His brother, who remained in the United States, did not." Lifting the child, she held him up tor the visitors to see. "But we'll give him plenty of love to make up for his loss." Then, inexplicably, she began to lose her grip on the baby who emitted a startled cry. The group watched in horror as Cara reached out, caught the child in midair and fell down with the tiny boy safely in her arms.
Apologizing profusely, the attendant took the crying baby while the rest of the group clustered around Cara, helping her to her feet. "It's a good thing I was a softball player." She laughed, but she began to wince as soon as she tried to put weight on her left foot.
"Are you all right?" Gary looked at her with concern.
"Damn. I think I sprained my left ankle."
Emily Wagner, flustered by the event, began to nervously wring her hands. "This is terrible. I'm so sorry. Let me get you to the hospital clinic where one of our doctors can check and make sure nothing is broken."
Cara swore silently. I wanted to see the hospital, but not this way. Her ankle was beginning to swell and the pain was excruciating. This had better not affect the New York trip, she thought.
Brought by wheelchair to Section Three, Cara sat in the examining room awaiting the arrival of the ship's physician. "I'm sorry, it's going to be a little while," explained the attendant Wagner had sent with her. "Dr. Wiese is in the clinic covering tattoos. The children have already been anesthetized so he can't take a break right now."
"I don't understand. What do you mean 'covering tattoos'?"
The attendant began to stammer, wondering whether she had given out too much information. Deciding that she had not violated any policies or priority secrets, she continued. "Some of the babies have been tattooed by their biological parents with United States phone numbers or addresses. If we find a tattoo during physical examinations, it's surgically covered. It's not a major problem. Only about fifty children on a normal day. But it does take a bit of time. The doctor should be done in a half hour or so."
Adjusting the ice pack Wagner had given her, she winced before speaking. "That's an awful thing to do to a child. Where do they tattoo them?"
"Anywhere. Behind the ear. In the genital area. Even between the toes. But fifty children a trip isn't bad. Thirty years ago, it was more than one thousand. When we put out the word that we cover the tattoos aboard the ship, the number dropped. Actually, what we do is laser the area with a grafting patch so the child is left with a nice neat scar. It doesn't deform." She lifted her long hair and turned her back to Cara. "Look at the base of my neck. That's what it looks like when Wiese gets done."
Cara stared at the two-inch long rectangular area, several shades lighter in color than the surrounding skin. Looking like a tiny Band-Aid, it was identical to the soft patch that she had so lovingly kissed on the inside of Jody's thigh.
Sitting down on the doctor's stool, the attendant nervously folded and unfolded her hands. The stool squeaked in rhythm with the rocking of the ship. After a few minutes, she began tapping her foot impatiently. "Say, would you mind if I left you waiting by yourself? I've got some kids I haven't fed yet and I'm kind of anxious to get back to them."
"No, not at all," responded Cara, pleased that she would have some time alone in the examining room.
After the attendant left, she looked around the small room. Except for the lime green color, it was like any other doctor's office that she had ever visited. Diagnostic equipment hung on the walls over cabinets that were probably filled with more examining tools. A small sink. No windows. Sparse furniture. A table for the patient. The swivel stool for the physician. A desk. And a single bed. Although she could guess what the PM and Barbra used it for, she wondered what its real purpose might be. Probably for the use of ill staff members or adult emigrants, she concluded. Her eyes riveted to the bed. She wondered what it must have been like for the two women to have sex after a pause of twenty-seven years.
—<&*&*&>—
It was seven years ago, on the third visit to Barbra aboard the Fantasia, that the PM decided to take the initiative. Walking up behind Barbra, who was rambling on about her life in California while returning examining equipment to the cabinets, she kissed the back ot her neck, her lips lightly brushing the wisps of hair that curled at the nape. Placing her hands on her shoulders, she gently turned her so they were facing one another. She put her finger to Barbra's lips. "No more talk. It's time. I want to make love to you."
A barely audible moan escaped from the petite physician who nervously ran her fingers through her graying hair. "I don't know. It's been so long."
