The War Council

by Ann Shepphird

  We walked in and the place was already pulsating with the sounds of Spanish, Portuguese, and their various dialects, bringing up memories of my days on the beaches of Rio. What a time that was. I remembered a concert held on the beach in Copacabana where I drank cachaca and found myself dancing in a conga line that snaked the entire length of the boardwalk.

  The music at the Rio Dio sounded familiar, so I looked up to see who the singer was. It was Jorge Ben. Kismet. Jorge Ben was the Brazilian singer performing at the concert on the Copacabana. I knew he could provide the magic I needed for this evening with Maggie.

  We made our way up to the bar.

  “Two cachacas, please.”

  The bartender nodded and began to mix the drinks.

  “What’s a cachaca?” Maggie asked.

  “It is THE Brazilian drink.”

  “Well, then I suppose we MUST have it.”

  She smiled. Her eyes roamed the club. The colorful dancers, colorful accents, and colorful music were mirrored in her eyes as she looked around and then looked back at me.

  “This place is great.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You come here a lot?”

  I nodded. “When I can.”

  I was suddenly grabbed from behind and pulled into a bear hug. “Nick! Nick! Boa noite! Come vai?”

  “Mino! Vou bem. Obligado. E voce?”

  “Bem…”

  I put my hand up to stop Mino. It would be rude to continue to speak Portuguese when Maggie didn’t understand the language. As you’ve probably guessed, Mino was Brazilian. He was also one of my oldest friends in the Bay Area. We met when I was doing my field study at the University of Sao Paolo, and now he was in San Francisco getting a law degree.

  “Mino, this is Maggie. Maggie, Mino.”

  Maggie and Mino shook hands while I paid for the drinks, which by now had appeared at the bar. I handed Maggie her drink and stood behind her as she listened to my gregarious friend regale her with stories about our days in Brazil. I silently signaled to Mino that, yes, this was the woman I was interested in and, yes, I wanted to spend some time with her—alone. Mino, being Latin and well versed in the ways of love, nodded and, without missing a beat, finished his story, bid his farewell, and returned to his group.

  “Nice guy,” said Maggie as she sipped from her drink.

  “One of the best. So, would you care to dance? We are here to celebrate, are we not?”

  “That we are.”

  Maggie smiled and finished her drink, and we found our place among the bodies celebrating on the floor. They were celebrating life. Maggie was celebrating the War Council. And I was celebrating Maggie. I was happy to learn that she was a natural dancer. She learned the samba steps quickly and was soon moving gracefully in—and out of—my arms. She seemed to let go, her long black hair and multi-colored skirt swinging around her as she danced. Soon, she became part of the celebration of life that was occurring on the dance floor.

  I lost myself watching Maggie amid the colorful dancers and sensual rhythms, watching her green eyes blaze with passion as she moved about the floor and watching the walls that protected her soul fall around her. All the plans, all the waiting, all the frustration of the past few weeks faded into memory as I realized I was falling in love with the vision that was dancing before me.

  Chapter Eleven

  MAGGIE

  Well, I gotta tell you, I was confused. It was just not logical. I was sitting in my War Council offices waiting for the others to arrive. This was our big moment. We were about to make it happen. I was finally reaching my goal—and all I could think about was HIM. And, surprisingly enough, this time the “him” was not Bill, it was Nick.

  We’d gone dancing. I love to dance. Dancing is one of the few things in life that allows me to really let go. My overly active brain cells tend to inhibit pure unadulterated feeling from coming out in most aspects of my life. But dancing allows me to really let go and just live without thinking too much.

  So, I danced—we danced. And, I have to admit, I got a little wild—I don’t know if it was the drink or the music or Nick or what. I was drinking this Brazilian concoction called cachaca. Whatever it was, it tasted good and made me feel good, and loose, and in the mood to groove. Ha. Sorry about that.

  Nick had taken me to this great club, a Brazilian club. Funny, I had lived in the Bay Area my whole life and never knew it was there. I felt as though I had been transported to another world—a wild and reckless and carefree world. I became wild and reckless and carefree and left good ole logical, analytical Maggie behind in Berkeley. I hadn’t felt so free or, really, sexy in a long time. Really, I hadn’t felt like this since… Bill and the blues club.

  Not that Nick was anything like Bill. Not that I even knew Nick all that well. He was still somewhat of a mystery to me—an intriguing mystery but a mystery nonetheless. It was funny how he seemed to get better looking the more I got to know him. Also funny how he seemed to understand me SO well and just how good it felt to spend time with him. I hadn’t felt a connection like this since… Bill.

  Not that Nick was anything like Bill. They didn’t look alike at all. Okay, so they both had brown hair, but that’s where the similarities ended. Bill’s looks—at least to me—were more dramatic looking while Nick’s were more, you know, pedestrian. I don’t mean he wasn’t good looking. He was. It’s just that Bill really stood out in a crowd. Nick was the crowd. Not really. But you know what I mean, right? In a crowd, Nick might blend in. It’s when you got close that you realized just how exceptional looking he really was.

