Mark watched his wine swirl around in his glass. He jabbed a finger in the air yet again. “That school needs to pay for what they did. I’ve even told my kids to show up at the school board meetings if I’m dead and make sure that scholarship is awarded every year. The school shouldn’t have let him and his friends drive off with a drunk for the damned field trip.” The man grew increasingly agitated. “My wife lost her sanity because we were so deserted. She just drove off one day. We have no idea where she is.”
Harley didn’t meet his gaze for a long time. She was sorry for Mark, but the whole experience was surreal. She was mystified as to why the man enlisted her as “Dear Abbey.” She didn’t want to start a relationship in that way. “I’m really sorry. I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, your principal was no better. She totally ignored my daughter’s grief. I had two kids still in Catholic school, and St. Francis High School killed one son and expelled the other because he had trouble dealing with his brother’s death. St. Cyprian’s High School treated my daughter like crap because they didn’t want to get in the legal BS that we were brewing for St. Francis.” Mark’s face darkened as he spoke.
Harley took a deep breath. She felt bad for the man, but she was hurting, too, and she didn’t feel a deep enough attraction to nurture him through his hurt. Her throat was so dry she couldn’t swallow. Why did every damaged soul in the world find her? The troubled kids, the misfits, and the Goth outcasts came to her at school, and she understood damaged people only too well. Nevertheless, dealing with hurting teens was part of her job as a teacher and an extension of her own psyche. She was by nature a compassionate woman, but she couldn’t help an individual with wounds so similar to her own. Harley steeled herself and clutched her purse. “Look, it’s getting late. I have to work tomorrow.”
As she headed for the door, Harley heard him call after her, “Can I have your phone number?”
The next date a week later was no better. Harley arrived ten minutes late for a date with “Dick.” Carrying an umbrella, she scanned the people sipping lattes, Frappuccinos, and java in the coffee shop on Maple Street. Many people read books or typed on laptops.
A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair stood as she entered and waved to her.
His whole face was a frown, his mouth one thin line. “You’re late.”
Harley nodded uncertainly, feeling like a chastised child. Shit, she was a teacher, not some kid. What was wrong with the guy? She wasn’t married to him yet. She cleared her throat. “Traffic was bad because of the rain. Plus, there’s road construction on Carrollton.” Why in hell was she explaining anything to the jerk? Her father had never come down on her like the idiot was, and John sure as hell didn’t. Harley studied him intensely, a pleasant but indifferent smile plastered on her face. She slid into the chair he pulled out for her and wondered if the man sensed her repulsion.
Dick’s lips gradually twitched and turned into the semblance of a smile. He was heavily tanned. Here was a man used to working outside. Deep-set lines creased his face. The man had done some hard living.
“Would you like something?” he asked, his voice boots on gravel.
June in New Orleans was always hot. “Sure. I’d like an iced coffee.” Well, she’d give it a try, but she clutched her purse tightly and looked for an exit.
“I’m a java man.” Harley sensed he was unimpressed with wimpy iced coffee. He rose and walked to the counter as if he were an ad from some cigarette commercial. The jeans and boots completed the picture.
Harley accepted her iced coffee with a smile and added a brown sugar.
“You know, sugar isn’t good for you. It also puts on weight.” Dick took a sip of black coffee.
Harley cursed the stars and simply shrugged. A judgmental and bossy one! Hell! While reaching for another sugar, she added with contrived sweetness, “Everyone has a vice.”
“True.” He took another sip of coffee. “You know, when I was waiting and you were late, I thought of my ex-wife. I felt like every eye in here was on me.”
Now Harley really wanted to kill the man who’d invented this Internet dating. How did she hook up with every insecure lunatic? Her mother had brought her up to always be polite, but she didn’t need this idiot. She’d lived alone too long to be scolded or chastised. She addressed her mother in the recesses of her mind: Hell, Mama, you were wrong. You sometimes simply had to be direct with idiots. Harley set her lips in a firm line. “You know what? I’m really not very thirsty, and I do have some things to do with work.” She rose quickly and headed for the door. When she glanced at Dick through the glass window, he was staring after her, mouth open. Another divorced guy, no wonder!
Harley met her next date for lunch at PJ’s Coffee on Maple Street. She arrived five minutes early, checked her makeup in a compact, and switched off the ignition. With grim determination, she strode into the building, ordered her coffee, and sat at a table in the corner of the room. “Hugo” purchased a Frappuccino from the coffee bar and moved to her. He approached her table and sat down without preamble. Hugo wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Tall with a classic Beatles haircut, he wore a blue short-sleeved shirt with casual white slacks. The brown leather shoes with a tassel made him look somewhat classy.
“Nice to meet you.” Harley smiled and sipped her café au lait. “What exactly do you do? Your profile wasn’t very specific. ”
“I’m in construction. My company is here helping with a new site on St. Charles Avenue.” Hugo ran a hand through his plentiful hair.
Harley smiled. The man sounded ambitious. Eden would have liked that he wanted to go somewhere in the world. “Oh, I see. Is it your company?”
“Yes, and I’m also looking for contracts in China.” Hugo fell silent, but his gaze never left her face.
