing going on in their relationship.

Eventually, she began to see trouble: silence; casual avoidance; unexplained absences; out-of-town business trips without notice; strange looks from their friends, who were entirely his friends; all the usual signs. When she finally found the unavoidable proof of his infidelity she had had enough of shame, asked him to leave and filed for divorce.

But if she felt she had been trapped in his world before then, the divorce proceedings were worse by far. It had been easy even to find an attorney to represent her, once they recognized the defendant. There was further indignity; she had assumed they were fairly well off, but the proposed settlement, already approved by her lawyer, would leave her with the furniture, a used car, half the interest in their mortgaged home (which would have to be quickly sold) and a meager balance in her checking account. Not very much, she reflected, in exchange for six years of her life. She had never imagined she could feel so powerless and without hope.

And then the letter arrived. The writer, who pleaded for anonymity but clearly had to be someone from the firm with a conscience or a grudge, informed her that a serious injustice was taking place. It seemed there were assets, many assets, which had inexplicably been omitted from the defendant's sworn property list. There were interests in a strip mall, a small apartment building, land in another state, all belonging to corporations which had no names, only initials, but which could be carefully traced by the knowing researcher through a labyrinthine trail of general partnerships and holding companies to Chief Corporate Officer Trent Whitworth Richardson. There were bank accounts, stocks and bonds, even a yacht which lay quietly in its slip, never venturing out into the bay and serving only as a fornicatorium for the Chief Corporate Officer and his little punch. The writer suggested, moreover, that some of these assets may even have been overlooked in tax filings; that their very existence, if revealed, might excite the most intense curiosity of the revenue authorities. The writer conveniently listed volume and page number of land records, addresses, account numbers, even the name of the offending yacht. Cathy fairly danced to her lawyer with the information, but in what she considered at the time an excess of caution, took with her only handwritten notes from the letter.

Her attorney digested the information and smiled as he smelled blood in the water, that most delicious odor for any lawyer, and promised her great things. But after she left he had time to reflect that while Cathy was at most a temporary interest, his own career was a priority of higher standing. A scandal in the most prestigious law firm in the city would be remembered, would spatter mud in all directions, even upon opposing counsel. He therefore resolved upon a course of action difficult for a layman to understand, but which would surely meet the silent approval of his colleagues at the bar.

That is to say, he sold out his client in a New York minute. The Chief Corporate Officer was permitted to file an amended list of assets before the court, which caused no more than a raised eyebrow and knowing smile from His Honor, and amended tax returns as well (although Cathy never saw them, and who may have signed them on her behalf remains a mystery), the entire collegial process earning for Cathy's lawyer the unspoken good will of the firm and a favor to be named at a later date.

Even so, Cathy was delighted by the new terms. A modest alimony was proposed, and then doubled. A stock portfolio materialized, and a large cash settlement, all in exchange for her perpetual vow of silence. There had been a small snag; her lawyer, now deeply in the pocket of the firm, suggested too casually that he would like to see the letter; perhaps something had been missed. Cathy recalled the writer's warning and felt shock, dismay, then anger. She informed her lawyer bluntly that the letter would not be forthcoming, and that its request would cost her husband another ten thousand dollars; that if the deal was not done by close of business she would go to the IRS and the bar association as well. The attorney was flustered, appalled; he had been assured she was a soft touch. The new deal was done, and Cathy felt, for the first time in her married life, that she had been able to successfully stand up for herself. She would not have to sell the house she loved, at least not right away. With close attention to economy she could maintain the mortgage, leave in a year or so on her own terms.

It was with this economy in mind that she resolved to let out the maid's apartment over the detached, three-car garage, which they had never used. But not to an ordinary tenant; it was too small for that, but perhaps to a student from the university, who would in any case be more acceptable to the neighbors.

It was immediately after Trent left, hardly time to finish dressing, that she heard the doorbell. Assuming it would still be Trent, she jerked open the door in foul mood to find a young man on the steps. Surprised, she had an impression of broad shoulders, a boyish face with piercing blue eyes that seemed somehow tired, older; and a remarkably disarming smile.

"Mrs. Richardson? I'm Paul Hegarty. From the university. I called Thursday about the apartment."

"Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry, I've had so much going on. I completely forgot you were coming this morning."

The look on her face had given him pause. "If this is a bad time, I could come back later."

"No, no. The apartment of over the garage, I think I mentioned that. Why don't you go around to the back of the house while I get the key?"

"I'll meet you there."

As she walked through the house she considered her brief first impression. He did not look like an ax murderer or terrorist, but could one ever be sure? She supposed he seemed OK, but perhaps older that a normal college student. She met him in the driveway and was certain. The student seemed to read her mind, and offered the explanation that he was in a graduate program. Satisfied, she led the way to the apartment.

"You have to go into the garage for the stairs. I have only one car, so there would be room for yours if you decide to stay. It isn't much, two rooms and a bath, but there's a small kitchenette in the living room with a refrigerator, sink and hot plate."

"I don't need much space. And a garage would be great."

Cathy would have killed for a place like this when she was an undergraduate. Like the house, the garage was brick, Tudor style, with slate roof and dormers. The apartment was small, room in the bedroom only for a single bed with mattress of uncertain age, desk and dresser; in the living room a couch, chair and small table, but it was private. The student was delighted.

"This works for me. I'll take it, if it's available."

"I must tell you that there is no cable or telephone. Also, I have to insist that you have no loud parties and keep the volume down on whatever you play. I have to think of the neighbors."

"You'll never hear me, Mrs. Richardson. I have a cell phone, no TV. Laptop's on WIFI. I'm here to study."

"The name is Cathy. What is your field, by the way?"

"I'm in computer engineering. I'd like to go into robotics, that sort of thing."

