My Father the God

by D. Allen Henry

  Chapter 7

  Unburying the Past

  Boston – Christmas, 1946

  Sloan had found Mrs. Adams’ advice so uplifting that he had vowed to put Sabrina behind him once and for all, and for two months he had succeeded rather well. But when Christmas rolled around, he found himself beset with second thoughts. Once the fall semester ended, there was too much free time and too little to distract him from his own memories. Accordingly, he began to reminisce about Sabrina yet again. Day after day, he sat within the coffee shop, staring out the window, wondering where she was, what she was doing, and what she must think of him.

  One day a shadow crossed his vision and, his contemplation interrupted, he glanced upwards and, seeing his friend, he exclaimed, “James! Good to see you. Have you time for a cup of coffee?”

  “Of course,” James responded with an impish grin, “Why else would I darken the doorstep of your personal fiefdom?” and so saying, he plopped down across from Sloan.

  “Excellent!” Sloan responded and, turning toward the bar, he commanded, “Silvy, a coffee for my friend, Dr. Moorehead!”

  “Sooo,” James now commenced, “Isolde and I have not heard from you since you decided to visit the inn. We’ve been wondering – did you go? And, if so, how did it go?”

  “Yes, of course I went,” he responded, “I apologize, James, I should have gotten back to the both of you,” and, diverted by the arriving drink, he added offhandedly, “Ah, here is your coffee.”

  “Thank you, “James said to Silvy, “What do I owe you?”

  “Perish the thought,” Sloan interjected, “Put it on my tab, Silvy.”

  “What? I thought you owned this shop!” James replied jokingly.

  “Yeah, well, by now I probably should, but I have no head for business, if you must know.”

  “Well, you certainly have a head for science, dear Sloan. You have once again completed the semester at the head of the class. If I were you, I should therefore be unconcerned about your lack of business skills!” at which the pair snickered convivially.

  “At any rate,” James continued, “How did it go in New Hampshire?”

  “It was interesting, but in the end, it was all for naught, I’m afraid,” Sloan responded disconsolately.

  “How so?” James inquired.

  “Oh, she had plenty to say. She’s now the owner of The Orchard Inn, if you must know, and she’s married, too!”

  “Wow! That’s a revelation. If memory serves, we discussed having a go at her that summer,” James volunteered tongue-in-cheek.

  “Yes, well, I seriously doubt that either of us could have handled her, if you get my meaning.”

  “I take it she’s not changed then,” James responded knowingly.

  “Not the least bit. It’s difficult to get a word in edgewise with that vixen,” Sloan observed.

  “But she had no information?” James coached.

  “No, she knew nothing whatsoever as to Sabrina’s whereabouts, and she had not heard that Sabrina had been discharged from Bryn Mawr, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, that is disconcerting,” James replied despondently, “Perhaps it’s time to move on.”

  “Funny, that’s exactly what Miss Struthers suggested.”

  “Good advice, if you ask me,” James concurred, adding, “And, as a starting point toward doing so, Isolde and I would like to invite you to our home to share Christmas tidings day after tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I say, that is quite generous of you, James,” Sloan responded gleefully, “I would be delighted. What time shall I come?”

  “Shall we say, noon?”

  “Yes, of course,” Sloan responded and, seeing James rise to leave, he offered, “See you then, my friend. And Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas, Sloan.”

  Christmas Day

  Sloan tapped on the door and, sensing noise from within, he heard a tiny voice say from behind the door, “Is that you, Uncle Sloan?”

  “Yes, Robert, it is I,” he responded, giddy with happiness at such a sound coming from within.

  “Right then,” the tiny voice responded, “I must go find my mummy. You see, I’m not allowed to open the front door. I shall be back in a moment.”

  At this, Sloan awaited a few further moments until, the door swinging wide, he observed Isolde, the child clutching at her dress from behind.

  “Ah, there you are, Sloan! Happy Christmas!” and so saying, she awarded Sloan a hug, accompanied by a light peck on the cheek.

  “Isolde, Happy Christmas,” he responded, adding, “I do so love to hear it the English way,” and reaching down to the child, he swung him up within his arms and extoled, “Happy Christmas, Robert! My, but you are growing quite like a weed!”