"All the more reason why we shouldn't wait any longer," Miriam responded. She took Barbra's hand and led her to the bed, sitting while she left Barbra standing in front of her. "Please," she said. "Let me remove your clothes. My eyes want to see what they have missed these twenty-seven years." She reached up and with a scarcely visible quiver, she unbuttoned the front of Barbra's white uniform, slowly, button after button. She did not hesitate. The dress fell gently to the floor, exposing her body in sequential layers—her shoulders, her unrestrained pale breasts, the small waist, and the silk panties that Miriam had loved to touch. She wrapped her arms around her waist, pulling her forward while pressing her cheek gently against the unblemished firm breasts yet unaffected by aging. The familiar scent of Chanel wafted to her nostrils. "I've waited twenty-seven years to hold you again," she whispered as she breathed in the aroma and felt the nipple hardening against her cheek. She took the left nipple in her mouth, sucking and feeling it ripen with her tongue. As Barbra groaned, she moved her lips to the other breast, grazing it gently. She lowered her head to Barbra's panties and rubbed against the softness of the material that covered her throbbing lover. With one motion, she moved her hand, pulling at the elastic, guiding the silk to the floor. "Oh," she murmured as she gazed at the still graceful body, "my eyes have missed much." Gently, she pulled Barbra on to the bed and positioned her along its length. Then she stood and removed her own clothes, never removing her eyes from Barbra's thirsting gaze. "You are my heart," whispered Barbra as the PM lay down beside her. Undeterred by age, urged by the rocking motion of the ship, the two women engaged in the acrobatics of lovemaking as though a delay of twenty-seven years had never occurred.
Lost in thought, Cara almost didn't hear Dr. Wiese when he entered the examining room. "Okay, let's take a look at that ankle." She grimaced as he lifted her foot and inserted it into a scan box. Watching the image portrayed on the wall screen, he pointed to the area that was causing the greatest pain. "You're lucky. No breaks. A slight sprain. Some pain for a few days. Can be controlled with aspirin. Try to keep it elevated and you should be fine in a few weeks. Any questions?" He turned his back before she had the chance to respond.
Hobbling only slightly with the tightly bandaged ankle, a relieved Cara caught up with her tour group as they were about to leave Section One. Nodding to her cohorts, she tried to ignore the sounds assaulting her ears. Screams and cries and giggles all mingled. Conversation was impossible in this, the newborn, area. Of course, thought Cara, infants are not affected by visual images. Hypnosis did not work here.
"So, am I going to escort you or will you have to be replaced by some beautiful young man?" Tim asked Cara with twinkling eyes as they returned to Fantasia's boardroom.
"Sorry," interjected Gary, "my job won't permit a New York trip. You'll just have to take someone else."
"Okay, you guys. Don't even tease. I'm leaving on schedule. My gait may be a little more awkward, but it's going to get me there. A sprained ankle is all it is."
In the boardroom, Wagner again indicated that she would not answer any questions. She had kept her agreement with the PM and personally escorted the young bureaucrats on a tour of the Fantasia. There was no reason to prolong their visit. Besides, she was anxious to return to her children. She left them at the gangplank.
With little time left in the day, the group decided to call it quits, planning to reassemble at Gary
's office the following morning to begin the formal briefing program.
Six
"What a drag," moaned Tim during their Monday coffee break. "I can't believe the utter boredom of the whole thing. If I knew I'd have to go through this, I would have refused escort duties outside of Cali."
In the days that had passed since their return from the Fantasia, they had endured six-hour classroom sessions each morning, followed by lunch and a return to their regular jobs for the afternoon. For Cara that meant going down one flight of stairs to the Cali Office for the Aging. For Tim, however, it meant traveling by light plane to the University of the South where he was assigned part-time as a professor of international relations.
Cara, who had never heard a murmur of complaint from Tim, was surprised by his reaction and bewildered by his statement. "You mean you've never been out of country?" she asked with a sinking feeling.
