So on November eighteenth, Charlie and Felicia walked into their cabin, Charlie huffing and puffing as he lugged their bags into the room. Felicia squealed with delight for what must have been the fiftieth time since they’d boarded. “Look, Charlie, a balcony!”
She ran across the cabin and threw open the sliding glass door. “It’s beautiful.”
Charlie tossed the bags onto the bed and joined her. He snorted as he looked out at the view. “Yeah, it’s a great view all right. I can see a parking lot full of about a thousand cars, and a lifeboat right below us.”
“But once we get out to sea, there will be ocean and clouds as far as the eye can see. It’ll be wonderful!”
It was hard to stay upset with her when she was like this, though Charlie gave it a good try. As much as Felicia seemed enchanted by the idea of the cruise, the idea of going to sea and being cooped up on a floating tin can miles away from the closest dry land was more than a little disconcerting for him. Having never been on a ship before, he was off his game, unfamiliar with how things worked. And Charlie didn’t like not being in control. He did his best to push away his feelings of unease. Maybe being at sea wouldn’t be all that bad.
He had to admit, the cabin was actually pretty nice. He’d expected one of the cheapest, crappiest little rooms on some bottom deck, tucked away from anything and everyone. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to find that they had gotten a nice, ocean side, balcony suite on Deck Seven. It wasn’t bad at all. Charlie took a deep breath and decided to make the best of things.
Besides, it wasn’t like he had too much choice in the matter. Felicia would never let him hear the end of it if he spent all his time bitching about everything. And as the saying went, if Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. She could be a pain in the ass with her whining sometimes, and there were times when she acted dumber than a box of rocks. But that woman was a wild little minx in the bedroom, and Charlie could put up with a lot for someone with a rack like hers. He knew he was man enough to handle her the way she needed to be handled, both in the bedroom and out.
Yeah, it was going to be a good cruise. Charlie would see to it.
Chapter 6
August Grappin
Maybe This Won’t Be So Bad
Gus tried to ignore his mother’s incessant chatter about what a great time they were going to have. She meant well, but her recent constant cheeriness was just a bit much to swallow sometimes. Still, it was better than the moping, so he was determined to let it ride. Her emotional state still seemed fragile enough that he didn’t want to rock the boat any more than necessary.
Rock the boat? He looked up at the massive ocean liner as they waited in line to board. Real clever, Gus. He shook his head at the inadvertent pun. They waited in a long line to board, but the crew really seemed to know what they were doing, and the boarding process was relatively quick. Gus estimated that less than half an hour passed from the time they left the taxi to the time they walked into their adjoining suite. He nodded approvingly at the cabin his mom had gotten for him. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
The room adjoined his mother’s, but at least it was separate. She could have gotten a single room with two beds, and oh, wouldn’t that have been fun? Gus shuddered at the thought. He loved his mom, but the idea of the two of them sharing a cabin was just uncool. He tossed his suitcase onto the bed and opened the room’s mini-fridge. It had a couple of bottles of water and a variety of sodas. Laying atop the refrigerator was a price card. According to it, each of those sodas would cost more than he would spend on a two-liter bottle in the grocery store.
He raised an eyebrow at the list of alcohol also shown on the card. Evidently, the shelves above the mini fridge were normally stocked with booze. Equally as evident was the fact that his mom must have had the ship stewards remove it before they boarded. He sighed. It wasn’t like he really drank, but if by some chance he ended up getting a girl into his cabin, the cool factor would have only worked in his favor.
Another card lay on the nightstand. It listed all sorts of activities designed with his age group in mind. There were teen parties almost every night, each one with a different theme. And the upper decks were full of games, sports, water parks, and even a zip line that ran a hundred feet over the boardwalk nine decks below.
He grinned. Waterparks, eh? That meant girls. Girls in bikinis. He nodded. Yeah, this cruise thing looked like it just might be a lot of fun.
SUNDAY
NOVEMBER 20
Chapter 7
Erica Chapman
Where His Heart Had Failed Him
At some point the night before, Erica had eventually won another battle with insomnia. Of course, she woke up the next morning so groggy that it seemed otherwise. A brisk shower in the guest bathroom helped wash the sleep from her eyes. She could have used the master shower, but in her mind, that was still Uncle Jimmy’s territory, and she wasn’t quite up to crossing that particular border. The reminders were still too fresh.
So she puttered around the place doing busy work that did little more than move things from one place to another. She checked the refrigerator and managed to put together a breakfast of scrambled eggs with diced tomatoes and jalapeños.
But she quickly found herself at a loss for more busywork and realized she couldn’t put it off any longer. She began to clean. She was torn as to whether or not to throw out the soured load of clothes. After all, it wasn’t like Uncle Jimmy was going to need them. But in the end, she just couldn’t do it. She restarted the washer and kept cleaning. The hard part was that everywhere she turned, there were more reminders of her childhood. She would walk into a room with every intention of getting in, cleaning, and getting out again. But each room she entered brought a fresh wave of nostalgia, and she was drawn into memory anew.