"It sounds very interesting. All right, I guess we have a deal for the semester. If it works out for both of us we can talk about whether you will stay longer."

More details were exchanged, and it was agreed the student would move in that day. As he wrote a check, Paul asked "Was that your husband I passed on the way in?"

"Not any longer. We're divorced. I live alone. Part of the reason I wanted to rent the apartment was to have someone else on the property."

That explains the look, the student thought to himself. There's a lot of bitterness and pain there. Doesn't look like she has smiled for a long time.

Cathy left for several hours of errands. When she returned, she immediately noticed that the lawn had been cut and the mower put away. She called up the stairs for the student, thinking that he really shouldn't have done this; I don't want to be indebted to him.

"Paul, did you mow the lawn? How did you get the mower started? It wouldn't run this morning."

"It seemed like someone was having a problem with it, so I had a look. Just bad gas and some fouling. It's good to go now."

"Well, I really appreciate this, but I insist on paying you for your work."

"If you insist, then. My normal fee is a cup of coffee."

She smiled. "All right, it's another deal. Here on the back porch around seven?"

Nice smile, he thought, but it took an effort. "See you then."

Their subsequent, get-acquainted conversation lasted far longer than Cathy had anticipated, in fact until darkness called a halt. She learned that he was from the Midwest, parents and two siblings still in place, had worked through university with the help of a partial athletic scholarship, and little else. He, on the other hand, had been very interested in her; in her job, her interests. Public service so satisfying, didn't she think? Which had been her most interesting cases, and why? What did she like least about nursing? Before long he had her talking more deeply about herself than she had with anyone in months. Only later, as she reflected about how interesting a young man he was did she realize that she, who had always listened quietly to Trent, had monopolized their conversation.

Over the next few weeks the evening coffee settled into a two- or three-a-week ritual, always on the porch, never crossing an unspoken boundary. She found herself looking forward to these talks with the student, who was interested in, and informed upon, a wide range of subjects; who never judged, never made assumptions, never offered solutions; who simply listened, and drew her out.

And he was helpful in other ways. There had been the morning her car would not start; while she was calling AAA she saw the student under the hood. "I'll just have a look at it, if you don't mind", he had said, and in a few minutes it was running happily. "Just a bad battery connection. You're good to go now."

"Paul, you're a very nice guy."

He winced, and showed her a teasing smile. "Cathy, please, don't ever refer to a man as a 'nice guy'".

"And why not?"

"Because nice guys always finish last and they never, ever, get the girl."

On another occasion he discovered the call buzzer in the apartment, which had never worked, but after he had a look in her basement it lived again, was good to go, "so you can call me if there's ever a problem." She found herself using "good to go" at work instead of the usual hospital "OK", and laughed when she recalled its origin.

The student kept fit. A set of weights appeared in the empty garage bay, and every morning at "oh dark thirty", whatever that meant, he loped down the driveway to begin his morning run. "Clears the cobwebs", he had said, and before long he recruited her into his regimen. He introduced her first to power walking, then a week later to "the shuffle", which seemed very like jogging to her, and she began to push herself as she watched the student lap her time and again. She had not felt the energy to exercise in a long time, yet almost immediately found she felt both stronger and more confident.

One weekend afternoon, six weeks after the student's arrival, Cathy's best friend and colleague, Connie, dropped over the enjoy the sun on the porch. Cathy admired Connie for her voluptuous, Mediterranean good looks and her everlastingly positive attitude. Connie was a huge hit with her patients and a special hit with men of all ages. Connie's judgment, sadly, did not equal her magnetism. She had been briefly married to a man who had physically abused her, and her friends had only just saved her from a second disaster with an alcoholic actor who disliked gainful employment as much as he liked his vodka. Yet she remained upbeat about men, and always ready for a party of any sort.

The two had been chatting up a number of topics and the subject had turned to the student. "So how's it working out, with your college kid?"

"He's a nice young man. You may get to meet him. He said he was going to the airport to pick up a friend who's passing through and needs a place to stay tonight."

As they were speaking the student drove in, and they watched first Paul, then an enormous soldier in uniform, maroon beret and boots, unfold from the car. Connie was stunned. College kid, my ass, she thought. These guys are the real deal.

Paul, always the gentleman, introduced them to Russell Mabry. Russell, deeply tanned, made his respects in a polite Southern accent. Cathy was impressed by his uniform, ribbons, and badges but noticed that Russell's pale eyes were like Paul's: tired, or perhaps they seemed to look through her to something in the distance.

Connie had decided in a millisecond that Cathy owned first dibs on Paul and she turned her attention to the sergeant. She had seen uniforms aplenty, but rarely anyone as many as Russell, and she admired him with predatory eyes.

"So what brings you to town, Russell, and how are you and Paul acquainted?"

"Just got back from overseas, Cathy, and I had to come see the El Tee."

"El Tee?"

"That's lieutenant. Lieutenant Hegarty was our platoon leader."

"Paul! You were in the army? You never told me that."

A shrug and a smile from the student. "That was in a different life."

"And for how long were you in the army?"

"About four years."

While Cathy unconsciously started to do the math, and began to wrap herself around the idea that "nice young man" would perhaps no longer be an appropriate description for her tenant, Connie had begun to do that which she did best of all.

"Russell, so many ribbons! What did you have to do for them?"

"We call them bin badges, Connie."

"Bin badges?"

"Been here, been there."

"This one has a 'V' on it. What does that mean?"

"Viagra."

Connie hooted with laughter, put her hand on his arm. She was, she thought, going to like this guy. "I know what this silver one is; you two are paratroops. In Iraq?

Russell's voice had gone a touch throaty; he was only too conscious of Connie's cleavage, now so very close. "That's right. The El Tee, he was the best. The company hasn't been the same without him."

