To Begin Again

After she showed me to a small guest bedroom with large windows overlooking the liver-shaped pool in the enclosed backyard Lenora told me she had to go out for a few minutes.  She was looking after a neighbor's cat and dog, letting the canine out to do its business, making sure the animals got fed properly because the neighbor's PetChef robot was on the fritz.  Lenora told me to make myself comfortable, that she'd be back in half an hour.

I set my rucksack down on the brown Newgahyde recliner, stepped over to a window and stared out for a moment at the ocean-blue water in the pool, then turned to survey my surroundings.  The first thing I saw--in a vacant spot on a shelf of an otherwise jam-packed bookcase--was a 3 X 5 framed photo that had special significance to me.  The image showed one side of the LangLit Building, specifically the section of windows where the offices of the teaching assistants were located.  In one of those offices--B-346--our desks had sat next to each other.  Lenora had snapped the photo after we were married and living in NoCal when she had returned to our alma mater for a three-day conference.  She gave the framed photo to me as a present, and I had inadvertently left it behind after the divorce--just one of many things left behind.

Sitting on the desk next to a brand new Osprey computer was another small photo, a 4 X 6-inch image of Lenora and me in a forest just off the trail to Thumb Butte outside of Prescott, Arizona.  When I picked it up and inspected the picture closely I marveled at how young we looked.  I had trouble imagining that I had ever been that youthful.  I remembered the trip well.  It was the very first semester of school, a few months after we both had entered the MFA writing program at Tucson State (now SAU) and had accepted an offer from our writing teacher, Herb Wooster, to use his cabin on Spruce Mountain for a weekend getaway.

Wooster had showed up unexpectedly on Saturday afternoon, putting the complete kibosh on any plans Lenora and I had for a romantic interlude from schoolwork.  In fact, it was Herb who took that photo of us near Thumb Butte during a short Sunday-morning hike before we all headed back to the Old Pueblo.  Herb was totally infatuated with Lenora, and he couldn't keep away from her.  He had no control over himself when it came to her--or to the alcohol.

I remembered with absolute clarity the first time I saw her on that very first day of Herb's class.  She entered the room fifteen minutes after the period had begun and glided like the apparition of a Greek goddess in front of all the students to take a vacant seat at the front of the very last row.  Herb's mouth hung open after being interrupted in mid-speech, and he watched in stunned silence her progress to the desk, like a dog transfixed by a cottontail bunny rabbit, until realizing how powerless he appeared to the class.  He needn't have worried, though, because every red-blooded male in that room was staring hungrily at her as if she were First Woman.

I was fascinated, too, not only because of her physical beauty, but by the behavior she exhibited throughout the rest of the semester.  On every class day, like clockwork, she arrived fifteen minutes late to the session, and each time it was like the very first day all over again.  She would enter, Herb would be struck dumb, all male students would watch her slow passage in front of the classroom to her seat, all unable to breathe until she had sat down.  She very rarely participated in class discussions, but whenever we workshopped her stories it became clear that she possessed a very rare talent:  the ability to tell a good story while mesmerizing readers with words.

Every man in that room, including our teacher, tried to engage with her at one time or another during break or after class, but it was me to whom she chose to talk.  It was just after the students had workshopped one of my stories when she approached, delivering a heart-stopping smile before speaking.  "I like the way you portray women," she said.  "They're not just physical objects--the target of horny-man desires--but three-dimensional characters with intellect.  I think I'd like to know you better."

"That can be arranged," I said.

What had come out as a dorky rejoinder from me, in fact, made her smile.

"How about we go for a beer Friday after class?" she said.

"Nothing I'd like better."

We walked together to the bar on Speedway, a place called The Pity Shop, where we sat at a booth and ordered a pitcher of beer.  We were each into our second glass when Herb Wooster came stumbling out of the bathroom bumping into tables and chairs, drawing angry protests from student revelers.  On spotting us he angled over to our booth, unceremoniously slipping into the seat next to me.  He was obviously hammered.

"How are you so fortunate, Rowe," he said, "to warrant the company of this lovely, talented lady?"

"Just lucky, I guess."

He reached across the table, took her hand and, half-standing, leaned forward to kiss the back of it.  But he lost his balance, fell forward and knocked the almost-empty glass pitcher to the floor.  Fortunately it missed Lenora.

I wanted to call him a drunken fool to his face, to embarrass him in front of the bar patrons, but how does one do that to one's professor.  Instead, I helped him to his feet, brushing a gray olive pit from his forehead, which had become embedded there after he nearly dipped his nose into an overflowing ashtray.

