Vanessa

by David Howells

Chapter 19 – CHANGING ATTITUDES

  Vanessa was at the Homestead. She said a prayer for guidance and strength, for both would most likely be needed today. Coming back still gave her a feeling of knee weakness. They weren’t really weak, but that was the way the spirit mind worked. Feelings existed in mortal and spirit beings. The ways feelings were interpreted in life carried over to the afterlife.

  Jason and Rebecca caught sight of her right away and their smiles erased her nervousness. Vanessa held up one finger in the universal sign of ‘hold on, be there soon’, and turned to approach the main house porch. Mad Annie was there, looking hard at her. Not angry, just hard.

  “Good morning to you, Annie. My but it’s a fine day today. You are well, I hope?”

  “Doing just fine, Dearie. You are a little late for breakfast, sorry. Did you eat already?’’

  Vanessa heard the hope and nervousness in Annie’s voice. This WAS a key. Now, how did one turn it safely? “Oh yes, stuffed like Tom Turkey at Thanksgiving. Please don’t trouble yourself.” Annie's face showed visible relief. Good. Keep the flow going. Listen more, talk less. “So, things seem pretty lively here. Is it some kind of celebration for your family, or for the Southern Army?” Now, shut up and open your ears.

  Mad Annie looked at the heightened activity. People (that worked for her?) were here that she had never seen before. She hadn’t sent for them and she didn’t have a clue as to why they were doing what they were doing. There were men and women building something beyond the front fence that looked like grandstands. There were others working with wires in the ground. Still more were putting up stands, kind of like what you would see at a bazaar. What in the name of Heavenly Glory was going on and how could she admit to this nice visitor, the only one who has talked to her in a coon’s age, that the Lady of the Estate was befuddled?

  “Well, I do believe it is being done by the Milledgeville Women’s Auxiliary to welcome my Archibald and his soldiers in a triumphant return.” she lied. “It should be quite a sight to see. Will you, um, be around for it?” She hoped not.

  Vanessa gave an honest answer through a less than honest smile. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m sure it will be something neither of us will soon forget.”

  Mad Annie’s smile didn’t fade, but her eyes betrayed her. Vanessa made a mental note that she should be there well before the big day’s festivities began to add more confusion to the mixture.

  Things were getting uncomfortable again for Mad Annie. That seemed to happen whenever this Vanessa woman came round. She seemed friendly enough. Maybe there had been just too few social callers recently and there was a natural awkwardness. That would pass in time with practice, wouldn’t it?

  “Annie, Honey, I’m sure you have lots to do, inside the house, to get ready. Why there must he a thousand details to see to. Everything has to be ready for your Archibald, right?” Vanessa nodded her head slightly as she spoke to encourage agreement on Annie’s part. “You don’t want him to think you’ve been lazy in his absence, do you?” Vanessa shook her head slightly to emphasize the negative. Ryan called this visual linguistics when it applied to him, but female manipulation of poor, unsuspecting and naive men when the shoe was on the other foot.

  “No, er, yes, and, I mean, I had better get a move on. There is so much to do, you are right on that point. Now don’t you bother with me, Dearie. I’ll be out later, if you have a mind to stick around. The children might like your company a spell, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all, Dearie. You just go and get your house ready. I’ll be fine, just fine.”

  Jason and Rebecca had been watching all along. There was their mother, the woman they nursed from, learned from; the one that let them die every day, no longer fed them and hardly ever spoke to them. They were sure the person who looked like their mother was their mother, but somehow, not sure. Then there was Vanessa. They had seen her many times, but only since the last two days had she been actually speaking to them. There was the familiarity of having seen her, that she never changed (she and they always wore the same clothes). There was the fact that she came up and talked to them like they were real, something they long thirsted for. She also had spoken to them of helping them, help which their mother had denied them. How could that be? Had Rebecca been alive, she would have had faced serious problems with maternal role modeling when maturity arrived in her life.

  A child psychologist would gear up to deal with emotional scars, aberrant behavior, codependency, arrested development and a dozen other catch words that tried to describe the sad effects of what happens when ‘childhood’ was ripped from ‘child’. Vanessa had given all of this long and considered thought. She wasn’t there, though, to be their therapist. Her goal was to get these children to where the greatest therapist of all was waiting for them. The soldiers were also important, very important. Each was a soul created by the same authority that created these children. But values are skewed by the human desire to protect the young at all costs. If God were to think otherwise, then that was God’s business. He made her like she was, so He must have had a damn, uh, darn good reason for it.

  “Hello Jason, Rebecca! What a fine day it is today. Just look at all the colors and all the people busy working. Isn’t it grand?”