There were dirty dishes in the sink where Uncle J taught her to gut fish and break down a chicken; and the dinner table where they laughed, and sometimes fought. When she retreated back to the room where she had slept the night before—her old bedroom—she suddenly realized that Uncle J had left the room just the same as she’d left it, and that realization brought another bout of tears. She began to wonder if she would ever be able to get the place ready within the week allotted.
The buzzing of the washing machine drew her out of her funk, and she checked the load. A quick sniff told her the clothes had been soured too long for a single wash to clean them, so she poured more detergent in and started them again. She eventually had to wash the load three times to get the smell out, then dried and folded it neatly. That brought a last problem. To put the clothes away, she would have to go into his bedroom—the room where his heart had failed him. She would finally have to cross that border.
Erica stood outside that door for what seemed like hours before finding the courage to open it. This was where it happened. She tried to focus on the task at hand, did her best to see only the dresser that was her destination. But her self-induced tunnel vision was disrupted by the broken glass beside the nightstand. Did that happen when he had his heart attack? Was it broken by the panicked neighbor who found his body—two days too late? The sight of it set off a string of imaginary scenarios in her mind from which it took considerable strength of will to break loose. Finally, she took a determined step to the dresser, placed the pile of clothes in a drawer, and closed it. There was a finality to closing that drawer that was both depressing, and comforting. It was one last thing she could do for him.
She turned then, to clean up the broken glass. She made the bed, and straightened the knick-knacks on the dresser, and before she knew it, she had cleaned the entire room. And a strange thing happened as she performed the old, familiar tasks. She found that finally, she began to feel at home again.
The rest of the day held less angst than the day before, and she managed to get quite a bit accomplished. To be sure, there were still plenty of reminders, but they became less torturous, and released their grip on her heart. At least somewhat.
Over the next few days, the memories were more bittersweet than painful, and she managed to get the house and the workshop cleaned up, all the while, maintaining the cattle and garden out back. Working the little ranch felt good, if somewhat pointless. In a matter of days, she would be forced to leave, to go back to Alabama, taking only whatever keepsakes the lawyers would allow her. She had little doubt that if it weren’t for the impending holiday season, they wouldn’t have given her even that last week. Even at that, she suspected that it wasn’t out of concern for how painful Thanksgiving might be for her, but rather for the inconvenience they might face in working through that all important week with their families.
TUESDAY
NOVEMBER 22
Chapter 8
Ross Mayfield
Control
It was the Sunday before Thanksgiving and Ross wondered, not for the first time, what the celebration of a holiday felt like to “normal” people—people who could allow themselves to “feel.” He had wondered this often enough that it was barely a conscious idea anymore, more of a conditioned thought process that followed the acknowledgment of the holiday. His mind slipped over the thought and past it as he and he moved his mind closer to his Zen state.
He concentrated on feeling his pulse as he progressed through the movements of his warmup forms. Finding the rhythm of his heart, he held onto it in his mind, focusing on the thump, thump, thump… until he knew its beat without having to think about it any longer. Moving through the next positions of his warmup, his hands and feet flowed gracefully, almost of their own accord. Once he was sure of the synchronicity of his movements and his heartbeat, he added his more personal regimen.
He flowed into the next form without pause, but in his mind, he noted the transition, and mentally added an audial focal point. It was a trick he had developed years ago to help with his personal circumstances, a conditioning and discipline that had moved him far beyond all his fellow students, and had garnered him the one-on-one training he really needed. This audio focus was the simple tone of a single piano note. He imagined the ivory key tapping in unison with his heart.
Once he was able to hold the note to the same rhythm as his heart, he mentally searched his movements. He noted a slight mental tension, the result of his concentration. He took a cleansing breath, forcing himself to relax as he moved through his form. Tension was the enemy. Calm and relaxation were his allies.
Finally feeling himself in complete control of his body and his mind, he slowed the tone in his mind. Where he had earlier imagined the piano tone mimicking the rhythm of his heart, he now imagined the two of them linked, beating as one. And as the imagined tone slowed, so too did the linked heartbeat. Moving into the next of his forms, he slowed his heart and breathing, the movements of his limbs now becoming secondary to the exercise.
It was a meditative technique he had developed on his own, a blending of self-hypnosis, relaxation, and breathing exercises he had gathered from various martial arts. He had searched for many years, struggling with his condition. This was the best he had been able to come up with. He had finally come to accept that he would never be normal. So he had determined to do his best to be better than normal.
And for three years, he had thought he’d done it. He excelled in his studies, was the best student his Tai Chi instructor had ever taught, grasping both the health and the combat benefits of the Yang style movements, and while many of his friends in school had moved to more violent sports and activities, Ross had sought only peace and calm. The irony was that his quest for peace had found him a home in the study of martial arts. It was an irony that wasn’t lost on him.
Then he had met Erica, and her very presence had shown that she had the ability to unbalance his composure. She was bad for him, broke his calm. But he couldn’t keep from thinking about her. And every time he thought about her, his self-control slipped. Even now, as he moved through his sixth form, he lost control of his heartbeat. His attempt to once more grasp the Zen of the moment caused him to hesitate slightly in the placement of his foot, and in that instant, he knew he was done.