"Russell, I swear, just one story and you're going right back to the airport."

"Roger that, El Tee." It seemed that Russell would not be capable of addressing Paul by his given name.

Connie insisted that "the boys" sit and join them. Cathy was sent for iced tea; Connie was on a scent of her own, and would not have left the porch for fine wine. Conversation flowed, the time flew, and before long Connie suggested dinner on the grill. They had no plans, she said (never mind that she and Cathy had been discussing a movie earlier). If the guys would go out for meat and beer everything would be perfect.

As Paul and Cathy exchanged a glance, Russell hurried in. That would indeed be perfect; he and the El Tee loved nothing more than steaks and beer; had in fact been talking about just that on the way in from the airport; he and Paul would cook.

The motion carried. Cathy told herself that this was for Connie; she was obviously taken with Russell, and deserved his company. Paul was slightly uncomfortable with the thought of taking over Cathy's evening, and suspected it was not exactly what she wanted. Connie herself was as intent upon seeing that Cathy and Paul "got together", as she thought to herself, as she was upon Russell. God knows she needs a good man, and Connie's here to help.


The Improbable Tenant



Cathy was a gracious hostess despite her reluctance to allow a man, particularly Paul, her tenant, for heaven's sake, within arm's reach. It's just too soon, she told herself. I'm not ready for this. She nevertheless enjoyed the evening and the conversation, everyone good friends now, Russell and Connie clearly very attracted to one another, with Connie doing her best to make it a spontaneous double date and Cathy resisting at every turn.

At one point, clearly with togetherness in mind, Connie turned up the music and pulled Russell up to dance, insisting that Paul and Cathy join them. Paul read Cathy's mood correctly and begged off, to Cathy's relief. The moment passed, no one's feelings were hurt, and the impromptu dinner continued to sparkle.

Eventually the dishes were put away and the evening was ripe for the next step, which Cathy fervently hoped would involve the guys going off to a sports bar. It turned uncomfortable for her when Connie suggested they adjourn to a club, "to keep the party going."

This was more than Cathy was ready to handle. Before she could put an excuse into words, Paul read her reluctance and saved her again. "You guys go. I'm really behind on the books, anyway. Russell, I insist. Take off, and be sure to show Connie a good time."

Oh, thank you, thought Cathy. God, I hope Paul stays a gentleman. I don't want to hurt his feelings.

Connie somewhat surprisingly had no objections to taking Russell off by herself; she assumed that Cathy and Paul wanted to be alone. Mission accomplished, she thought, and she was off with Russell and a wave, Russell himself showing all the alert intensity of a fisherman delicately dropping his fly over a very large trout. He was not looking forward to dancing, but in the present circumstance would have followed Connie to a bridal shower, even a floral show.

Paul and Cathy sat silently for a long moment. "I'm sorry", he said. "I thought it might be uncomfortable for us. I hope you don't mind."

"No, no, no. Not at all." He understands. "Thank you, Paul."

"Actually, Connie saved me from a tough night. I thought I was going to have to take him out for a good drunk."

"I suppose that's what guys do when they get back from overseas."

"He has an excuse. Just between us, Russell is a hurting puppy. His wife left him on our second deployment and moved to Oregon with their son. She put his stuff in storage, no one paid the bill, and now everything he owns is in one duffel bag. He's really broken up about losing her, and his son."

"Oh, my God, that's terrible. The poor man." And I thought I had a tough divorce? "How could she do that to him while he was overseas fighting?"

"Who knows what goes on in someone else's relationship? I met her once or twice and she seemed OK. I can't find fault with either one of them. Separation is tough on families. Anyway, how about a cup of coffee before I hit the books?"

Coffee had become their entry to conversation, always interesting, always safe. Tonight, however, the student seemed interested in digging deeper than he had before. Can I ask a personal question? Your own divorce must have been traumatic; can you talk about it? He was not interested in hearing of infidelity or how she had been treated, brushed them aside with questions instead about how it had affected her. What sort of feelings did it generate?

She talked, hesitantly at first, about her anger and shame. He knew about anger, about shame; asked her if she had ever felt that kind of embarrassment before, and she found herself telling him about a teenage date gone sour, something she hadn't thought of in years. Were you ashamed of what he had done, Paul wanted to know, or feeling fuilty that you had let it happen, were somehow complicit?

This was a new level; her mind told her that she had done nothing wrong, but her heart kept telling her that if she had been a better wife perhaps she would still be married. Yes, she admitted, she felt a sense of guilt. The student drew her out still further, encouraged her to elaborate. He was relentless, looked deep into her eyes. A deep sense of guilt? Is it a really strong feeling? Yes, very strong, I still cry about it often. I failed at the job that mattered most.

Guilt if a two-edged weapon, he observed; it can keep us on the high road, steer us away from immorality and worse, but an awful thing when it attacks the undeserving. They talked about guilt, the nagging feelings she sometimes had about work undone at the hospital, his own about decisions taken that had resulted in violent death, and she sensed that there were ghosts in his past as well.

Still he was not finished, though the coffee had long gone cold and the candle guttered. Were these the only feeling generated by the breakup? Yes, perhaps there were others. What were they? She was not sure; knew, but did not want to go that far. Did she not feel lonely, abandoned? He was sure he would have. Yes, that, too, she admitted. And perhaps that was the most damaging, because it was with her every day, when she came home to an empty house, woke up in an empty bed. All the nagging uncertainties of maintaining a home, paying bills, taxes, insurance had been taken care of before. Now she was on her own; Trent did not want her any longer, was certainly doing fine while she had been cast off. She felt responsibility, and loneliness.