  “Sure is!” said Rebecca, getting her two cents in first this time. Vanessa smiled inside to think that sibling rivalry could go on beyond the grave.

  Vanessa would take this in baby steps. “Do you know what is happening here?”

  Jason chimed in this time. “Kind of, Miss Vanessa. We’ve seen doings like this in the past, but never this big.”

  “Well children, I made a promise to help you. My friends are going to help me make that come true. They can do many great things and you are seeing a small part of our plan. I can’t tell you yet when it is going to happen, but it will be soon, real soon.”

  Jason looked at Vanessa in that hard sort of way. He truly bore resemblance to his mother when he did that, she thought. He said, “You don’t want us to give the plan away to Mamma. That’s why you don’t tell us. When we had others our age to play with, we never told secrets to anyone that couldn’t keep a secret. You don’t trust us, Miss Vanessa?”

  Ryan had forewarned Vanessa that this kind of question might come up, thanks to a ‘heads up’ from Rachel. That didn’t stop Vanessa from feeling as naked as the Emperor with the penchant for new clothes.

  “Jason, mothers can sense things about their children. I know, I was a mother, once. I can‘t lie to you because you would see right through me. You can’t lie to your mother either, if she were to ask you straight out.”

  That’s when Rebecca burst Vanessa’s bubble. “But Miss Vanessa, Jason and I don’t get to talk to her hardly at all. She doesn’t pay any attention to us ‘cept once in a while. Miss Vanessa, is that really our Mommy?”

  OK crew, ten minutes. Break for commercial. She’d been cornered and never saw it coming. How proud her friends had been of her cleverness with Mad Annie. How proud would they still be when they hear that a little girl pulled the rug out from under her? This was no place for lies, and putting off answering risked losing precious trust. (“Double farts, with cheese sauce!”)

  “Rebecca, that was a simple question, but simple questions sometimes require very hard answers. If we are going to be a team that wins, then we have to trust each other fully. We can have no secrets. I see that now.”

  Both came closer as she motioned them in. An atmosphere of collusion grew. “If everything goes as planned, you will have to endure the horsemen two more times. On the third day, all the soldiers escape and you two, as well.” Vanessa looked at the house. Annie was not to be seen. Was she afraid of Vanessa? Not likely, given Annie’s power rating. She was more likely nervous about Vanessa putting her into another no-win situation like the food request. That would bare her insanity to scrutiny
and that was intolerable to the crippled shard of the poor children’s mother.

  For everything, there is a season. A time to play safe, a time to take a chance. “Children, we are going to take this a little step at a time. You have to know, if you don’t already, that you and your mother died a long time ago. Do you know that?” Slow nods answered her. “I’m dead too. Most people die and go on to see God. I never did, because I still have some work to do here before it’s my time to move on. Do you understand that also?”

  Jason asked, “Miss Vanessa, are we the reason you are staying here and not going to God?”

  She was going to have to give a pre-emptive tissue alert when she got back tonight. “Yes, Jason. I didn’t know it until just a short time ago, but yes. It’s been very hard to find out how to help you, your mother and the soldiers at the same time. All of you should have moved on to God, but didn’t. That is a situation we are going to fix.”

  Here goes. “The person you see on the porch every day is only a part of your mother’s spirit, a part that is brain sick. This part isn’t thinking right and can’t see or understand what she is doing. If she were well, your mother would never, ever, let any of this happen to you. To fix things, we have to do things that are going to upset her, a lot. That would bother any son or daughter. Yon have to understand that we are going to have to frighten her to get her to let go of you and the soldiers. It is her sickness that is making her hold everyone here. The trick is to break that grip without hurting her. We are going to do it in three days. That’s a lot to take in. Do you understand me?”

  Four eyes knocked at the door of Vanessa’s soul. She let them in. Trust was either complete, or gone. There were no degrees here. She remained completely passive as the search continued. It was an odd feeling, being scrutinized by a little boy and girl, especially when her service to them was a big part of her reason for being on Earth. They needed each other. They saw that, and that was what turned the final switch.

  “What do you want me and my brother to do?”

  The ride seemed, different. Not a lot, but when you have been doing the same thing every day for tens of thousands of days, you notice little changes. It wasn’t the scenery or anything new that mortal folk had placed along their paths. The men began to look around nervously. Change involves the unknown. The unknown causes fear. Even Purgatory offers comfort in repetition. Better the Hell you know than the Hell you don’t.

  Private Elijah Cooper trotted up to his Commanding Officer. “Sir?”

  “I feel it, too. And I, I hear it?” The Major looked around. Someone was singing. How long had it been since any had felt up to raising their voices in song, not under orders to do so, that is?

  “Hurrah for the Union! Hurrah boys, hurrah! Down with the traitor and up with the flag...”