  “Hullo, Uncle Sloan. Merry Christmas! But I’m not a weed,” the child responded, his thumb firmly implanted within the edge of his mouth.

  “He’s just kidding you,” Isolde said, supplying a motherly tousling of Robert’s hair.

  The three subsequently entering the great room, Sloan offered, “Isolde, this so lovely. I’m jealous, you know. You and James have solved everything. I hope someday I shall find this sort of happiness.”

  “You shall, Sloan, of that I am quite certain,” she replied with apparent sympathy, “Now, let’s get down to the business of observing Christmas!”

  April, 1947

  The pair sat on a park bench, adjacent to the Charles River. It was a beautiful spring day and, although it wasn’t quite yet what one could call warm, it was nonetheless a far cry from the frigid winter they had so recently suffered through.

  Having supplied no hint as to her purpose in meeting, Isolde offered idly, “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

  “Yes, and to tell you the truth, I’d much rather be sitting here with you than cooped up studying for exams,” Sloan responded.

  The pair gazed about for a few further moments, Isolde glancing ever so often in the direction of the park swings, where Robert was busy attempting to set a new record for heights.

  “That kid is a handful,” Sloan said, clearly impressed by her son’s nonstop energy.

  “Reminds me of a guy I used to know,” she mumbled absently.

  “Right-o,” he interjected, “He’s the spitting image of his father.”

  Intent on heading in another direction, she observed, “Sloan, I’ve been thinking about what we discussed at Christmas.”

  “Christmas? You mean at your home?”

  “Yes, of course,” she responded, a frown creasing her features, “You implied that you intended to take Miss Struthers’ advice.”

  “I did? What advice was that?”

  “To move on with your life, to stop looking back,” she continued.

  “Oh, right, and good advice it was, for so I have,” he rejoined.

  “Yes, well, I beg to disagree,” she parried all too bluntly.

  “What?” he blurted and, turning to face her squarely, he added in mystification, “What’s got into you, Isolde? What is blooming in that singularly complex mind of yours this time?”

  “Sloan, I believe that you have yet to chase this fox to ground,” she observed sagely.

  “Oh? How so?” he responded, having no idea whatsoever to what she was referring.

  “Surely you’ve thought about this whole affair more than I have,” she suggested, “And if I’m not mistaken, there are holes in this entire story that cannot be explained.”

  “Such as?” he queried vacuously.

  “You tell me, you fool!” she expounded forcefully.

  Lurching backwards, he eyed her searchingly, thenceforth inquiring, “Are we indeed talking about Sabrina?”

  “Of course we’re talking about Sabrina, Sloan Stewart!” she bellowed, her eyes flashing in fury.

  Still shocked by her change in attitude, he inquired yet again, “So, what’s on your mind?”

  Now having calmed considerably, she said, “Just this - I’m thinking ther
e’s something here we’ve not thought through.”

  “Alright, I’m listening,” he responded doubtfully.

  “Here it comes then,” she offered, “Tell me again about your visit to see Sabrina’s mother.”

  “Why? What about it?”

  “For instance, did you see the letters?”

  “Yes, I saw them. What of it?”

  “Did they appear to be in Sabrina’s handwriting?”

  “Gee, I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “What sort of hunch?”

  “I’m not certain, but suppose the letters weren’t written by Sabrina.”

  “What? That makes no sense, Isolde.”

  “Perhaps not, but think about it. Suppose Sabrina hasn’t been writing to her mother, but someone else has been planting letters to make it appear that Sabrina is in Las Vegas.”

  “But that is quite absurd! Why ever would anyone do that?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea.”

  “Right, what else, Isolde?”

  “Well, tell me about that stripper again.”

  “Why ever for?”

  “Just tell me this, Sloan. Do you ever think about that stripper?”

  “What? What sort of guy do you think I am?”

  “I already know the answer to that question, Sloan. Just tell me this – is there anything about the stripper’s performance that reminds you of someone else?”

  “Say, just exactly what are you getting at?”

  “Answer the question, you fool!”