The student knew both, and talked about his own uncertainties, the loneliness of an officer who could not befriend the men he led; men, kids, some of them, who needed him to keep his distance, to always know what to do, who depended upon him always to make the correct call.

Now her tears came, and he held her hand. She used first her napkin, then his. And still he went on. Yes, of course it hurts; could not be otherwise. And did she not sometimes feel that she had been unworthy? Did she not ever feel small, of little value?

The floodgates opened, for was that which she had not wanted to acknowledge, even to herself; she judged it bordered on depression. Sometimes, she said, she felt she wanted to stay curled up in bed forever, wanted the world to forget her. She told him she felt shriveled, old before her time. Not always, of course, but often enough. And he understood, consoled; she could see it in his eyes. He did not say to her that she should not feel that way; assured her that feelings just happened, as they did for us all. The tears started again, running hot down her cheeks to fall in threes and fours on the glass tabletop. He fumbled for the napkin that was not there, rose to stand over her and dry her eyes with the tail of his shirt. With the tail of his shirt, and they both laughed, and it was time for a break.

Cathy felt drained; drained, and yet relieved and light-hearted. She had trusted the student with some of her most private thoughts, made herself vulnerable, and he had not rejected, scoffed or turned her away.

Instead he sent her inside with a hug, a brotherly hug that lasted for long moments and felt so healing. She had not known that sort of human contact for a long time. Later, she would recall the feel of his arms and shoulders and the memory would inspire a different feeling entirely, but for tonight she felt only a deep sense of communion in a very improbable setting. The student, too, would recall the smell of her hair and her slender waist and arouse a feeling that went far beyond healing, a feeling that he pushed aside as unworthy.

Inside, Cathy tried to read, but could not concentrate. The TV had nothing that held her interest. Connie, she knew, she could not call, so she called her mother instead for an interminable conversation that seemed pointless, inane, though her mother was delighted to her from her and had loads of family news. Finally, she went to bed, and in the dark and quiet, not yet able to sleep, she marveled that she could have experienced such – she had to admit it – emotional intimacy with Paul who, she realized, had made for himself a significant place in her life. She had had a husband, she had family and friends of long standing, yet with none of them could she recall speaking so intimately as with this student, whom she had known for only a few weeks. Yes, she had strong feelings for him, she told herself, but not that kind. Please, not that kind.

******

Connie and Russell, at the same moment, were locked in their second, far less Platonic, encounter of the night. She had unintentionally but flirtatiously teased him almost beyond his endurance, taking him to a dance club (for she loved to dance, danced extremely well) where he doggedly kept pace, enjoying only the sight of her lovely swaying body. Russell was no dancer, and knew it. His best efforts were spasmodic, almost comical, except that people, and most especially other men, instinctively sensed that it would not be at all prudent to laugh at the sergeant. He would have liked to have sat and talked to her, not having spoken with a woman in a year except for several very emotional calls to his wife that he would rather forget, but the music prevented any serious conversation. Finally he asked, "Can we go" with puppy eyes that caused her to relent.

To reward him for dancing, and as a hint of things to come, Connie kissed him passionately in the parking lot. Leaning back against the car, she could feel his instant, raging erection and rolled her hips against it. When they broke their embrace, both breathing noticeably faster, she announced they were going home, please. Quickly.

And quickly it turned out to be; they left a trail of clothing into the bedroom, bumping several times into walls and doorjambs, for two are not necessarily better than one when it comes to walking while simultaneously fondling and disrobing. Finally in bed, Russell was so delighted with his good fortune (he had never had a woman so beautiful and sexy) that he enjoyed it at once. Too late, he realized that he had failed to see to their mutual satisfaction, was ashamed of himself, and said so.

Connie was nothing if not understanding. She rolled him on his back, put a leg over him, reminded him that they had all night, and made bed talk. The pillow talk turned to conversation, but since Russell had little with which to make conversation beyond the army and the Atlanta Braves, Connie (sworn to secrecy) learned a good deal more than she wanted to know about his, and Paul's, experiences in Iraq. She was impressed by his devotion and loyalty to Paul; she valued those qualities as much as the next woman; but she was bored with the details and let her hand trail down over his chest, stomach and beyond, to test the waters, in a manner of speaking.

The water was instantly ready, and Connie asked if this was what was meant by the term "standing at attention?" It was, and Russell was determined to show her that he could give as well as he received, and had started to do so when Connie, not yet ready for him, lay full length upon him, pinning him down, and smothered him with kisses. Russell could only stroke her back and her lovely bottom while she darted her tongue around his lips, found and sucked his tongue, wriggled against him, ran a foot up the side of his leg.

At last she sat up, straddling him. She took his hands in hers, placed them on her thighs, and slowly drew them up over her hips and cupped them on her breasts. "Do you like me?" she whispered.

"You're the most beautiful woman I ever knew."

Trite, she thought, but he sounded honest. She traced her fingers on his forearms. "Your hands feel wonderful."

Her breasts and nipples were hard now, and Russell began to feel better about his efforts. In the reflected glow of the amber light in her clock radio Connie's skin looked almost Polynesian. He ran his hands down to her abdomen, her thighs, back up the inside of her thighs.

Connie sighed, writhed, put her hands behind her head, arched her back to push her breasts forward in invitation. Russell trailed his fingers through her smooth armpits, up and down the underside of her arms, before accepting the invitation and rolling her nipples with his palms. Then she slowly reached behind her, gently let her fingers run lightly over his balls and up his shaft, tracing its length. When she gripped it she looked full in his eyes, smiled and silently mouthed "Wow!"

He pulled her down to him, he thought for another kiss, but she leaned forward so that one beautiful nipple hung above his lips. Russell responded instantly, trying to be gentle. "It feels so good when you do that, baby." And later, "The other one, please." And later still, "I can't wait any longer. I want you inside me." She slid back, hands on his chest, guided herself expertly onto him and sank slowly down with a long sigh.