  Major Benjamin Covington, US Army, Third Division, XX Corps, said, “Well I’ll be hanged. Private Patterson?”

  Mad Annie felt it unraveling. No, it couldn’t happen, not now, not ever! She had a mission, a goal: revenge! Over and over her mantra of purpose she repeated. With each repetition, the fire grew stronger. That woman had confused her. She might be well meaning, but she had confused her. No longer. “NO!”

  Mad Annie walked to the front porch. There was that woman, telling stories to her children. Let her. She was cheap entertainment for Jason and Rebecca while she did more important work. She looked to the north, then to the west. Yes, to the west. That’s where her work lay. Her hands drew up into fists and her whole being tensed as a spring in a watch wound tight. The power was returning. Annie was back. The real one. Not that insane ninny.

  Vanessa had forgotten to ask her friends for story suggestions. After telling the children the plan and helping them over at least some of their fears of change, she had recalled the story about a Dutch boy and a leaking dike. The story was dim in her memory, but continued unfolding itself in the telling so that even she was entertained at discovering the storyline again. Something was in the air, though. The light in the children’s eyes was still there, but not quite as sparkling as it was moments before.

  “Then the little Dutch boy placed his fingers in the dike. Night fell. His cries were not heard, but he could not leave his post lest the leak become a stream, then a torrent, and then become a flood that would end his village. He became weaker, but his spirit was strong, and he saved his village, at the cost of (something’s wrong) of his, life?”

  She turned slowly. Mad Annie was at the helm. The weakness and confusion she had seen before was gone and something in Vanessa said that re-establishing it would not be easy, if it were possible at all. Hope faltered. The enemy stood resilient and strong beyond her own strength. But little hands stopped Vanessa’s downward spiral. She looked down to eyes that trusted her, that were coming to love her, with hands that clasped about her own.

  The children had accepted her commitment and they didn’t give up as easily as wise adults did. “Miss Vanessa, don’t give up. Rebecca and me, we’ll do what has to be done. Please, we don’t have anyone else. You’re our only hope. We believe in you.”

  Madness has no logic or reason, but it does have purpose. Ryan had said that. Well Vanessa Blankenship Fitzgalen’s fire had purpose and reason. Her purpose didn’t include revenge, but it did have salvation, love and friendship. If what she had on her side didn’t win out over what madness had on its side, then what was the purpose of existence? She looked again at Mad Annie. She saw strength, but she also saw what so much strength almost always had. Brittleness. That was the key, she thought. Her next thought was an oath.

  “You and me, Bitch.”

  The breath of fresh air grew heavy again. Shoulders bowed again. The song the men had joined in with, stopped dead. The despair of prisoners who had been given a taste of freedom, only to have it ripped away, threatened to topple the underpinnings Major Covington had worn his heart out to create. He couldn’t let it happen, but what could he do? Fight it! That’s what soldiers do!

  “Soldiers of the Union,” he called, turning in his saddle on a horse now totally unresponsive to his wishes, “...our friends have given us a taste of what we are fighting to achieve, what we have fought for so long to win. The demon has rallied, but so did the South, many times. We won that war then and we will win our war now.”

  That yielded some response, but not enough. He needed more to stop the plummeting morale. “I have had the honor of fighting alongside the greatest military minds and bravest men in the world, but was never so honored as I am now to lead the men of this unit. We have won hard battles with Mrs. Edwards in the past and we will continue to strive until the last man has crossed over her terror into the land of milk and honey. Be strong my comrades! We will prevail/ I swear it by all that’s holy!”

  It was working, it was turning it around, when, “Is that what you think, to give empty words that shore up helpless wraiths bonded by Satan’s bride herself?”

  Patterson!

  “She only let a few of us go to give false hope to the rest and strengthen her grip on those left behind. I see nothing to fight for other than to trample that witch along with her demon spawned children!”

  Allen’s attention was drawn to Ryan, who stared ahead with grave concern etched on his face. “Ride, Allen, quickly! It’s falling apart!”

  Maribelle and Cumquat may be tame mares, but they ran damned hard until they were in the midst of cowed warhorse spirits ridden by spirits equally worn by burdens beyond measure. Allen knew things weren’t right and felt like a blind man in a theater fire, desperate to help, but helpless to do so. That prickling on the back of his neck was there, but it was different now. It felt like ‘afraid’.

  Major Covington looked at Ryan with a plea in his beleaguered face. That was all it took. Ryan knew that seconds now counted more than content. “SOLDIERS!” That got some attention. “I have a gift for each one of you.” La
me, but it got more. “It grieves me that I cannot give something you can hold and have always with you, but I think you will find what we have for you most rewarding.” Maribelle and Cumquat had settled into the ‘last-mile’ pace of their spiritual cousins.