  “Alright. And yes, I have thought about that stripper, but not in the prurient way you’ve implied. For some reason, she reminded me of Sabrina.”

  “How so, Sloan? And be very careful how you answer, because this is quite important.”

  Scratching his head in bewilderment, Sloan responded thoughtfully, “Well, let me think a moment, she didn’t look anything at all like Sabrina, so it’s not that. But you know, there was something about the way she carried herself, it just reminded me of Sabrina. You know, shoulders back, chin high, and that impossibly long stride of hers.”

  “Anything else?” she asked pointedly.

  “Like what?”

  “Like a tattoo,” she responded emphatically.

  “Look here, Isolde, exactly what are you getting at?” he queried in mystification.

  “Sloan, you’ve seen Sabrina naked, as have I,” she supplied, “Does she have any distinguishing marks?”

  “Of course she does. She has a tiny birthmark on her left flank that is shaped like a heart.”

  “Exactly, and did this woman have such a birthmark?”

  “Of course not!” he emitted forcefully, “Only Sabrina has such a mark on her.”

  “Right, but did this woman have any other marks on her?”

  “No, not that I can recall. The only thing she was wearing by the end of her act was a black choker around her neck.”

  “And what was on the choker?”

  “What do you mean, what was on the choker?”

  “Just answer the question, Sloan!”

  Appearing lost, he thought for a moment, then said, “Oh…my…God…it was a heart. The choker had a heart on it.”

  “Right,” she observed knowingly, “Just as I suspected,” and so saying, she stared expectantly at him.

  He eyed her and, she for her part patiently awaiting his response, he finally managed the energy to stammer, “Uhm, I take it I am to make a return trip to Las Vegas. Am I right, Isolde?”

  “I am afraid so, dear Sloan, I am afraid so.”

  Las Vegas – June, 1947

  Appearing extremely fatigued, Sloan pulled into the Flamingo Hotel, tossed the keys to the attendant, and made his way into the hotel. Once therein, he headed directly for his room, slept for eight hours straight, and emerged just in time for the evening festivities on the Strip. He made his way directly to the theatre and purchased a ticket, this time knowing exactly what to expect.

  Sure enough, the stripper was on the schedule for the evening, and her show was exactly as he had remembered it. After the show, he repeated his ploy of the previous summer, following her to the all-night diner. Once there, he made his way forthwith to her table.

  Seeing him coming toward her in the nearly empty restaurant, she said blandly, “Why am I not surprised! She told me you’d be back, and sure enough, here you are. Say, you look beat. How far did you come this time?”

  “From Boston,” he responded in obvious exhaustion.

  “My, my,” she responded, “Please, have a seat here, soldier boy,” and so saying, she indicated the seat opposite her. She took him in for a moment, then announced surreptitiously, “Man, you gotta be real gone on that girl, that’s all I can say.”

  “Guilty as accused,” he responded dryly.

  “And you doubtless know a lot more than you did the last time we met,” she opined.

  “Well, not enough, because if I did, I wouldn’t need your help,” he put in, “By the way, name’s Sloan, Sloan Stewart.”

  “I already know that, you idiot!” she blurted.

  Hoping for a better response, he nonetheless pressed on, “Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

  “You can call me Faye, soldier boy.”

  Rolling it around on his tongue, he said to himself, “Faye…that’s a nice name…”

  “What, strippers can’t have nice names?” she replied defensively.

  “Whoa,” he spat out, “How am I supposed to break through your defenses, when I can’t even get your name out of you?”

  She eyed him viciously for a moment, then said vapidly, “She told me you’d try this, and not to fall for it. So I’m just telling you right now, it ain’t gonna happen!”

  “What isn’t going to happen?” he queried.

  “I ain’t gonna tell you where she is!” she bellowed.

  “Fair enough,” he replied sedately, “But until you do, I’m going to be your very best friend, Miss Faye the stripper.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen neither,” she deadpanned.

  “Tell you what,” Sloan suggested, “How’s about if I tell you a really good story, a fairy tale of sorts, and afterwards you can ponder on it, and do whatever you like with it.”

  “I’m all ears, soldier boy,” she agreed, crossing her arms in simultaneous denial.