As she rocked her hips and began her rhythm, her rhythm, not his, bracing herself with one hand on the bed beside him, she almost idly used her other to trace his torso, the huge pectoral and lateral muscles, his neck, his face, as if she were a blind person seeing him with her touch for the first time. Russell was not used to being taken so aggressively; his wife had been enthusiastic but passive; this was a new experience. He lightly returned her touch, to her thighs, her waist, her back, her arms. He could feel her rhythm increasing and her breathing become more pronounced. Connie put both hands on his shoulders, looked back and down to where they were joined, and they both watched her grind her hips into him, faster still, until she held her breath, jerked hard against him three, four, five times in violent release.

Spent, she lay forward on him, face against his neck. "That was so nice."

"You're amazing."

"You didn't finish."

"I will. Unless you want me to wait."

"No. I want you to do me."

Russell rolled her over, liked to be on top. As she stretched her arms up over her head, he slid his forearms under her knees, lifting and spreading her, and entered her slowly and fully.

"God, you're so big. I love it."

Music to macho ears, he thought, as he began to slowly drive into her. He looked down at those lovely large boobs, gently swaying in time to his thrusts, down further and he could see his cock sliding in and out.  The sight was so erotic that he began to lose control, started to drive into her harder and faster than he had intended.

Connie sensed his reluctance. "Mmmm, yes, yeah, as hard as you want." It put him over the edge, started his orgasm, and in a few more seconds he was gasping, rigid, then completely limp on top of her. Connie stroked his back, telling him how good he had been, thinking to herself that she had really caught a stallion here, and above all wishing, really wishing, that it had been as good for Cathy.

******

And in the garage apartment the student slept, able through long practice to drop off instantly for 20 minutes, an hour, or six. As he slept they came for him again, as they did nearly every night.

The soldier saw himself standing in a dusty compound surrounded by a bulldozed berm of desert sand, the sun shining with excruciating brilliance from a clear sky. A helicopter battered close overhead in an ungainly, nose-down attitude, but strangely made no sound. His men milled languidly around him, smiling, without helmets or weapons. Here was Murdoch, his gunner; there was Berecek, who carried the SAW for second squad; and Forepaugh, the likable kid from the impossibly-named hamlet of Flat Gap, Kentucky, who could thunk a 40mm grenade through a window from 100 meters (Which window, sir? Left? Right?), first shot, every time.

The soldier moved among them with a cheap, lined notebook. "Give me your addresses. You have to get your names in the book. Everybody has to be in the book. So we can get together." They smiled at him, bemused, not understanding, as he wrote.

Flash. Now the soldier was climbing the porch of a shabby wooden house in some dismal mill town. Youngstown? Gary? He knocked at the door and a middle-aged, work-worn woman in cheap print dress answered, her arms folded over her chest, only dimly visible behind the dusty screen.

"Hello, I'm Lieutenant Hegarty. His platoon leader. From over there. Is he here?" And in a tone reserved for telemarketers or trashy ex-girl friends she replied, "No. He's not. He's not here." The soldier offered her a piece of paper from the notebook; she accepted it silently, uncomprehending. "Tell him to come.  He has to be there. We're all going to be there."

Flash again, and now the soldier, wearing suit and tie, was entering the brightly-lit lobby of a luxury hotel under a crystal chandelier while well-dressed men and women walked purposefully about, nodding to one another. He saw an activities board, and on it the entry "B/1/504", an arcane inscription decipherable only by those who could understand: his people.

The soldier followed a darker, thickly carpeted hallway, heavy with wainscoting and muted pictures in ornate frames to the meeting room and entered. He saw a buffet, a beverage table, chairs and tables all set. But no one was there, not a single, solitary soul. Only himself.

The student awoke, anxiety thick in his chest. Memories started to crowd in, but he pushed them back, cursed silently and heaved himself out of bed. Walking to the bathroom for water, he looked into the mirror and saw pain. Back to bed, and he clenched his jaws, refused to think or remember and willed himself back to sleep.

But they were not done with him yet, not by half, and in an hour or two his defenses relaxed and they came for him again.

This time the soldier was standing in the featureless desert, again surrounded by soldiers. The light was very poor; morning or evening nautical twilight. The unit was preparing for a mission, loading magazines and assault packs, slowly and deliberately shrugging on armored vests and utility harnesses, readying weapons; all the familiar activity. The men were helmeted and, oddly, wore sand goggles. They kept their faces averted from him, yet there was a strangeness about them that told the soldier these were not his men, not his unit.

He went from one man to another, anxious, trying to get their attention. "This isn't my unit", he tried to tell them. "I'm not supposed to be here. I don't belong here any longer. I can't go with you." No one acknowledged him; it was as if he did not exist for them. Slowly, silently, they began to form up and move off in the loose, shambling, open column of veteran infantry and he realized that he would have to go as well, would have to go on the mission. The soldier bent to pick up his pack and rifle and turned to follow.

But the unit had vanished, and he was alone in the desert.

The student woke again, feeling lonely and abandoned beyond measure. And now the images flooded in, could not be held back; real memories this time, a jumbled collage of unconnected events that had played and replayed in his mind for months. He saw again the huge brown, expanding blossoms of smoke and dirt, heard the whump of explosions, felt the concussion that bounced his prone body almost free of the ground. The soldier saw bodies, and parts of bodies, in blackening stains; saw the angry faces of men and women shouted in a language none of them could understand. He saw his men running, stooped, shouting over a continuous crackle of gunfire; remembered the hot shell casings tinkling on the ground beside him; heard the radio hissing calm, truncated phrases amid the chaos. He saw again the wide-eyed, panicked face, ridiculously small under its helmet, looking up at him and pleading, "What are we going to do now, lieutenant?"