Harley cleared her throat. She was impressed. She’d always liked a man with a cosmopolitan outlook. “That sounds fascinating. What is your interest in China?” Harley averted her gaze under his intense scrutiny. The man wasn’t very talkative, and his constant stare made her uncomfortable.
After what seemed an eternity of silence, he said with authority, “Well, China is really the only free culture in the world.”
Harley raised her eyebrows. She was hardly jingoistic, but China was not known for its cultivation of freedom. Maybe this guy needed to talk to the Dalai Lama. “Funny, that wasn’t the image I’d gotten from Tiananmen Square.” As a young woman in college, she’d even visited China with a church group, and their sponsors warned them about the dangers of asking certain questions or taking pictures of taboo objects.
“Well, that’s what a corrupt Western culture wants you to believe. China really has no limits to its freedom. For example, people in the provinces are totally free to pursue anything they want.” Hugo leaned closer to her.
Harley leaned further back into her chair. The man’s breath reeked of stale cigarettes. Harley gazed at him with what she hoped wasn’t obvious amusement. “Is it that the people in the provinces are so poor they present no threat to Beijing? Things are only peaceful there when no one has protested anything. When someone takes a stand, the government cracks down with an iron fist.”
“There again, you’re saying what the government wants you to believe. We’re a culture that has been imperialistic and then condemns others.” Hugo was turning crimson as his face contorted into a grimace.
Harley wondered if he was going to have a stroke. She wished she could feel sympathetic, but she only wanted to laugh. Feeling suddenly evil, Harley decided to play his game. “I do see what you mean in a way. Foucault talks about how we categorize people and deal with what some people call the unruly in his book about the birth of prisons. Jacques Derrida does similar work with language.”
The man stared at her blankly.
She stared back. An impish giggle almost erupted from her l
ips, but Harley suppressed it. She wondered if she could hide the twitching at the side of her mouth for the rest of their encounter. All of his talk was just that. Talk. He knew nothing about social theory and obviously had very little experience with the Chinese political atmosphere. “You don’t know Derrida? He’s the deconstructionist who wrote about language being a social construct.”
She stirred her now cold coffee and smiled placidly, waiting for a response she knew wouldn’t come and made a mental apology to her mother. All right, Eden, I had to do it. You always told me not to be a snob with education, but I can’t help it. This guy deserves it.
“Would you like another coffee?” Hugo glanced around. She could tell he hoped she didn’t take him up on his offer.
“Oh, no, thank you. I have to be going.” She smiled brightly, hooked her purse over her shoulder, and bounced out of the room.
Harley groaned and buried her face in her hands as she listened to Donna’s encouragement. “This whole experiment has been a monumental waste of time and money. These guys are too damaged. I may be, too, but not that much. Besides, I’ve put on weight meeting these men for coffee or lunch.”
“You have to try some others.” Donna munched on a cracker. “What can it hurt?”
“No, I don’t have to do anything. You talk as if they’re samples of wine and cheese. I can’t just spit them out, and they’re proving to be nut cases.” Harley poured Donna and her husband Mike more wine. They were drinking Merlot and eating cheese in Harley’s living room. She’d been regaling them with tales of her dating adventures. Harley filled her own glass as she provided them with detailed accounts of each Romeo. Nico walked from one human to another and received a pet from each. He soon grew bored with the company and trotted to Donna and Mike for good night affection before heading down the hall to Harley’s bed. Harley glanced at Donna while Donna petted Nico. She narrowed her eyes, staring at Donna with mock severity. “You, old pal, just want to torture me.”
“I have your best interest at heart.” Donna laughed heartily and settled under Mike’s arm. They looked perfectly paired sitting on Harley’s brocade couch. He was toned and dark-haired with bulging muscles. Donna placed her drink on the coffee table in front of her. The Michel family pictures were strategically displayed under the glass. Harley’s parents and other relatives graced the small table.
“Look,” Donna persisted, “somebody has to be normal. You can at least have some fun with them.”
“D, none of this has been fun.” Harley shook her head, still laughing, and then followed Donna’s stare. She sat across from them and sighed. The family pictures Eden had lovingly placed under the glass in the coffee table sometimes made her sad. “What picture’s caught your attention?”
“She’s looking at your wedding picture.” Mike tossed a piece of cheese into his mouth.
“Tell me, then, why would I want to meet another guy when I’d had John? Seriously, D, why?” Harley bit into a cracker and gazed at the picture. John was in uniform when they had married. She’d never seen a man as handsome as her husband. Harley sometimes cursed John for leaving her and then was ashamed of her own selfish thoughts. She glanced at the almost-empty bottle, wondering why she didn’t just guzzle what remained. A slow anger rose within her breast. “Besides, why does everybody think fulfillment means having a man? Why? Shit, I only started to write after John died. I did it to have something to do with my time. Then, I finished my certification and taught. None of this has been a bad gig.” Harley laughed and threw up her hands, throwing off her anger. These were her oldest friends, and she wouldn’t stay mad.
“I’m not saying it’s a bad gig, Harley, but—” Donna moved closer to her.