"I scared you, didn't I?" responded a startled Tim. "Not to worry. I've traveled outside of Cali four times. Stateside, to New York, twice. A long time ago. On diplomatic missions. Never as an escort. So these briefings are all new to me. I guess diplomats aren't required to know as much stuff as escorts."
Cara too was overwhelmed by the amount of material they were covering. Six hours had been devoted to the historical relationship between the United States and Cali, with most of the attention given to the religious right's condemnations of homosexuality. The next six hours covered rules of protocol in the United States and at the conference. Stateside fashion and customs was the subject of this third day.
Immediately following their coffee break, Gary Kane accompanied them to a simulated American clothing store for the acquisition of attire appropriate to New York. Because of the varying American attitudes toward homosexuality, it was considered imperative that they blend with the general populace and not be identified as Calians. Repulsed by their new clothing, Tim and Cara continued to complain.
"These clothes have no style at all," groaned Tim as he looked in the mirror. "The colors are drab and the materials are boring. If Glen saw me in these every day, there would be cause for divorce. And," he added, "I couldn't blame him."
Wearing a plain, light brown dress with a high collar and awkwardly puffed sleeves, little pearlized buttons to the waist, Cara sighed. "I spend twenty hours a week in the gym developing my muscles and then the Americans want me to hide them. My constituency at the Office for the Aging wouldn't wear this! I guess I don't have to worry about being cruised by New York women. Or men for that matter. It's amazing, Calian clothes have so much more style."
They were right, of course. During the great exodus, some of the world's most famous fashion designers had emigrated to Cali and the stylish design schools they established were among the most popular in the country. Innovative clothing developed. New synthetics, replacing the raw materials destroyed during the earthquake, attracted the attention of the fashion minded. They were light and textured, appealing to the tactile as well as the visual. Colors were vibrant and diffused through layers of transparencies, creating new colors in the same way dawn and dusk altered the sky, and in a bold new experiment, some Calian clothes were being treated with perfumes, creating a banquet for the senses.
Gary Kane, whose own bureaucratic three-piece outfits resembled the old-fashioned American clothes they were modeling, displayed little sympathy for his students. "These unattractive, uninspired outfits you so detest may keep you from getting killed by the Olms on this trip. Think about that tomorrow when we cover crime in the United States."
"Whoops," whispered Tim, "I think we hit a nerve."
"Think so," Cara agreed as she entered the dressing room to change back to her state-of-the-art outfit.
Seven
It was the next day when Cara decided to tell Tim about Barbra.
They were sitting in the Robb restaurant of the Lynn Bremmer Building, having a casual lunch and discussing the morning's session. Animatedly, she used her hands as exclamation points as they reviewed the material she had found so shocking. "What scares me about New York is the crime." She leafed through her training manual and quoted the numbers directly from its pages. "In one week in July 2052, fifty-eight people were murdered; and on one day in June 2053—just one day—" she emphasized, looking up at Tim, "fifteen were killed. That's horrendous. Fifteen murders are more than we have in Cali in a year. And rape! Rape is almost unheard of here. And the old followers of Olmstead, the Olms, they're the scariest of all." She looked over and winked at the four young women sitting a few tables away who had been gawking at her during lunch. Giggling, they lowered their eyes to their plates. "Damn, I'm so bad. I had better remember not to do that in the United States, or I'll become another statistic for this training manual."
"Just keep in mind that in New York, it's the men who do the winking at women. Especially at attractive, blonde, thirty-two-year-old women."
"Not at this woman they won't. Not in the clothes I'm going to be wearing. Besides, I'm going to cling to you like mud clings to a pig."
"In that case," asked Tim, slapping at a fly that was buzzing around his salad, "would you mind wearing Glen's perfume?"
"Only if you wear Jody's."
After the laughter faded, Tim cleared his throat and assumed a more serious expression. "So, there is someone in your life. I had wondered if there was anyone." He waited for her response.