The soldier felt again the stark terror that day the fighter had released its 500-pound load and the bomb wavered, straightened and began an arc he was certain would end on his own helmet. Unable to take his eyes from it, he shouted curses at the pilot even after the bomb landed on the correct building after all, obliterating it and God knows how many bad guys with whom he strangely felt more kinship than he now felt for the visored, impersonal pilot.




The Improbable Tenant



And again, always, he was forced to replay The Incident. Not an incident from The Big Fight, nor even the al Baq'a Bash, nor any other of the scraps sufficiently significant to merit a nickname and a place in the unit folklore, but instead only a meaningless whackdown that earned barely three lines in the company morning report.

The platoon had been jogging in two files down the sidewalks of a street of flat-roofed cinder block homes, weapons at port, hurrying to establish a blocking position when they ran into a group of insurgents coming from a side street. Point men on both sides exchanged fire instantly and harmlessly, and as most of the hajis fled several others, in what would prove to be a fatal lapse of judgment, took cover in a house and fired furiously from windows and doorway.

His first two squads deployed without command, like a machine. The soldier's mind clicked, assessed; no fear, no emotion. Operating on automatic pilot he sprinted forward as the return fire sputtered, then grew to a solid crackle. He saw dust spurts from the cinder blocks, a twinkle of answering fire, heard the sharp snap of an incoming round close overhead. He shouted "Grenades! Windows!" and ran through second squad, yelling "Follow me!" and without turning to see who followed dodged behind the fourth house from the target, cut back and kept running, canteen thumping on his hip.

Before he reached the target he heard the first loud crack of a 40mm grenade on or in the house and a moment later, as the soldier had foreseen, two of the hajis boiled out of a rear door with AKs. He had a clear recollection of angry, dark eyes and moustaches as his rifle came up seemingly of its own will and fired two aimed shots at each man. The first seemed to trip and fell hard, headlong on the hardpan, weapon clattering, feet bouncing incongruously. The second man slowed, a hand reaching for his lower back. He stopped, turned slowly, rifle falling butt first. Bewildered, he sat heavily, cross-legged, and then fell back.

Wounded or very seriously dead, the soldier thought. Well, ishta to you, boys. He crouched, scanned for danger, saw none, heard familiar voices from inside the house: "Clear!" "Clear here!" The soldier moved cautiously to the downed hajis, vaguely registering the plaudits of the men behind him who, of course, had his back all along, would have followed him anywhere: "Way to be, El Tee!" "El Tee brought smoke on them mother fuckers, that's what I'm talking about!"

But the soldier saw only the Poor Fucking Arab, who was barely alive. Their eyes locked; he could not look away. The haji looked up at the last face he would ever see and his lips moved silently. What are you trying to say, Abdul? A prayer? Fuck you? They looked into one another's souls for long, long moments and the soldier watched the light slowly fade from the man's eyes, and the face that would haunt him went slack.

The connection broke when the steady, irreplaceable Sergeant Mabry came to report. "All clear, El Tee. One inside and two out here. Nobody hurt. It's all over." But, apparently, it was not over. And perhaps not ever, not over.

******

Several weeks had passed since Russell's visit, and to an outside observer it would have appeared that little had changed regarding the relationship between Cathy and the student; matured, grown more comfortable, but not materially changed. Yet it had become increasingly clear to Cathy that their relationship had become more complex than she cared to admit. She had begun to take notice of Paul in ways that undeniably evoked strong feelings, feelings that some inner voice told her were wrong, that it was not the time, that she was not right for him; but she had also asked herself, why not? The fact that she found no answer disturbed her.

For his part, Paul had for some time made up his mind about Cathy, but misjudged her reluctance and blamed himself, quietly cursing his awkwardness. The student was not shy; he was by nature and training confident, assertive and aggressive to the very edge of rashness. But his recent experience had been in the company of men and in matters of romance he knew he was inexperienced. He desperately wanted to take their relationship to another level, and planned his next move as carefully as an engineer.

He conceived the idea that we would ask her to accompany him to some public event, something in which she might have an interest, so that she could, if she wished, see it as something less than a date; he could build from that. An ethnic street festival the previous weekend had seemed the perfect opportunity; sorry, she could not; she had to take her mother to visit a former neighbor in a nursing home; she would have loved to go. The student was not sure whether it had been a rejection or a reasonable excuse, and looked for another opening.

And so, three months to the day after he had appeared on her doorstep, neither realized how close they were to a happy collision. That Saturday morning they drove to the park for what had become a ritual run. Cathy was now jogging six laps, while Paul circled her several times. Each time he passed, with a word and wave of encouragement, Cathy found herself admiring his broad shoulders and tight cheeks, noticeable even through his sweatpants. When she had finished and stopped, he caught up and stood beside her.

"Good run. Feeling OK?"

"Fine. But my feet hurt."

"That's not right. Mind if I have a look?" He made her sit on a bench and took off her shoes.

She was embarrassed by the attention. "Paul, you don't have to do that. I'm OK. They're just sore."

"Hey, who knows feet better than I? These aren't the greatest socks for running." He began to massage her feet.

As soon as he started, she relaxed. God, that felt good. Is there nothing he can't do? "Paul, that's wonderful. You're fantastic."

He looked up, deep into her eyes. "Fantastic, huh? That's a big step up from being a nice guy."

She blushed, recalling one of their first conversations.

He continued to knead her feet, more slowly now, his mind somewhere else. "You know, when we first started having our talks I was struck by how intelligent and conversational you were. I've learned a lot from you, seen things through you that I had never thought of before. Told you things about myself that I've never told anyone. For a while I thought of you as a good friend. But now I find that I've become very attracted to you. More than just very attracted." Eye contact again, deep blue eyes. "Do you think we can go somewhere from here?"