  And so he did. He told her the entire story, and this time he didn’t leave anything out. He told her about the crossing, about befriending Isolde and James, and he told her about how he had made a serious mistake when he had caught her in the shower at the inn. He had practiced it all the way from Boston, so he knew it was good, and when he had finished, he could tell that she was visibly moved.

  A solitary tear rolling down one cheek, she said accusingly, “You are one real gone soldier boy, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I am, Faye whatever-your-name-is,” he murmured passionately, “And unless you help me, I’m afraid I’m going to die from it. I simply cannot stand it. I must find her, or I shall die.”

  “That’s all real enticing, but I got a stake in this here pie, too, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh?” he responded doubtfully.

  Seeing his doubt, she responded, “Sabrina is just my best friend in this whole wide world, and I must tell you, I cannot afford to lose her.”

  “Supposing I promised you wouldn’t. How would that sit with you?” he inquired.

  “Empty promises. My life is absolutely filled with empty promises from guys like you. It’s gonna take one helluva lot more than promises to get anything out of me, soldier boy.”

  “Fair enough, Faye. I didn’t expect it, and frankly, I’d have been suspicious if you had been forthwith on such short notice,” he said, “But I have a plan. Suppose we work through this thing together.”

  “What, the two of us?”

  “No, the three of us, Faye. Suppose you agree to be
the go-between. Suppose you talk to me, then you talk to her, and see where she stands on things. I’m willing to take as long as it takes.”

  “Have you lost your mind, soldier boy? That could take weeks!” and, mumbling to herself, she added surreptitiously, “Or worse, forever!”

  “We already covered both parts of that. Yes, I’ve lost my mind, and yes, if it takes that long, then so be it! Now, can we get on with it?”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, shaking her head in apparent dismissal, “Come back in here, same time tomorrow night. I’ll see what I can work out by then.”

  “Great! Thanks, Faye. I can’t thank you enough. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, one other thing. I need twenty dollars.”

  “What? Why?” he asked vacuously.

  “I can’t say. Just come back tomorrow night.”

  The Following Night

  Sloan emerged from his car and trudged toward the door of the diner, his every nerve cell aware that the rest of his life hung in the balance. Approaching Faye cautiously, he searched for any sign of an answer and, arriving at her table, he inquired, “Hi, Faye. May I join you?”

  “Sure, soldier boy, pick a spot. Coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” he replied laconically.

  “One coffee!” she yelled toward the back.

  “Well?” he inquired.

  “Well, what?” she dodged.

  “You know what,” he responded with a sheepish grin.

  “Well, I can say this - she was none too pleased when I said I wanted you for myself,” she said blandly.

  “Aw, now why did you have to go and do that?” he asked miserably.

  Now grinning from ear to ear, she responded, “I had to find out her intentions, didn’t I?”

  “Say, you’re pretty sharp,” he replied, his face brightening.

  “You got that right, soldier boy, and it’s a darn good thing, because this ain’t going to be easy. I can tell you that for sure.”

  “Uh, oh, she’s still mad at me, isn’t she!”

  “Madder’n a hellcat caught up a rhino’s snout,” she opined indifferently.

  “Bollocks! I was sure I was doing the right thing that night,” he replied mournfully.

  “Well, you wasn’t!”

  “I can see that,” he moaned and, eyeing her carefully, he asked, “Any suggestions?”

  “Listen here, Sloan. We got some things to work through. I’m thinkin’, if we can resolve them, then maybe, just maybe, she’ll give you another shot. Mind you, I’m not makin’ any promises.”

  “Okay, that’s sounds encouraging. What sort of things?”

  “Good show!” she replied happily, adding, “First question – why’d you steal her panties?”

  “I didn’t!” he exclaimed forcefully. “I swear, I never stole her panties! Wait a minute, now I’ve caught my own self in a lie. Sorry! Back up, rewind, start over. I pulled her panties down in the lake that night, but I wouldn’t call that theft at all. That was just joshing around. As to the two pairs of stolen panties, I had nothing to do with that at all.”

  “Then who did?” she asked forcefully.