  Allen wondered if their oddly named steeds were offering comfort and support to their own departed brethren. He smiled a little to think that (who knows with this group?) there was a great-times-ten grand horse in the equation. It would be possible to find that out, as horse breeding records were often better kept than human ones. As if he needed more to do.

  Ryan opened his saddlebag. Allen did likewise. Ryan nodded. The two took up the column’s rear, side by side. Ryan called out, “When I call your name, you will form up to my right, one at a time. When Allen calls your name, you will form up to his left. When we are finished with you, you will move ahead to let the next soldier have his turn. We will have to move smartly on this, for time is limited. We will break for the shopping plaza, then start again at the covered bridge. Is that clear, soldiers?”

  There was a chorus of tentative “Yes, Sir.”

  “Too weak,” thought Ryan.

  Major Covington boomed, “Is THAT any way for Union men to answer? Is there LACE in your underwear? The man asked you if that was clear. RESPOND!”

  “YES, SIR!”

  Allen called out, “ARNESON, PRIVATE MARSHALL.”

  Ryan called out, “BENSON, PRIVATE ARTEMUS.”

  Two soldiers dropped back and took their respective posts. Two envelopes were pulled from the bags and opened. Each mortal took out an 11x14 image and held it at 45 degrees to the lateral, 20 degrees forward tilt. Allen could only look right to Ryan for his cues to turn the picture over. At the nod, he did so at the same time as Ryan did. Allen looked down at his mother’s handwriting, which had lovingly labeled the computer image: “Mrs. Bernice Katherine Arneson, devoted wife of Private Marshall Arneson”.

  Another nod, another picture, another wait of twenty seconds, another turn. “Matthew Marshall Arneson, son of Private Marshall Arneson, age twelve. Quintavia Susanna Arneson, daughter, age nine.” Each man was allotted up to six pictures, depending on how many descendents there were, marital status and availability of pictures. Fortunately, the Civil War (if there was anything fortunate to be said of that epoch) had spurred an intense interest in photography. Pairs of soldiers were called so that each man shared the same number of available portraits. If there was the blessing of family group shots, those were synchronized and allowed a double time slot for full appreciation. This was not just a loving gift to spirits that once shared the mortality and humanity of their gift givers, it was a strategic morale builder that saved the whole mission. It was at times like these when Ryan began to lean further away from his closely held faith in free will. Each time he had encountered evidence that caused him to consider one way above the other, something happened to the contrary. He had a favorite saying to describe his frustration: “There is only one way to make God laugh. Tell Him your plans.”

  They had come to the last picture, which was returned to the packet. Ryan first looked to his right, listening, then to Allen’s left. He considered what he had heard, then smiled and nodded. He nodded again to Allen as he watched the two entities spur their mounts forward.

  “We’ll be bringing the pictures back again tomorrow, Allen. Your idea is working better than you planned.”

  Allen smiled as he called out, “BERDSLEY, PRIVATE CHARLES.”

  “BINGHAMPTON, SERGEANT PETER.”

  Annie felt strong and in control again but, to her frustration, felt little mice nibbling at the edge of her control. If she ever found those little mice, Lord have mercy on their souls. How did that story go? “Nibble, nibble, little mouse, who’s that nibbling on my house?” She had meant to tell that story to her children. Funny, she had never gotten around to it.

  Vanessa continued to tell stories. She spoke of when she was a little girl, of how the world had changed, how she had met Ryan, everything true and important to her that she could think of. The children had to know her like a big sister. They had to be fully connected if she was going to be able to do what she wanted to do. Falsehood ate trust like termites ate wood. If trust were to disappear, she felt sure that the connectedness she had to Jason and Rebecca would deteriorate. If connectedness left, she felt just as sure that her ability to hold the children would leave as well.

  “PATTERSON, PRIVATE JEDEDIAH.”

  “PERRY, PRIVATE KEVIN.”

  Jed had been sure he would be passed over, for he was not a member of this group, not really. They had always excluded him from their plans and, though that suited his purposes, it still hurt. Yet, his name was called and in order, like he was part of the squad. That felt, good, kind of. His expression changed, a little.

  Annie’s expression changed, a little. Vanessa saw it. Panic? Confusion? Now what was happening?

  “Natalie was sitting right there on the slide, smiling from ear to ear, still with clips in her pig tails and the same dress she wore that awful night.”

  “Really? Did it look anything like mine? Was she burned? How old was she? I’d love to meet her, can she come and play?”

  “One question at a time Rebecca. Now, lets see, her dress was plaid with gray and blue...”