Cathy felt her heart start to melt. And yet some damn thing inside her made her say all the wrong things. "Oh, Paul. Don't make a mistake. I don't think I'm the right woman for you. You need someone who's like you, fresh, just starting out. You're going to want to leave here, have a family. I don't know that I could give you what you want." How, why did I say that?

"I'm sorry. I hoped the chemistry would work both ways. I guess I was wrong."

"No, Paul, that isn't it at all. Of course I am attracted to you, too. More than I want."

Disappointment turned to encouragement. "Then you're a little embarrassed. Your friends would laugh at you for getting involved with your student tenant."

"That's not even close. Connie says I'm a darn fool if I don't grab you. You're too good for either of us."

"So you're afraid that if we got involved, it might not last. That one day you'll become a different person, or I will, and you'll have to drop me and I'll be hurt." Or you will, he thought.

Her eyes began to tear up, and he read the answer.

"Cathy, do you have any idea how many times I've been dropped from a thousand feet without getting hurt? I don't want to live month to month, waiting for conditions to get perfect so that happiness can just happen. I can make up my mind to be happy today. Tomorrow or next year will bring what it brings. I know you've been hurt, badly hurt. I've never experienced a hurt like that, so I'm out of bounds giving you advice. But I think you can choose, make a decision to smell the flowers in front of you right now." He paused, not knowing whether he had said enough, or perhaps too much.

She wanted to reach down for him, but her arms would not move; wanted to speak, but no words came, and the moment was lost. Paul stood, feeling awkward, then knelt again and slipped on her shoes. "Well, think about it. I'll run in and meet you at the car." He stepped back, paused, then turned and jogged off.

In that moment, she made up her mind. She was a fool, she thought. Of course he was right. And right for her, right now. She only had to allow herself to trust him, and she already trusted him. Just be a little vulnerable, she thought, take a chance and the heck with anything else. But he's more fragile than he looks. After everything I've said, he's going to need some encouragement. That's it. I'm going to seduce this guy, very soon, and I'm going to do it right. Well, maybe seduce isn't the right word; I'm sure he's ready. And so, already thinking of just how she would elegantly and romantically smooth him into her bed, while preserving the fiction that it was entirely his doing, she rose and started in.

She had not gone a quarter of the oval, a half-formed plan taking shape in her mind, when she saw to her horror that her soldier (for that was how she now thought of him) was under attack. Even worse, he appeared to be totally unaware of the danger.

The assault was being mounted by a young woman, a very attractive young woman in disgustingly tight shorts, who had engaged the soldier in conversation. And now she was pressing the attack, smiling coyly, batting her eyelashes, thrusting forward her very ample bosom; hands clasped behind her back, talons slowly extending.

Cathy broke into a run.

She arrived on the scene just in time (enemy breaching the perimeter wire, sentries still asleep). Paul looked up, but before he could congratulate her on a strong finish, she slipped her arm through his, fixed their opponent with a smile that had all the warmth and sincerity normally associated with a middle-aged flight attendant on a crowded red-eye, and inquired sweetly, "Who's your friend, Paul?"

The assault paused, taken aback by this riposte from the flank. Breasts and talons began to retract.

"Uh, actually, I didn't get your name, Miss..."

Now the attack halted in confusion, the assailant unnerved by Cathy's steely gaze, which was firmly focused on a point approximately one foot to the left and some ten feet beyond her rival.

She was Mary Lou; she had not seen your friend, but she was very pleased to meet you both; she came here frequently but had not seen you before; now perhaps she had better get on with her workout or she would have to stretch out again, ha ha; and maybe she will run into you both again.

Cathy watched with grim satisfaction as the retreat ebbed away, guidons trailing in the dust.

Paul glanced at Cathy, at the discomfited Mary Lou, back to Cathy. He had the vague notion that something had happened just outside his field of vision, perhaps something interesting, but he could not quite put his finger on it. The student was not slow, far from it, but in this case he had been distracted by the very delightful feel of Cathy's breast against his upper arm, and was wondering how he could contrive to keep it there. He felt he had a silence to fill, but could think of nothing to say beyond "Well, shall we go?"

He started to turn, mentally kicking himself for being a tongue-tied oaf, when Cathy said brightly, "Wait. I didn't give you my answer." Turning him to face her, she put both arms around his neck and kissed him. The kiss began softly, searchingly, than with increasing passion as she pressed her body against his.

Paul was momentarily surprised, but had wanted to do this for so long, and had mentally rehearsed just how he would do it, that he caught up immediately. With both arms around her wonderfully slim waist he pulled her even closer, startled himself by an instant and unmistakable reaction which was now pressing against her abdomen, and instinctively pulled back. Cathy would have none of that. She thrust her hips forward to maintain a full body contact and to let him know that she knew what that was, and liked it very much.

Another long, passionate kiss, and she felt comfortable with the rising heat in her body, as if they had been lovers forever. They broke, and she said softly, "Take me home, please."

Now they were in his car, and the darned console prevented her from sitting in his lap, from crawling under his skin as she wanted to do (which was just as well for the safety of the motoring public, for Paul was already mightily distracted), and Cathy had to be content with holding his hand in both of her own. She felt excited, giddy, and it caused her to tease.

"Honestly, Paul, I can't believe how that girl was hitting on you."

"Hitting on me? No, it was just talk-talk."

"That's not what her body language said."

"You can ready body language? Maybe that's something else you can teach me. And what about my body language? What was I saying?"

"Mm, you didn't seem to be picking up on it."