"My apologies," he said.  "My sincere apologies.  Obviously I've had a few too many.  I'll see if I can't get one more for the road after I make my adieus to you good people."

As he stumbled toward the bar Lenora giggled.  She said, "You're a kind person, Lee Rowe.  A lesser man would have cold-cocked him."

"I have a feeling that wouldn't have done much for my grade."

"Well, have a long gander at that fool," she said, "because that man is going to help me become the hottest young author around."

I didn't get a chance to fully consider what she meant because I could feel her tapping on my shoulder now, and when I turned to look I found her shaking her head, gently removing the photo of us near Thumb Butte from my hand.

"You've made a wrong turn here, Lee," she said.  "Don't go down that road.  You're flailing now, grasping at straws.  You have to think about moving forward.  Dwelling on the past won't necessarily give these characters more depth or grant special insight into their motivations."

She set the photo on the desk next to the computer.

I said, "What ever happened to that old chump?"

"He's still alive, well over one hundred years old, a professor emeritus.  An assistant wheels him into the department every morning and watches after him while he sits staring out a window overlooking the campus.  You know they've named the building after him?"

"No?"

"The Herbert Hoover Wooster LangLit Building," she said.  "When his parents died they left him a fortune.  After he retired he gave millions to the university."

"Is the old lech still hitting on you?"

"There was talk last year that he'd had an eRecto app implanted in his prostate, and for a few months he was rolling around the halls in his wheelchair trying to get coeds to sit on his lap.  Funny about bad habits, isn't it?  They seem to die hard."

"Seems he wanted to die hard, too," I said.

"Speaking of bad habits, you've gotten into a few with your fiction, Lee.  Maybe we can discuss it later.  I am, after all, a teacher of writing."

"Remember how we agreed to never read each other's work because we couldn't tolerate the criticism?  I'm not sure I'd react differently to your opinion now."

"Whatever.  Perhaps you'll be more receptive to what my students have to say tomorrow in class."

"Perhaps."

She told me I'd have to fend for myself the rest of the day because she had a meeting to attend at the university.  And this evening she was going to a party that could stretch into the wee hours.

"Not a problem."

"You can watch a movie on Vusion," she said.  "I have a wide selection.  I even own a little gem called Utomepia, which I actually bought.  Not a bad film."

She left a little before noon, and after she'd gone I ordered a PB&J on sourdough and a glass of apple juice to wash it down.  About half an hour later I decided to go for a dip in the pool.  It had been so long since I'd been swimming I honestly couldn't remember when.  Since I had no bathing trunks I looked in the dresser drawers and the closet, thinking maybe Lenora kept a spare pair around.  No luck.  I didn't want to get my cargo shorts wet, so I figured I could go in with my skivvies.  But by the time I got outside I'd decided to take the plunge nude.  No point in soaking my underwear.

The water was body temperature, and instantly relaxing.  I'd been a pretty good swimmer as a kid, and now I ran through a few different strokes:  the crawl, the butterfly, the breaststroke.  It was when my ears broke the surface during the latter maneuver that I heard a girl's voice.  My eyes were a little blurry from chlorine, but when I pulled up to tread water I saw a teenager standing right next to my shorts and skivvies.

"How did you get in here?" I said.

She said, "Aren't you going to do the backstroke so I can see the shark's fin?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm Dee--Lenora's next-door neighbor."

She was wearing denim cutoffs cropped at crotch level, and a wide-mesh black tube top that left little to the imagination, even though there was little to see.

I said, "Listen, Dee, I don't think it's a very good idea for you to be here.  How did you get in, anyway?"

"Over the wall.  Lenora lets me use the pool whenever I want.  Who are you?"

"An old friend of hers."

"What's your name?"

"Lee."

"Oooh--I like that name," she said.  "Lenora never told me she had a handsome friend."

"That's very flattering, Dee, but how about you hop back over the wall now?"

"Tell you what--you do the backstroke so I can see the shark fin, and I'll go."

"What shark fin?"

"You're not really that obtuse, are you?  Perhaps I should have called it a 'sailboard mast.'"

"Oh, no," I said.  "That's not going to happen."

"I'm going to have a look one way or another," she said, stooping to pick up my shorts and underwear.  "What are these?" she said, coyly.

"Come on, Dee.  Don't play around."

She put the skivvies to her nose and inhaled deeply.  "Ah, scent of a man," she said.

The shock didn't have a chance to register in my brain because, just then, a woman's voice vaulted over the wall from the house next door.  "Dolores--where are you?"