  “I’ve no idea, and I doubt we’ll ever know at this point. But I guarantee you this, you will never ever find those panties in my possession!”

  “Okay, well, I had hoped for something better, but it will have to do,” she responded.

  “Now, how about the panties at the lake, Sloan. What was that all about?”

  “Right, I was drunk that night, and I was quite taken with her, so I got a little bit out of hand. That’s all!”

  “Not good enough, soldier boy!”

  Paling at her response, he said abashedly, “Look, I’ll tell you, but you have to promise me you’ll never tell her!”

  “No promises, soldier boy. You forget, I have the upper hand,” she replied disdainfully.

  “Okay, what if I promise you that I will tell her myself what I’m about to tell you?”

  “Alright, I promise,” She responded immediately.

  “I was in love with her, that’s why.”

  “Ooh, this just keeps getting messier!” she responded deliciously. “She claims you were playing both ends against the middle, keeping your hand open with Isolde.”

  “No!” he exclaimed forcefully. “I adore Isolde, I always have. But love never entered my mind with her.”

  “That’s much better,” she replied knowingly, “Now, last question – why did you make her shave her pubic hair?”

  “Aw, bloody hell. I told myself that I wanted – no - I needed for her to live up to the pedestal I had placed her on. Young love has high standards, I suppose. But now, six years on, I believe that I may have been lying to myself instead that night.”

  “Lying? In what way?”

  “A part of me just couldn’t help but want to see what was hidden beneath that patch of fur. Still, it didn’t turn out that way,” he admitted self-loathingly. After a few moments, he added, “Damn, I am a pervert, aren’t I!”

  “If you think that is perverted, then you got another thing comin’,” she announced empathetically, “Okay, soldier boy, that’s it for now. Come back tomorrow night. Same time, same place. Oh, and give me another twenty.”

  “Right. See you then,” he said, and as he rose to go, he tossed her a twenty-dollar bill.

  The Following Night

  “Sooo, what did she say?” Sloan queried, taking his by-now-familiar seat across from her.

  “You done real fine, soldier boy,” she said, an enormous grin spreading across her features.

  “What does that mean?” he responded vapidly.

  “It means – you passed. She wants to see you!”

  “Really! Oh, my goodness, this is wonderful. When?”

  “In three days’ time,” she replied nonchalantly.

  “Three days! Why so long?” he responded in abject misery.

  “Because she ain’t here, that’s why!”

  “What! She’s not in Las Vegas? Then where on earth is she?”

  “She’s in New York City, you fool!”

  “New York City!” he gurgled apathetically, “She will most assuredly be gone by the time I get there!”

  “Well now, soldier boy, that may be true, but I don’t see where you got a choice in the matter.”

  Eyeing her for any sign of confirmation, he posited, “Faye, you charmer, you have either taken me for a ride, or you are doing me the biggest favor of my entire life, and from where I’m sitting, I have no way of knowing which case it is.”

  “Well, now, soldier boy, you just get right up and get right on out of here, because you’re gonna get the answer to that question in three days’ time.”

  “I get it now, the twenty-dollar bills were for long distance phone calls, weren’t they!”

  Taking another drag on her coffee, she responded banally, “Right.”

  He eyed her a further moment, then offered, “Faye, it’s been bizarre, truly bizarre,” and so saying, he lurched from his seat and headed for the door, but then realizing what he’d forgotten, he inquired, “Where shall I find her?”

  “Radio City Music Hall, you fool! She’s a Rockette!” and, as he reached for the door handle, she called to him one last time, exclaiming, “You tell her when you see her that I’m real jealous. She caught herself a one of a kind!”

  New York City – Two Days Later

  Sloan lollygagged outside the backstage door, hoping beyond hope that she would appear. It was a warm summer evening in New York, but he barely noticed, just as he had hardly noticed the grueling twenty-five hundred mile drive.

  Eventually, she came out and, seeing his face, she came forward, exclaiming pleasantly, “Sloan! Sloan Stewart! Can it be? Is it really you? Up to this very moment I couldn’t bring myself to believe the cock-and-bull story that Faye gave me.”