They were stopped now, at an interminable traffic light. He reached over, stroked her face, the back of her neck, creating a tingle which spread across her shoulders and down her back.

"Did my body language say that I wanted to touch her?"

"That feels good."

"Until you teach me this body language, I guess I'll just have to ask questions. I have a couple of questions for you now, if you don't mind."

"Anything."

Horns blared from behind. Paul calmly pulled ahead, stopped, looked into her eyes. Did he know how sensuous they were?

"Who has the most beautiful hazel eyes that look all the way into my soul, you, or that blind girl in the park?"

"Paul..."

"Say, I do."

A giggle. "I do."

"And who has a fully functional mind that keeps me interested, that I can talk to for hours, you, or that little dummy in the park?"

"She..."

"Say, me."

"Me."

"Who has the most fantastic legs and the most beautiful tight behind in the county, you, or the fat girl in the park?" His hand moved to her leg, creating another tingle which spread upward to join the first.

Another giggle. "OK, me."

"One more." Confident now, caution thrown to the wind. "And who, this very day, is going to find herself in bed with a thoroughly aroused young paratrooper? You, or that poor little thing in the park? And if you have any trouble with this one, I can help."

"Me. I want it to be me."

Another long kiss, and they drove home in happy silence. In the driveway he hesitated, but she was ready for him. "I'd like to take a shower now. Will you wash my back?"

"I'll follow you anywhere."

They undressed each other in the bathroom, feverishly, between deep, passionate kisses and the sight of her body drove him crazy with desire. But when they broke to enter the shower he felt nervous, almost awkward, and told her so. She simply smiled, handed him the soap, and asked him to go to work.

In a burst of inspiration, he soaped her back, then his chest, wrapped his arms around her and slid up and down and around, proclaiming himself her washcloth. She loved it. Cathy reached back to hold his thighs against her as he slowly lathered her stomach, her breasts, especially those, everything within reach.

Then it was her turn, and before she was finished he thought that he would never make it to the bed, would have to have her there in the bathroom and, never having made love standing up, was trying to visualize how, or whether, it could be done. But then she had a towel and they dried each other lasciviously, or at least as erotically as an extra-thick towel would permit, Paul desperately hoping that he would not climax before they got out of the bathroom.

And then Cathy was in the bed, sheet up to her neck so fast that it gave him the instant, ridiculous recollection of the ballplayer who was so quick, it was said, that he could turn out the light and get into bed before the room got dark. How could I think of that at a time like this? He covered his nervousness by posing for her, turning slowly around. "Well, here I am. Here's all of me. I hope you're not disappointed."

"Get in here, you gorgeous man, and love me."

Paul slipped into bed and found that the desperate passion he felt in the bathroom had abated a little, and so had hers, and they explored each other slowly, gently, starting all over again. He felt a consuming desire to make it good – more than good, memorable – for her.  "Cathy, I want to learn to make love to you just the way you like. Will you tell me when I'm getting it right?"

"Oh, oh, just like you're doing."

More mutual caressing, and he could feel his passion, and hers, rising again. He let his hand trail lightly down across her stomach, lower, until he brushed her curls and heard her breath catch. Rolling slightly on top of her, another passionate kiss, and he gently slid his knee between her legs. She opened for him, and he moved his knee higher and then she raised her hips against it, firmly in place, and sighed as he massaged her with his leg, his hand occupied on her breast.

"They're too small, but it feels wonderful when you do that."

"They're perfect. Exquisite. Two of your finest assets."

He released her, finally, carefully removed his leg and his fingers moved down, this time all the way and into her. Wow, she's really ready. As he explored her – does this work for you? And this? – he sensed her breathing change: faster, shorter, her hands clutching his shoulders, tighter still.

"Oh, your fingers are magic. That feels so good. Paul, I'm ready for you. I want you."

Paul moved on top of her, guided himself in. He tried to be oh, so gentle, to go slow, but could not stop until he was buried. She was so smooth, warm, tight.

"You feel wonderful. We fit like a pair of spoons."

"Heavenly."

Now he began to move, slowly, not thrusting for his own pleasure but rocking gently, riding her high, maintaining smooth contact with her special spot, and Cathy felt the most intense pleasure spreading throughout her body.

"Oh, just like that. Don't stop." Make it last forever, she thought.

Her words increased his own pleasure, and he had to force himself to concentrate on her enjoyment to hold back his passion. He began to feel her body twitch, her arms tightened on his back, and he picked up the pace, a little more forceful and insistent. Cathy held her breath, tensed, convulsed three, four, five times and then relaxed, totally spent. Paul paused, not wanting to spoil her moment; he looked at her face, her eyes closed, and felt a loving, tender satisfaction. But then his own need took over, urgent now.

Conscious of his weight of her, he raised up, arms straight and began to slowly drive into her. Cathy opened her eyes, stroked his arms and chest. "You really are fantastic. Better than fantastic."

No reply; the student was very close now, holding his breath, and in a few hard, faster strokes she felt him tense, spasm inside her for long seconds and with a long sigh relax completely onto her. Cathy stroked his back; I'm all his, and he's mind; and she was so, so satisfied.

Dinner was late that night, very late, for the student felt so blessed to have Cathy where he wanted her that he was reluctant to let her out of bed, as if the opportunity might never come again. They made love a second time, this time with Cathy on top so that Paul might have both hands free for other duties, and while it might not, to Paul's later recollection, have been quite as spectacular as the first, it was very close. At last he relented; in point of fact, was not sure he could perform again for a while; and allowed her to suggest a restaurant. He pointed out that he would have to leave her for perhaps as much as five minutes in order to find clothes; was not sure he could be away from her for that long. She smiled, hugged him, replied that it would take her much longer to get ready, and pushed him playfully from the room.