“You started thinking again, didn’t you?”
Ross nodded. “Sorry, Sifu.”
“Were you thinking about the girl again?”
“Yeah.”
Sifu Alex Cope shook his head. “You know she’s no good for you, don’t you?”
Ross walked to his gear bag and grabbed a bottle of water. He twisted the lid off and shrugged. “There are times when I wish I’d never met her.” He took a swallow, relishing the feel of the cold liquid sliding down his throat, then he sighed. “And there are other times when I think she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
He tossed the water bottle back into his bag and picked up his dao. The Chinese broadsword was his specialty, and he took a certain amount of pride in his level of mastery over the blade. “No, I think the real problem is that I’m the one who’s no good for her.”
He turned and saluted his sifu as he stepped back into the center of the training area. His movements now were shorter, chopped and precise. The movements required for the dao forms were faster, more energetic as he spun the blade in mesmerizing patterns. The blade work was more physical, and for most people, would immediately drive up their respiration and heartbeat. Ross had to struggle to keep one part of his mind on the blade form while working to keep control of his cardio-vascular system. He was only three movements into the form, and he knew it was going to be more difficult than usual today. Green Dragon Comes Out of Water was a simple sequence, but as he came out of the leap, his foot placement was off. It was a subtle thing, but it told him that his balance was shot, and while he had to concentrate on that problem, he had to relinquish some concentration on his heartbeat.
Some days were like that. And they usually came when he allowed himself to dwell on Erica. To top it off, his sifu began to speak to him, knowing that it would add another layer of complexity to Ross’s struggle with mind over body.
“Why do you prefer dao over jian? The broadsword lacks the grace and subtlety that you usually show in your unarmed forms. It’s not much more than a crude hacking implement. But the straight blade and balance of the jian would fit your unarmed style better.”
Ross fought to maintain the sequence of his form, while he formed his response. It was a discussion he and Sifu Alex had had more frequently in the last few weeks. His sifu saw his lack of interest in the jian as a weakness in his training, and perhaps it was. But Ross had special needs, and controlling the broadsword gave him something that the double-edged straight blade of the jian couldn’t. “It teaches me through that contrast. Controlling the harsher movement forces me to work more on my inner control. It brings me closer to mastering my inner spirit.”
Alex was silent for the moment, apparently mulling that over as he watched Ross leap and spin across the floor. Evidently, he finally came to a conclusion after Ross completed another sequence. “You do realize that’s complete and utter bullshit, right?”
Ross slid his foot back, raised his knee and hopped over the imagined body of a fallen opponent as he neared the end of his form. “But it’s the sort of bullshit people expect from a Jedi master, right?”
His instructor chuckled at that, and Ross dropped back into a relaxed stance, completing the form. “Jedi master?” Alex’s voice raised from his normal baritone to imitate the little green master. “If Jedi we are, then master I am. My Padawan are you.”
Ross allowed himself a small smile. It was the most he ever allowed.
Sifu Alex approached him and held out his hand. “May I?”
Ross handed him his dao hilt first, and Alex looked it over carefully. “Holy crap, Ross. This is really nice.”
“Thanks. It should be. It cost me five hundred bucks.”
Alex whistled. He was ten years older than Ross, but acted younger. Whether that was because Ross acted older than he needed to, or Alex acted younger was something Ross had wondered on man
y occasions. Either way though, Alex’s casual teaching style coupled with Ross’s formality in class would have the casual observer confused as to who was the teacher, and who the instructor.
“Five bills?” Alex handed the broadsword back to Ross. “I’d be afraid to train with something that expensive.”
Ross slid the blade back into its scabbard without comment. Alex already knew Ross’s parents were loaded. And that they doted on their son. Yeah, their poor, broken son.
“Put it back with your gear and then come back to the floor.”
Ross did, and when he stepped back onto the training floor, Alex held out another dao. This one was blunted, and Ross immediately knew what his sifu planned. Alex held a similarly blunted jian in his other hand. “I want to show you the difference in a more practical application.”
This was another thing that Ross liked about sifu Alex’s training methods. Where most instructors would show him how his foot placement, or his balance was off just so, Alex often demonstrated the why of the movements in combat scenarios. It gave Ross the chance to apply his techniques, both martial and meditative, and test them in a more realistic environment. With the blunted blades, neither of them would get hurt beyond a few bruises. They were both too skilled for anything more. But it was also evident that his sifu felt he had something to teach Ross today, and that sparring was the best way to do so.
Ross took the training dao and saluted his sifu, stepping back and resting the blade of his broadsword in the crook of his left arm. Alex nodded back and stood with his jian in a relaxed stance, blade tucked behind his own left arm, all but hidden from view.
“Ready?” Alex asked.
Ross nodded.
In a flash, Alex’s hands came together, transferring the straight and narrow blade from left hand to right and thrusting it out toward Ross. As he did so, he flung his left hand backward, a counterbalance to his thrust.
Chucklers (Book 1): Laughter is Contagious Page 3