  Reaching her side momentarily, he blurted self-consciously, “Yes, Sabrina, it
is indeed me.”

  At this she politely allowed him to embrace her, adding, “But how can this be? We were told that you were dead. We thought you were killed in the war.”

  “Yes, I very nearly was,” he answered bluntly.

  “But you weren’t. And here you are, somehow alive, against all expectation – alive!”

  “Yes, dear Sabrina.”

  “But what are you doing here, Sloan?”

  “All in good time, Sabrina, all in good time. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Of course! Please - join me, if you will. I know an all-night diner right down the street. New York never sleeps, you know.”

  Once they had seated themselves within the diner, he announced brazenly, “You see, I’ve come in search of you, Sabrina.”

  “Why on earth for?”

  “To thank you,” he responded enigmatically.

  “To thank me? Whatever for?”

  “For saving my life.”

  “What! How so?”

  “I’ve been a prisoner of war, for nearly three years, Sabrina.”

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry to hear that, Sloan. Are you alright?”

  “Yes, of course, and tis all due to you.”

  “What! But I don’t understand.”

  “I thought of you, Sabrina. For four long years of war and captivity, I thought of you. Had I not had the memory of you to bring me through, I should have died in that prison camp. So you see, you saved my life.”

  “Ah, I see now. So you were sustained for the better part of the last four years by lurid images of me in that shower in New Hampshire.”

  “Yes, in point fact, you are correct.”

  “I’m not quite sure whether to be flattered or insulted. But as you are somehow alive, I suppose I should at least be happy for you.”

  “Yes, so I’ve come to say thank you, Sabrina.”

  Eyeing him doubtfully, she responded, “You’re welcome, I suppose.”

  He stared at her momentarily, then inquired in apparent confusion, “So, just exactly what in heck are you doing here in New York?”

  “I should think that would be obvious, Sloan. After you got me kicked out of Bryn Mawr, I had to make a living. As fate would have it, the quest for a means of support led me to New York City, where I discovered my one talent.”

  “One talent? What talent?”

  “Why, high kicking, of course!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I take it you’ve not heard of the Rockettes.”

  “No, should I have?”

  “It’s the most widely attended live entertainment show on earth, Sloan!”

  “Oh, I say, that is marvelous! Good for you, Sabrina. You must be doing quite well.”

  “I can see you’re not particularly impressed,” she said sarcastically.

  “Sabrina, surely you realize that you are not the same naïve young lady that I met in New Hampshire.”

  “Bingo! The foolish young girl becomes a show girl, and it’s all because of you, Sloan Stewart the pervert!” she exclaimed scornfully.

  Horrified at her reaction, he queried, “What on earth has gotten into you, Sabrina?”

  “You seem quite surprised, Sloan. I would have thought that a pervert like you would have been overjoyed to observe the remarkable success of your well-tutored protégé.”

  “You must be kidding, Sabrina. Why didn’t you continue your studies at Bryn Mawr?”

  “Because you got me kicked out of there, you asshole. I was far too nefarious for those snobs anyway.”

  “I’m confused. What happened?”

  “Why, you showed me the finer aspects of degeneracy, dear Sloan,” she responded self-condescendingly, “And I don’t mind telling you, I am ever so grateful. Had you not cornered me in the shower that night, there is no telling where I would be now. As it is, I have achieved a certain degree of libidinous notoriety.”

  “I say, this is all quite unfathomable,” he mumbled to himself.

  “Whatever,” she responded cynically, “But the important question is – why did you get me expelled from school?”

  “I promise you, I had no hand in that,” he denied flatly.

  “I am quite certain you did,” she replied with equal certitude.

  “Why? What makes you so sure?”

  “Because the Dean of Students showed me the letter you sent to the university, that’s why.”

  “What! There must be some mistake! I would not, I could not, ever do such a heinous thing!”

  “Well, it’s all water under the bridge now, and, as you can see, it all turned out for the better,” she responded and, still clearly unconvinced, she added disinterestedly, “So, what are your plans now that you’ve found me?”

  “I’m not sure, I hadn’t thought that far,” he responded wistfully.