  Jed hesitated, but the looks on the other men’s faces he had seen made him really wonder about what was happening. He had almost decided to ignore the call, but the Major had sidled up next to him.

  “Jed, we’ve had a lot of differences in the past. You once called me your Commanding Officer. What Ryan has to offer you will not cost you anything and may even give ease to the pain in your heart. I apologize to you, man to man, for not speaking to you earlier. Will you please take your place in our group and see what has been offered to you?”

  The bummer looked at the Major, then back to the mortals that awaited him, then back to the Major. “What could it hurt?”

  Jed took his station to Allen’s left, leaned forward and looked into Ryan’s eyes for the first time. He looked for the distrust he had come to know too well. All he saw was, what? He couldn’t tell.

  A nod. The first picture was pulled. Jed looked at a photograph that he had taken for his sisters to have when he left for the war. His beard was scruffier back then, but the eyes had the deep intensity that he inherited from his fisherman father. The next one took him by surprise. There was a plain looking young woman standing next to a young man. She was holding a baby in her arms. The family looked happy, like what he had once desired. The woman looked, somehow, familiar. Who was she? After a double time slot, another nod from Ryan was given. Jedediah Patterson read the inscription on the back. “Terrance Thomas Gillian, wife Roberta Patterson Gillian and two month old son Jedediah Gillian.” Another nod, and Allen quick flipped back to the image. “That’s your nephew, Private Patterson. He was named in honor of you, in your memory, sir.”

  Jedediah looked at Allen, who was blind to the scrutiny he was under. Jed did a couple of double takes, first of the picture, then of Allen, then back again. The next two pictures, there were only four in his packet, was of his other sister Judith with her family, which included three girls and one boy. Jed snorted to think of that hellcat of a sibling he had once put up with had three girls to wreak vengeance upon her. A triple dose of her own medicine. He had been pretty mad at her many times, but just let any stranger say something remotely uncomplimentary to either of his sisters and they would wind up with dirt for dessert. The last picture went straight to his heart. It was his mother and father, taken as a third anniversary present from the owner of the fishing company Dad had worked for as a reward for his faithful service. It was another double slot, but this time there was no need to flip the picture over. Identification was not necessary here, though Ryan had flipped his.

  Ryan gave the signal for the two soldiers to spur their way back to the front
. Major Covington gave the signal for Allen and Ryan to break off. There wasn’t enough time to get the next two before the strip mall. Another quick trip to the Milledgeville Country Store and the owner, Glenn, was there. This time it was homemade lemonade. The slow pace to the place where they would pick up the soldiers again offered opportunity for talk.

  “I figure you were paying attention to your own man, but would you tell me what you were able to catch from Jed?” While saying this, Allen was able to juggle reins, lemonade and the packet of Jed’s pictures so that he could look again at the man while they were speaking of him.

  “Actually, I was paying more attention to your side than mine. You delivered your line perfectly. Jed looked thunderstruck. Who knows, maybe we’re doing para-psychotherapy on him. That might make things easier, or harder. No way to tell until the fat lady sings. I feel that keeping things in flux though will give us the greatest leverage against Mad Annie. The pictures seemed to soften his hard features. Maybe there’s hope for the man, Allen.”

  Allen looked again at the picture of the dark-eyed youth. Who knows how he would have turned out had he survived the war? Who knows what he would do in three days? What singing fat lady?

  Vanessa saw Mad Annie becoming even more upset. Did it have to do with what Ryan and Allen were up to? The children sensed it now, too.

  “Jason, something’s got Mamma unhappy. I never saw her like that. Is she upset with Miss Vanessa and us, you think?”

  “Nah, she’s looking at where the soldiers are. See? She hasn’t looked north for a while and still isn’t. Miss Vanessa, she usually splits her time evenly between the two directions. She’s only looking west. Is your husband stirring up the fire?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but it looks that way, Jason. Say, I just remembered a game we can play together. Have either of you two ever heard of rock, paper, and scissors? NO? Well then, let’s go over some rules.”

  Marianne and Rachel walked along the storefront streets of Milledgeville. Gustav convinced them that there was nothing on the docket he couldn’t handle for the next few hours, that the ladies needed to get out if they were to continue keeping their wits sharp and he needed some ‘alone time’, anyway. “Why don’t you two just do some shopping?” Gustav was not above playing dirty.

  The city was lapping up the infusion of funds from so many tourists. The Homestead event had attracted a number of interesting demographics and many were out and about to sample the town, since festivities at the Estate officially began tomorrow. Most of them had brought funds for memorabilia.