  Especially his eyes. Nick had incredible eyes. Bill had deep brown eyes. Nick’s were blue. Bill’s eyes were warm brown pools in which I was allowed to lose myself, in which I felt loved, in which I felt safe. Nick’s eyes, on the other hand, were this piercing blue. Not as warm, but more penetrating—like they could see right through me into my soul, a soul that hadn’t been opened up like that since… Bill.

  I gotta say, it scared the shit out of me. I mean, I didn’t have time for this—for love. I couldn’t lose myself in another person. Not now.

  Now many may argue that you don’t lose yourself in love and, to that, I answer: Bullshit. That was not my experience. Love removes all level-headed and logical responses, which is why the War Council was so important—and, in a way, why I had been holding onto Bill.

  I knew I wasn’t holding onto the real Bill, the everyday boyfriend, by thinking about him or that I might still have a future with him. I wasn’t that deluded, and naturally, I had Kathy telling me daily that what I was holding onto wasn’t real. I knew I was holding onto a fantasy. That’s what I liked about it. Whenever I was depressed or lonely or out with a real drip, I could conjure up all the great feelings of being loved and understood. And I could do it without the risk of losing myself again or feeling the pain that came with his departure.

  I had never felt pain like the pain I felt when Bill left—a deep searing pain that ripped at my insides. I felt like a gutted fish, my insides spilling out all over the rug as Bill sat telling me it was over. That we could be friends, but we weren’t together anymore. As if, poof, that magical wonderful connection we had never existed.

  I’m still not sure if it helped that I was older. Still not sure if it helped or hurt my recovery. People say that pain makes us stronger, but does that mean it makes us any better? I had been so open, so trusting, so guileless, and I fell in love without any barriers protecting my soul. It never occurred to me to protect myself. It never occurred to me that Bill wouldn’t love me forever. It all seemed so natural, so right, so logical.

  My entire belief system was shot. My whole life I had waited to fall in love, to meet the person who would love me and understand me and help me to face the insanity that is daily life. I met him. He was beautiful. He loved me. And he left. I gave him my soul. And he left.


  And now, after years of protecting myself, of making my life—me—whole again, I found myself feeling things for this blue-eyed stranger dancing before me. I was opening up. I was feeling. I was living life again. Could I handle it? Was I ready? I didn’t want to live the rest of my life protecting myself from any real feeling. And I was finally beginning to accept the fact that Bill wasn’t returning to me. So, was this man with the piercing blue eyes the one who could help me to open up and feel again? Maybe it was time to try.

  We were having a great time dancing to the Brazilian music. Several times he took me into his arms, and I felt that surge of electricity that signals physical chemistry. Damn chemistry! At once the most wondrous and most maddening force in nature.

  After the concert, we went out to the Marina Green, a pocket of beach that looks out at Alcatraz. Still buzzing from the cachaca concoctions (at least I was), we walked along the water and talked and talked. He took my hand. I felt like a school girl, all happy and giddy and amazed that life was beginning for me again.

  We stopped at a deserted pier, and he took me into his arms and kissed me. Our first real kiss. Talk about your energy surges. It was simply wondrous. A wondrous kiss. I opened my eyes, and there they were again—those beautiful baby blues looking through me and filling my insides with an incredible warmth. I felt safe. I felt protected. And I felt a need to be with him, you know, really with him (in the biblical sense).

  Soon we were lying on his couch kissing and fondling, and I was happy. I wasn’t feeling any fear; I just felt good. Like, yes, here we go. We’re feeling again. We’re feeling again. I could love again. It was possible. I could let Bill go and actually love again. We were listening to Edith Piaf again—the music from the movie we’d seen—some plaintive old love song. It was very romantic, but I have to admit I was curious, so I asked, “What’s with the Piaf?”

  “What about it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a little odd for a modern kinda guy like yourself to be listening to Edith Piaf.”

  He began nibbling on my ear. Oooh. I was such a sucker for that. Then he started with this crazy French accent.

  “Ah, mon petite Maggie. Ze music, she is for you. Piaf sings of l’amour. Is romantic, no?”

  “I suppose.” Okay, so I was playing coy.

  “Look how she helped bring romance to Sabrina.”

  I smiled. His accent was pretty good. Must be all that French lit. Still, I wanted to remind him of all that was good in the states, and my hand looked for the spot that would do it.

  “Sabrina, huh? So, Nick, does that make you William Holden?”

  He moaned. I’d found the spot.

  “I’m hoping that I’m Humphrey Bogart.”

  “You are, are you?”

  My lips continued their way around his face, and his words were becoming more labored.

  “Of course I am. Bogey gets the girl, right?”

  “He does, but he had to move to Paris to do it.”

  The lips moved, the hand moved, he was barely whispering now.

  “Well, luckily, I am going to be living in Paris.”

  What? Paris? That’s 5,000 miles away. The hand withdrew.

  “Oh really? When?” I asked.

  “In the fall.”

  “The fall?” The lips withdrew.