  “Fair enough. Seeing as how you appear to be at loose ends, why not come back to my apartment with me. We can talk about old times.”

  “I say, that is quite sporting of you, Sabrina. I think that I should rather like that.”

  Rising from her seat, she responded, “Excellent. Follow me!” and so saying, she led him toward the subway station.

  Arriving at her apartment shortly thereafter, she beckoned him within and, closing the door and locking it, she immediately grabbed him tightly, tugging him into a deep and searing kiss.

  On coming up for air, he blurted, “What the…?”

  “God, I’ve been wanting to do that ever since that night, you nasty boy. And all these years, I thought you were dead. Get your clothes off. I’m going to reap vengeance on you for that night.”

  “I say,” he responded sheepishly.

  “Shut up, you idiot,” she commanded self-assuredly, “The shoe is on the other foot now…so best do exactly as I say.”

  The Following Morning

  Sloan was shocked to observe Sabrina lying next to him in bed. Brushing the cobwebs away, he rolled over towards her.

  “Sabrina, dear Sabrina, wake up!” he said, gently tugging her awake.

  “Oh, good morning,” she responded, pecking him lightly on the lips. “Excuse me a moment, if you will, I have to brush my teeth,” and so saying she hopped from the bed and traipsed unabashedly to the bathroom.

  Lounging in anticipation of her return, he thought back over the previous night, the memory of it beyond anything he had ever experienced in his life, surpassing even that first time with her on the dock six years past.

  Emerging from the bathroom, she halted before the bed and exclaimed, “Don’t even think about getting out of bed, you nasty boy. I’ve not even begun to have my way with you!” and so saying she dove under the covers and proceeded to enact her intentions.

  A Month Later

  Sloan stood outside the backstage door awaiting her appearance. When she eventually emerged, his lone utterance was, “Hi.”

  “Hey,” she replied, “How’d you like the show tonight?”

  “Impressive,” he responded curtly. “Let’s go somewhere. I need to talk.”

  “Okay. How about the diner?”

  “Sure,” he said, thenceforth leading the way.

  Once ensconced within the diner, he said, “How on earth did you come to hit upon a career on the stage, Sabrina?”

  “Oh, I should think that would be obvious, Sloan.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Oh, well, I took dance in high school. I was pretty good, but not good enough to perform ballet or anything like that. I was having a terrible time finding a job, so I started out waiting tables part-time at restaurants when I moved to the City. Shortly thereafter, I managed to scare up a job as a cabaret dancer, nothing too salacious, mind you. Anyway, that’s where I first met Faye. Neither of us intended that to be our profession, but it paid the rent. Anyway, I kept at it, and my looks eventually started getting me auditions, and the rest is history, as they say.”

  “So the even
ts at The Orchard Inn had nothing to do with it?” he queried.

  Frowning in confusion, she murmured, “I’m sure I don’t understand. In what way?”

  Deciding to avoid a potentially dangerous confrontation, he mumbled, “Well, I suppose that I shall have to take your word for it.”

  “Please do,” she responded, her eyes flashing in warning, “Anything else?”

  “Well, yes, there is,” he stammered, “Uhm, I still don’t get the connection with Faye. What’s that about, Sabrina?”

  “Oh, that. I should think it would be obvious. Since we were both aspiring dancers, we were going to the same auditions. And New York being one of the most expensive cities in the world, we eventually fell in together and decided to share an apartment.”

  “Ah, I see!” he responded agreeably, “So, how long did you live together?”

  “Oh, gee, let me see. I moved here in October of 1941, and we moved in together a couple of months later, just before the New Year,” she contemplated. “Faye finally moved to Las Vegas in the spring of last year. So we lived together for more than five years.”

  “Why did she move to Vegas?”

  “Oh, that,” she mumbled, as if to herself, adding, “Well, Faye couldn’t make it with the Rockettes. She doesn’t have the dancing skills, but she has the looks!”

  “I’ll second that,” Sloan put in appreciatively.

  “Right,” she responded, eyeing him reprovingly, “Anyway, she was bouncing around from one cabaret show to another, very stressful if you ask me. And, as fate would have it, the post-war atmosphere was kicking things into high gear in the City. I suppose that the troops coming home from the war expected some sort of special reward for their sacrifices and, in such a setting, anything goes.”