  The city had alternating banners in agreed-to-equal numbers that represented the Union and the Confederacy. They fluttered from lampposts, store awnings, flag poles at both stores and residences. Display windows were geared up and decked out for souvenir hunters. Most establishments had their serving and supervising people in period costume. Cafes and restaurants made sure all the period ‘vittles’ were in sufficient supply. So many things, obvious to the eye, were aimed at pleasing visitors. Rachel and Marianne noticed the less obvious.

  There was the increased police presence; mounted, bikes, cars. The ladies had spotted a ‘low-rent’ vendor with t-shirt wares who was quietly being given the boot by the local constabulary, demonstrating the desire to keep the place free from riff-raff, or maybe just pleasing the local (voting) citizens. There was a parking lot reserved for such nomadic types at the west edge of town (this time around, they managed to keep the primarily northern carpet-baggers at bay). Additional Southern revenge took the form of a fairly hefty fee charged to such vendors, which added to the city coffers.

  The ladies entered a mid-town tavern, simply called “The Inn”, for a rest, and were seduced by the ambiance of fireplaces and the smell of the house specialty of mulled cider. There was a rack of motorcycles outside, as well as cars with plates from around the country. The bikers were in a knot at the bar, unhappily being ‘encouraged’ to keep noise and drinking limited by a badge-wearing police team. Granted their bikes were hybrids, but they were HARLEY hybrids. Their jackets had the MC to the right of the club logo rather than on the left, indicating the club was an outlaw MC (motorcycle club). The fifteen men and seven women in the club’s staked-out section of the bar were doing a fine job of acting civilized, in their opinion. Others thought differently.

  Two police officers (one male, one female, as you never knew when someone would need to mount an entry into a restroom) sat near the group, drinking complimentary coffee. Their location guaranteed a wide vantage point, but was weak on close up details.

  “Hammer” Jenkins was six foot four, two hundred and forty pounds. Three quarters of that was muscle, a forth was spawned by beer. He was proud of his iron horse, which he named ‘Harrier’ after a warplane his grandfather flew. In that vein, he had opted out from the jeans that were popular with his compatriots to camouflage pants. He had ‘dog tags’ on a chain necklace. His club vest, unwashed, had buttons on it that he considered of great wit: “Gun owners do it with Smith and Wesson Oil”, “When you pull the pin, Mr. Grenade is no longer your friend”, and “Harley, the ultimate crotch rocket”. In real life, Hammer had a job as an accountant twenty hours a week, full time during tax season. The duller the job, the wilder the pass time. Now with five ‘brewskis’ to his credit and a navel peeking out from under his T-shirt, Hammer noticed two fine candidates for a hog ride. One wore a ring, one didn’t. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t looking for commitment, just fun. Running damp fingers through his stringy locks, he rose up from the stool, got his sea legs and strode off in a most manly fashion to his objective. Time for tactical.

  “Rachel, don’t look now, but...”

  “I see him. Don’t worry, he’s heading for the men’s room and taking in the scenery.”

  “No concur, lady. I’ll bet a pedicure that wolf man is on the prowl and we’re prey. This is not good.”

  “Uh oh, no bet. That’s not a bladder stagger. That walking wall doesn’t look like ‘no’ is in his limited vocabulary. Holy Mary, will you look at the cheesy grin?”

  As Hammer got closer their voices got more subdued. It was crowded in the bar, but Hammer didn’t have any trouble navigating to the objective, his height being an automatic crow’s nest. His stature also encouraged lesser men to give clear passage.

  Rachel said, “Time to beat retreat. Otherwise we’re sitting ducks, so to speak.”

  They rose and began to collect their things when the Hammer dropped. “Ladies, you just can’t be leaving right now. Why, you are a sight for these poor old soldier’s eyes. Now don’t let the outfit frighten you none. Inside you will find the biggest teddy bear, anywhere. Just let ol Hammer buy you two birds a drink. I got some stories guaranteed to make you blush and laugh for a week.” He liked the looks of Spic Chic better, so he emphasized his intentions, obviously desirable to any female with sense and taste, by placing one hand on Marianne’s shoulder. Just to cover his bases, he set his stein down and put the other on Blondie’s as well. ‘Two on one’s always fun’.

  Rachel realized that the strength in those ham hock hands was considerable. It felt like a yoke had been placed on her shoulder. Frightened, she looked at Marianne, who gave all appearances of being calm and in control. She next looked for the police that she had seen earlier, but they were preoccupied with a minor disagreement between patrons at the other end of the bar. The place was pretty noisy and she didn’t know if anything short of a scream would fetch help. Marianne’s voice brought her attention back to the immediate area.

  “Your hands, move’em or lose’em, now!”