"Not anymore." She sighed. 'Jody was an important part of my life for three years. Last year, she announced that she wanted a commitment ceremony. I announced that I didn't. I adored Jody; actually, I still do, but not enough to surrender my single status. Monogamy is not my thing. She is now with Margo and happy. I am now single and miserable. I am also very, very monogamous."
"Well, I guess we'll just have to change that," said Tim slapping his hand on the table. "I bet there are a lot of women out there who would love to have Cara Romero in their bed. Should we forge ahead with introductions or is there still a possibility of a reconciliation with Jody?" Noticing a spot on his pants where he had apparently sprayed salad oil while futilely swatting at the fly, he dipped his napkin in water and tried to remove it. With exasperation, he finally threw down the napkin and reached for the stain remover wipes kept in little packets near the salt and pepper. "These newfangled things really work," he said with amazement as the splotch slowly faded into the fiber.
Cara gazed out the window at the Pacific, losing herself in the rhythm of the spray as it flew off the waves. She could almost feel herself being absorbed by the panorama that swept before her. Her mind became blank, a state she was able to summon when confronted by problems with which she was not ready to deal. She referred to it as meditation; Jody had called it blocking. Self-nurturing, she ran her hand through her hair.
"Hello. Is anybody home?"
Startled, she turned her head and faced Tim. "Sorry, my mind ran away with itself. What was it you asked?"
"Any chance of a reconciliation between you and Jody?" he repeated as he toyed with the wrapper from the packet.
"No. I used to think there was, but no, not anymore." Cara paused to take a deep breath. I'm saying things aloud that I've just barely discovered, she thought. "Jody is happy with Margo. They're good together. We weren't. We spent most of our time arguing. Two assertive women really don't make for a good relationship. Add ambition to the equation and you have two women who are better off as friends. I think we'll stay friends."
"My apologies. I didn't mean to pry or bring back any unpleasant memories."
"Actually, the memories you brought back were very pleasant. Maybe that's the problem. I haven't quite let go of them yet."
As she paused to organize her thoughts, the four young women at whom she had winked tentatively approached the table. "Ms. Romero," began the tallest one who was being pushed from behind by the other three, "we just want you to know that we're very proud of you. We think it's wonderful that you were chosen for the New York assignment and we want to wish you good luck."
After Cara had graciously thanked them and the women had left the dining room, she again turned her attention to Tim. "Not to change the subject, but I'm glad they wished us good luck. Luck is something we're going to need."
"Oh, is there something you haven't told me?"
"As a matter of fact, there is." And she proceeded to tell him the story about Barbra and the prime minister. He did not interrupt, but sat quietly and listened, nodding or frowning occasionally as she spun out the details. Finally, when she had finished, he raised both hands playfully and his resonant voice echoed her thoughts. "Hallelujah! I knew there had to be a good reason why that great lady is single. When we get to New York, we're going to find this Dr. Barbra, tie her up with a lavender ribbon, kidnap her, and bring her back as a gift for the PM." Despite his large size, Tim suddenly looked very much like a little boy. A cute, mischievous little boy.
"Thank you. I kind of knew you would feel that way." Slowly, with measured deliberation, she took a long swallow of coffee. Casting her eyes down, reluctant to look at him, she again spoke. "But, I must tell you, this really isn't a simple matter. You know, contacting Barbra is illegal."
"So is homosexuality in America, and being they've made it almost impossible for me to break that law, I guess I'm going to have to teach them a lesson and break this one." She loved the way he smiled. His face lit up, the dark eyes sparkled, and the dimples deepened. "I have a feeling," he continued, "that finding Dr. Barbra is going to be a lot easier than you think. Probably easier than finding you a new lover."
Quietly, Cara sat finishing her coffee. The thought of doing something illegal was unnatural tor her. In thirty-two years, she had been a model citizen, never having knowingly broken a law. Could she do this? she wondered. Would she actually attempt to contact an American? Then she thought about the prime minister. By meeting Barbra on the Fantasia, particularly at a port in the United States, she had actually been engaging in an illegal act for years. Somehow, she had difficulty identifying Miriam Ekstrom as a criminal.
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