  “Yeah.”

  “For how long?”

  “For a year.”

  A year? A year? The gutted fish feeling returned. I was starting to fall in love with another man who was going to leave me. I couldn’t go through that again. I couldn’t go through the hurt, the pain, or the suffering of being left. I wanted to be with someone who wanted to be with me, dammit, not someone who would suck the love and life out of me and then leave.

  I could feel myself pulling away from him. I couldn’t look into those eyes that had pierced my soul. The warm feelings disappeared and the electrical charge that had attracted me now jolted me and made me want out of the room—fast.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t handle this,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I can’t handle starting something with you, Nick.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re leaving.”

  “In five months.”

  “Well, it’s too much for me. I can’t start something with you knowing it’s going to end in five months. I’m not built that way. Sorry.”

  I grabbed my things and got out of there as quickly as I could. I couldn’t believe how close I had come to totally losing myself. Really succumbing. I made it out of there without losing my heart. Whew, right? Wrong. What lingered was not a feeling of relief or safety. Instead it was an image: an image of Nick’s blue eyes as he said good-bye. The eyes that looked so lost, so disappointed, and just so sad.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of my troops. Great. The War Council would help me out of my confused state, keep me busy, and keep that final image of Nick’s somber eyes out of my mind. Sure. That would work.

  “General Maggie, what’s shakin’?”

  Mike was the first to arrive and made a big show of saluting. That made me smile. I needed to smile.

  “Captain Mike, glad you could make it.”

  “Hard ass here yet?”

  “I’m right behind you, Neanderthal.”

  “Monique, babycakes, how’s it hanging?”

  I cringed, but Monique took it in stride. “Fine, toots.” With that, she clapped Mike on the butt and commented, “Yeow, firm buns.”

  She then grinned, winked at me, turned, took a seat, and crossed her legs without missing a beat. Mike was shocked. I was shocked, too, but tried not to look like I had enjoyed the exchange as much as I did.

  Before either of us could comment, Kathy, Randy, and Hallie walked through the door. They were talking about the sunny day. I guess the sun was out—so what? It was spring after all, why shouldn’t the sun be shining?

  “Okay, let’s get to work.” I attempted to take control while they took their seats.

  “Yes, Teach,” Kathy said in a snarky tone.

  Had to cause trouble. Jealous of the success, I suppose. Or maybe it was the sun or the Saturday. I went along with it.

  “That’s General to you, babe.”

  They all immediately chimed in with a “wooooo.”

  Must’ve been the fact it was a Saturday.

  “Come on. We’re here for a reason,” I said, and they all calmed down and began to listen. I recapped the story of Cindy and Biff and of the power struggle they represented. It would be our job to affect a shift of that power from Biff to Cindy. A victory for Cindy would be a victory for all of those on the wrong end of the relationship power struggle. Pow. We were ready to begin our attack.

  Chapter Twelve

  CINDY

  It was, like, totally bizarre. The professor who interrupted my puking outside the Kingfish was Professor McGrew, a communications professor. I knew it. I had her for the intro course when I was a freshman. It was a good course. She seemed neat, too, which is why I followed her over to the Edible Complex for a cup of coffee. Only I didn’t actually drink any coffee as it’s not the best thing for a stomach after puking so I had some 7-up and she had some coffee and we talked. Well, mostly she talked.

  First, she told me to call her Maggie. Weird, huh? Calling a professor by their first name. Anyhow, Maggie—still weird—said she understood my problems with Biff. She said that even from across the room she could tell from my nonverbal communication that I was upset, and she wanted to help. I didn’t really understand how she could help. Then she told me about the War Council. Weird name, right? War Council?

  “Yes, War Council,” she said. “It’s a service some of us at the university are providing for students who are having difficulties with their relationships.”

  �
�Why ‘War Council’?”

  “Well, you know the expression ‘all’s fair in love and war’?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “We happen to feel that expression is particularly appropriate in today’s relationships. And since we are a group of people who want to help others involved in the battle that is love, War Council seemed to fit.”

  “Oh.”

  “It just seems to me, Cindy, that you have lost the power in your relationship.”

  Power? She lost me there. What does power have to do with relationships? All I knew was I loved Biff and I had to be with him, even if he is a scum-sucking fuckface. Okay, so I didn’t put it that way.

  “What does power have to do with it?”

  “It has everything to do with it, Cindy. Remember the beginning of your relationship? Remember how badly… what was his name again?”

  “Biff.”

  “Right. Remember how badly Biff wanted to be with you?”

  “Yeah, he used to call me all the time and come by the house and want to study and go for walks and sit and talk. Every time his parents went out of town, we would go to his house and spend the weekend together, just the two of us away from his frat friends and the pressures of school. It was like we were this couple, you know, a real couple. Almost like we were married.”

  It made me sad to think how good things had been, and I’m afraid I started to cry again. Sometimes I’m such a weenie.

  “That’s okay. I understand how you feel,” she said.

  She really did seem to understand.

  “And how are things now?”