  A wench with fire! She would be something else when he finally convinced her of his sterling qualities. He dropped his hand from the wimpy blond, who felt that her best course of action was to fade and grab the police. It was the look on Marianne’s face that slowed her progress to a rhythm of ‘take a step, turn and look, take another step, lo
ok again’. Others had noticed the confrontation brewing and had made room for the play to continue. Had Hammer been less influenced by Budweiser, he might have taken better notice of the calculating manner of stance and eye focus of the ‘sweet little thang’ he had in his hands.

  “Second warning. I am a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and am telling you to let go right now. You will NOT get a third warning. You have five seconds.”

  One-one-thousand. Hammer was surprised by the tack the bird took. She was bluffing, of course, but it was a new approach his brain had to mull over. His smile stayed fixed and so did his hands. The bartender told the bikers to do something about their leader. He was answered with “You wanna tell Hammer what to do?” looks on their faces.

  Two-one-thousand. Marianne’s stance was firm, but relaxed. Her eyes took in the obstacles and made quick estimates to minimize collateral damage. The police had finally noticed the commotion and started to make progress in their direction despite a now densely packed circle of patrons.

  Three-one-thousand. Hammer was composing a wonderfully effective woman-pleaser of a line. He was good at that sort of thing, though often times when he woke the next morning the bird in hand was not quite the beauty queen he had thought he had. The police were getting ready to intervene. One had her com-link to the squad car up and running in case back-up was needed.

  Four-one-thousand. De-focus. Breathe in, let it out halfway. “Now, little missy...” The policeman took one step forward from the circle’s periphery. He didn’t take a second.

  Five-one-thousand. Hammer never finished the next syllable, much less the next word. Her left leg, set behind her, became a blur as her knee made a hard contact on a soft target. Hammer’s eyes grew wide as air exploded out of his lungs. With his main attention diverted to nether areas, she was able to facilitate Hammer’s involuntary bow by an elegant two handed arm twist. Between her leverage and the biker’s already doubled over posture, Hammer’s face met the floor, hard. The policewoman stood, com-link and mouth open, neither serving a useful purpose at the moment.

  Seven-one-thousand. Twenty-one biker jaws dropped in unity with the rest of those who were blessed with a good view.

  Hammer staggered up, his pride smarting almost as much as his bloodied nose, and almost as much as an area that would require ice packs later.

  “You little BITCH!” He charged Marianne like a wounded rhino. Her smile only stoked his fires hotter. She stood between Hammer and the bar, six feet from the counter. Hammer could see her, the bar, the bartender and his own reflection in the bar mirror. Hammer’s outstretched arms were grappled by double cobra-grabs. Marianne did a controlled drop with one leg on the floor to facilitate her own roll and the other foot in Hammer’s belly to facilitate his joining the First Airborne. Now Hammer could see the bartender and his reflection all the clearer. Marianne was no longer in his field of vision. Hammer was a ‘dumb bomb’, closing in on a target not chosen by him. The bartender did a perfect Daffy Duck whimper of “Mother,”, before getting ‘Hammered’. Rachel and Marianne both saw Hammer fly over the counter from interesting perspectives. Rachel, though, was able to see more of the aftermath: the bartender collision, the crash into the rows of bottles, and the ‘Titanic’s’ drop from view.

  Police now focused on the bar, from where came an inarticulate animal cry of anger and pain, with another voice screaming, “Get off of me, you big moron!” The distraction allowed Marianne and Rachel to slip out between very respectful patrons and make a diplomatic exit. Rachel made a mental note to never, NEVER, get Marianne mad, if it could possibly be avoided. Rachel kept quiet as they got into a cab.

  She didn’t have to wait long. “A lady has to learn to protect herself. The martial arts aren’t designed for the true student to whup ass. It’s more to let you know when it’s wisest to ‘get out of Dodge’. That moose was big, but beer fogged. He had military trappings that anyone could see were bogus. All I did was apply some simple techniques anyone can learn (I’ll give you some lessons, if you like), used his own considerable mass against him and made an escape rather than taking advantage of his weakened state. The gang there was without a head. You control the head, you control the body.”

  “Marianne, my life before meeting you and the rest used to be full and interesting. Being with you all for only this very short time has been the most exciting time I’ve ever had. My former life seems stifling now.” That led to deeper issues. “There is just too much going on. Frank and the kids are back home without me. All of you are fast becoming family to me. Allen wants my help. What am I going to do? There are too many things demanding my attention and I’m at the overwhelmed damsel point!”

  “We have fifteen minutes before reaching the hotel. I’m going to teach you something. Close your eyes and put that whole thought and all its related parts into a box.”

  “Huh?”