A horrified look came over Dee's pretty young face as she went running for the wall separating the two properties.  A millisecond later the head of an attractive, dark-haired woman popped above the top.  All she had to do was look straight down and she'd see the teenage girl standing with my shorts and skivvies in hand.  Instead, the woman stared directly at me.

"Oh, hello," she said.  "I'm sorry to intrude.  I was looking for my daughter."

The situation was perilous.  In my lower peripheral vision I could see Dee rapidly shaking her head "no."

"Haven't seen her," I said.

"Sorry about that," the woman said.  "Dolores frequently swims over there.  I didn't realize Lenora had company."

"No problem," I said, not wanting to extend the conversation.

"Apologies," she said, her head disappearing below the wall.  But she bounced back up a second later.  "Hey--if you and Lenora feel like it drop by this evening for a drink."

"Thanks for the invite," I said, "but she's attending a party tonight."

"That's too bad--but you're still welcome to stop over."

"If I'm not too busy," I said.

She said, "Later."

When we heard a screen door slide shut, Dee dropped my clothes, dashed to climb a small trellis near the house, peeked over the wall, then disappeared into her yard.

I figured I'd better get out of the pool while the getting was good, and I had just climbed to the edge and begun a sprint toward my clothes when I heard Dee say, "Now that's what I call 'well hung.'"

She was leering at me like a sex-starved geriatric, and I had to quickly cup my hands over my private bits.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," I said.

She giggled before disappearing again.



For dinner I had gemelli with sweet sausage and spinach, a salad and a NuMeade, all while I sat in the living room eating from a VuTray and listening to the 24/7 NewsChat on Vusion.  When I finished I was about to order up another NuMeade when the front doorbot said, "Visitor."

When I checked the peepscreen I saw it was the woman from next door--Dee's mother.  I hesitated a moment thinking I wouldn't answer; but a second later I unlatched the bolt.  I had just leaned my head forward to peer through the crack when she forced herself in without invite.

I could smell the alcohol on her breath when she said, "If I'm interrupting something, apologies in advance, but I just couldn't let it go that we didn't formally introduce ourselves when we met earlier.  I'm Charlotte Hazeltine, Dolores's mother."

"Lee Crowe," I said, taking the hand she extended to shake.

It was a very nice hand, smelling vaguely of toilet water.  She wore a bronziere, one of those gold metal bras shaped like old-time mortar shells, and a black tutiny, a bodice-and-miniskirt facsimile of a ballerina's outfit, replete with black satin panties underneath.  If the images I'd seen earlier on Vusion were any indication it seemed tutinies were all the rage.

When I wriggled my fingers to escape her vice-like grip, she said, "You look so familiar.  Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I don't think so."

As her penciled-black eyebrows knitted together I examined her pretty face, thinking that the perfectly round red circles of rouge adorning her cheeks were a bit too bright.  It was clear, though, where her daughter had got her good looks.

Charlotte said, "Gee, it's a shame Lenora isn't here, but we can still share a drink.  Want to come over?"

I was about to suggest we have a drink here when something on Vusion caught my attention.  The 24/7 NewsChat anchor, her voice like the mellifluous song of a mockingbird, was saying, "We have breaking news.  Freedom Fugitives Felicia Monk and her infamous father, Zen, have been taken into custody near Creel in the state of Chihuahua.  They're being escorted to the federal agententiary in Ciudad Juarez, Texas."

I walked like a zombie back into the living room and stood in front of the parabolic screen that stretched across an entire wall watching video of Felicia and Zen, their hands cuffed behind their backs, being herded by BookForce marshals toward a black penal utility vehicle.

Just then the zPhone in the crotch pocket of my cargo shorts began vibrating madly.  Until then I'd forgotten I still carried it with me.

To Charlotte, who had wandered into the living room behind me, I said, "Please excuse me."

When I put the phone to my ear a male voice said, "Is this Lee?"

"Who's this?"

"It's Jesus, amigo.  Did you catch the news?"

"I did."

"You've got to help me do something about it, hombre.  Felicia's the love of my life."

"Let me call you back in a few minutes.  I can't talk right now."

When I rang off I said to Charlotte, "I'm sorry.  It's business.  Perhaps I can take a rain check?"

"Absolutely," she said.  "If you finish up early, just drop over and ring my bell."

After I showed her out, I stood thinking for a moment.  I understood Jesus's anguish, but I wasn't sure what either of us could do for Felicia now.  And for me true danger lay in wait should I agree to help.