  “Huh? Meaning what?” he inquired vacuously.

  “Meaning, there is money to be made from the exposure of skin. And, over the course of the last couple of years, it develops that the more skin, the more money there is to be made. Faye has a whole lot of impressive features, and frankly, she was tired of barely scraping by. So she started down that road. But there were others, like Gypsy Rose Lee and Lili St. Cyr, who were inventing all sorts of titillating stage acts. That’s when Faye and I put our heads together and came up with the shower act. Shortly thereafter, she signed a contract for a whole lot of money to star at the new Flamingo Club in Vegas.”

  “Pretty much as I thought,” he nodded to himself, “Why didn’t you do the same, Sabrina?”

  “Not my sort of thing,” she replied flatly, “The dancing I did before I became a Rockette was, although perhaps titillating, pretty tame. Stripping just didn’t seem like a professional pursuit to me.”

  Apparently relieved, he responded, “I see…”

  “Now, what else is on your mind?” she asked pointedly.

  “Well, there is one thing,” he replied sheepishly.

  “And what might that be?”

  “Sabrina, dear Sabrina…how shall I say this? It seems, I have fallen in love with you.”

  “That’s nice,” she responded disinterestedly, “So?”

  “So, I am asking you to marry me,” he responded nervously.

  “That’s strange,” she responded, “I thought I just heard you propose to me.”

  “Yes, indeed I did,” he replied surreptitiously.

  “Why ever on earth for?” she inquired vacantly.

  “I’ve just said why. Because I love you – that’s why.”

  “Surely you don’t expect me to believe that!” she snapped.

  “On the contrary,” he pleaded, “That is exactly what I hope that you shall believe.”

  “Why?” she spat back at him.

  “Because it’s true,” he responded.

  Eyeing him doubtfully, she now murmured, “Well, that’s pretty good, you nasty boy. Actually, I should say more precisely - it is in fact excellent. I would even go so far as to say, it’s quite the best proposal of marriage I’ve ever had.”

  “What! How many proposals of marriage have you in fact received?” he replied forlornly.

  “Well, let me see here, give me a moment to count,” she replied, at which his visage paled visibly. Holding up her fingers as a means of counting off the numbers, she commenced counting to herself and, eventually completing her task, she said, “One.”

  He, having become by that point quite daunted, now grinned in relief and, aware that he had been duped, he inquired, “Well?”

  “Well, what?” she muttered, a frown lacing her features.

  “Will you?” he exclaimed in obvious exasperation.

  “Of course I will, you idiot!” she bellowed.

  “You will?” he replied in stupefaction, “Oh, I’m so happy, Sabrina!”

  “As am I, you nasty boy,” she volunteered.

  The two were married three days later.

  Boston – August, 1947

  Upon their arrival in Boston, Sabrina inquired, “How are we set for money, Sloan?”

  “I rather think that we can survive on what I’ve saved, together with my veteran’s benefits,” he responded self-assuredly, “Why?”

  “Just wondering if I should consider working.”

  “Working? What sort of work, Sabrina,” he responded, his face contorting in trepidation.

  “I was thinking of looking around to see if they have need of exotic dancers here in Boston,” she responded sarcastically.

  Missing her sarcasm, he blurted in abject fear, “Please, Sabrina, I had hoped that you might have put dancing behind you.”

  “Why?” she responded curtly, “What profession did you have in mind for me?”

  “I had hoped that you might be willing to focus on being the mother of our children,” he pleaded, “Assuming that we do in fact have children at some point.”

  “Well, I don’t know…” she mumbled distractedly.

  “Please, Sabrina!”

  “Ha!” she exclaimed with a revealing grin, “I was only kidding! Of course, I am more than happy to take on that role, especially since it means that I shall have the opportunity to continue to explore my position as your understudy in the art of perversion. Besides, with your libido, I’m sure that my pregnancy cannot be far off.”

  At this, he stared in surprise, responding, “Well, er, I suppose we have an agreement.”

  A month later Sabrina announced that she was indeed pregnant.