  “Alright, let’s start from scratch. Picture yourself alone in a comfortable room. Got it? Good. From this day forward, that is your private room. Decorate it as you like, but put a table in the center of it. OK? Now, on that table are a box, string, ribbon, scissors, a pen and a MiDi. Picture yourself walking up to it, OK? Now, pick up the MiDi. Record on it what you are most concerned about. Think of a title to put on the disc. Don’t tell me what it is, but write it on the disc with the pen. Done? Place the disc in the box and tie the box up with the string. Put a ribbon around it. Write the title you put on the disc on the front of the box as well. Let me know when you are done. Take your time.”

  Rachel nodded, eyes still closed. Marianne could see the outlines of Rachel’s eyes under her lids moving, like someone in REM sleep might show. Rachel’s room was like an efficiency chalet. There were beams of wood, a fire, half-curtains and an oriental throw rug. She nodded.

  “Fine, now look on the wall. Picture shelves with several boxes there similar to the one on the table. Those are empty, waiting for you to use them as you feel the need. Pick up the box with the MiDi in it. Walk over to the shelves. Place the box with the others. You will get back to that problem. It’s there and waiting for the right time, a time of your own choosing. In the meanwhile, you can direct your full attention to the matters at hand. Open your eyes.”

  Rachel opened her eyes. They were at the hotel. Where did the fifteen minutes go? It seemed like only two or three minutes since they got into the cab. Rachel’s eyes had been opened so many times in the past few days that she wondered why they didn’t fall out. Earlier, Rachel had felt a kinship with Marianne, especially when she had found out about their mutual widowhood. Since then, it was one proof after another that she was sitting next to Wonder Woman. Rachel had done a lot, true, but it paled by comparison to this dark-skinned professional.

  As they walked into the empty elevator, she said, “Marianne, I think the reason I remarried and you didn’t is that no man could possibly keep up with you. You practically run the office, you’re a hypnotherapist, wonderful friends rely on you, you are brilliant, you’re Miss Bruce Lee and what really gets my goat is that, on top of it all, your butt’s smaller than mine. I can handle the rest, but take on some cellulite, will you?”

  Marianne looked honestly surprised, as the elevator doors opened and they walked down the hall, turning right to their suite. “Excuse me? Don’t you play the understated heroine with me, honey-child. I never won any debate presidency. I never had a wonderful child like Allen to raise and a thousand memories to treasure. And if you want to talk being pissed off, well how the Hell do you think I felt when a blond, too dumb to know how good she has it, comes waltzing into my world with the son I could only dream of having and a clueless but loving and living husband, who starts off popping out ideas right and left? Wonderful ideas on how to solve problems that have been plaguing the lot of us for years? My men were drooling all over you two. Do you have any goddamn idea what it is like for a Sicilian to control her jeal
ousy? You’re lucky you still have unified kneecaps! Then the bimbo’s son comes along and catches me gathering information on the new team members and embarrasses the HELL out of me back on the plane!”

  Rachel stopped cold. She thought, “So that’s what I missed.”

  Marianne stopped cold. She thought, “Ooops.”

  Marianne and Rachel stood, noses half a foot away, eves unblinking but moistening, fists balled up and placed on their hips, leaning forward in something resembling an impending cockfight. One sniffed. The other swallowed. Both began to leak. One sobbed. The other snorted. Then both fell into alternating laughing, crying and hugging.

  Gustav had heard the ruckus from the time the elevator doors opened. The volume increased as the ‘ladies’ got closer to the suite entry door. He was trapped. Godzilla and Rodan were at the threshold and he was stuck in downtown Tokyo with no way out. What had happened? What could he do? Wait! The bobcats have stopped screeching. The silence was worse than the noise. No, he could hear something, like, inarticulate noises.

  “Good Lord, they’re CHOKING each other! Annie must have hexed them!” He had to do something! Fast! No time to call security and medical rescue. They couldn’t get there in time to prevent murder. The only thing he could do was to charge into the fray and break up the combatants, at the risk of his own physical well being, until order could be restored. Without further consideration for his own safety, a man with a mission sprinted to the door and swung it open.

  Rachel and Marianne turned their heads to look at a lawyer that hadn’t been so befuddled since his Boy Scout troop admitted their first girls. Where were the mortal enemies of a few moments ago? Why, they were hugging themselves silly, exuding moisture out of too many facial orifices, smiling, crying and laughing. That was where! It was silly and he would have nothing further to do with it.

  “Aliens,” he muttered, closing the door and getting back to his liability argument with Liberty Mutual on minor changes he was proposing to the weekend’s events. The person on the other end of the PC exchange was being unreasonable, obstinate, a pain in the neck and insulting. That, he could handle. He opened the plastic pill caddy he had ordered delivered to the suite this morning while the ladies were away