“Look, girls, I’m going into the kitchen to refill this cheese tray.” Mike picked up the tray from the coffee table and made his way down the hall.
“Okay, I’d like to meet somebody in theory, but not if they’re jerks like these losers.” Harley shook her head, rose abruptly, and poured more wine. “I don’t need complications in my life. Not the kinds these guys bring.”
“What kinds are those?” Donna took the wine bottle from Harley and poured some into her own glass.
“Their damned insecurities, D. Think about it. One A-hole thinks I’m like his ex-wife because I’m ten minutes late in traffic. Another tells me his sad life story at a first meeting. Still another wants to give me a political lecture like I’m some stupid idiot with a poor grasp of world affairs.” Harley sighed wearily and leaned against the wall. “I’m not Mother Teresa. I can’t nurse some guy through the death of a child and the desertion of a wife. I can’t do it.”
“Maybe they all just needed someone to listen.” Donna clinked her glass against Harley’s.
“Not me. I mean, I’m sympathetic to you and my other friends, but I’m sick of a bunch of lunatic strangers telling me their problems.” Harley drained her glass to the lees. “They give me the red ass and the heart palpitations. I don’t need either.”
Donna frowned. Her tone turned grave. “How is that going? Your heart problem, I mean?”
“Okay. I’m going to Dr. Champagne this week. My heart sometimes threatens to come out of my chest, but other than that, I’m okay.” Harley grinned and reached for a piece of cheese as Mike passed them with the refilled tray. “Another reason I can’t keep this up. These men invite me to coffee dates. I can’t take all the caffeine.”
Donna slipped an arm around her husband. “Order decaffeinated coffee.”
“This whole thing bores me. I’d rather be writing. Hey, I may get a bumper sticker that says just that.”
Donna clasped her hand and swung it. “Just give it another shot or two.”
“Okay, but only because I love you.” Harley laughed suddenly when Donna smiled. “Oh, and I mean in a completely platonic sense.”
Chapter 4
Early June
Harley knew she’d promised Donna she would continue, but she had other more important commitments before she could follow up on any dating service.
Prior to Hurricane Katrina, she’d been diagnosed with mitral valve prolapse. Her condition required a visit to her doctor every six months. On her last visit a month earlier, Dr. Champagne had ordered a battery of tests. Her heart raced at the mere thought of what she would learn. She’d arrived fifteen minutes early for her appointment and read a book while waiting, but the words on the page made no sense. Her foot uncontrollably tapped a symphony on the floor.
“The tests were fine. You have no thyroid problem. No blood pressure problems, either. The heart monitor showed no abnormalities.” Dr. Champagne cast a paternal smile in her direction. He was a short, balding man with thick glasses.
“I have a question to ask you.” Harley cleared her throat. How was she supposed to tell the man that she was haunted by dreams of her own death? That she could no longer hold the Eucharist in her hands at Mass? “Why does my heart race when I have to act as a Eucharistic minister? And-And I think of dying all the time.” She swallowed, her gaze averted.
“When did this start, dear?” His stare was penetrating yet kind.
Harley shut her eyes. “When my mother was sick, mainly homebound, I’d give her communion.” She wiped a tear from her eye. Even as she spoke, her heart pounded, and her hand inadvertently fluttered to her breast. “Now when I give communion at church, the same thing happens.”
Dr. Champagne nodded. “I know how hard it is to take care of an aging parent.”
“Do you think that’s why my ch-chest pounds like it does when I give communion? Am I remembering what happened to my mother? Her suffering? I still hear her saying the prayers with me.”
Dr. Champagne smiled gently. “Very possibly. You’re healthy. Aside from the prolapse, you are very fit. I know you exercise. That’s good. Stay away from chocolate and caffeine, and you
may want to see your gynecologist as well. You’re forty. You may be developing female problems.”
Harley sighed resignedly. She suddenly felt very old. Just what she and Donna joked of so often was now coming to haunt her. “You really think I could be going through menopause? My mother didn’t go through it until she was in her late-forties.”
The doctor shrugged. “Everyone’s different, dear. Something’s obviously affecting you deeply, and tests don’t indicate anything abnormal. The problem may be of a female nature or a psychological one.”
The blood rushed to Harley’s face. She was sick of people telling her she was losing her mind. She snapped with more vehemence than she’d intended. “I’m not crazy, Dr. Champagne.”
His kind smile never wavered. “No, I don’t think you’re psychotic, but you’re dealing with a great deal of emotional stress that could be worsening the menopausal symptoms.” He met the gaze she tried to avert. “Harley, I’ve known you since you were a kid. It’s no disgrace to admit you need help. I could prescribe something—”
“No!” The word burst from Harley’s throat before she could control it. Her voice was so shrill that she was surprised the whole staff and waiting room didn’t run in to investigate. She lowered her head, ashamed, and said softly, “I won’t take any psycho drugs. I still get up in the morning. I go to my job.”
“All right. I see you feel strongly about that.” Dr. Champagne rose, crossed over to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come back to me in six months. Sooner, if these panic attacks persist.”
“You think that’s what I’m having? Panic attacks?” Harley cast a quick glance at him and then clasped her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking.
The Doctor and the War Widow Page 3