The Hidden: The Other Ones, #1

By Andrew Michael Schwarz

They told him it was just a parasite... 

Jack Fuller’s life took a swan dive after he cheated on his wife two years ago. His most recent spate of “bad luck” is a list of symptoms that don't seem to fit any particular disease profile. Internet searches and medical hip shots are as close as he can get to an actual diagnosis. 

Things get worse when a mysterious blood deposit with no apparent source is found in the middle of his bed. Then there is the intense hunger to contend with, the repeating erotic nightmares and the panic attacks. 

When the cause of the illness finally manifests, it is wilder than Jack could ever have imagined. The illness has a name. 

Its name is Jerry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Michael Schwarz
• Release date: Jun 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533791078

Book preview

1

Four simple words and six syllables of terror changed Jack Fuller’s life forever: You have a parasite.

Jack Fuller had no concept of the horror that lurked just behind the combination of vowels and consonants. You have a parasite were words that men in other places and at other times had heard before. Many befores. They were nothing new.

Men had been hearing them said by their doctors, their medicine men and each other for hundreds, perhaps, thousands of years. You have a parasite.

And yet never before had Jack Fuller heard them. Never before had Jack Fuller been faced with the terror such a sentence can bring when spoken to you—at you—about you.

Perhaps, You have a demon had been said to the ancestors of the race—his ancestors—when they could no longer raise a spear to impale a gazelle, or retain sufficient body mass to fight the giant reptiles. Perhaps, You have a demon was the first diagnosis, after which, the words had changed, but the intent had stayed the same. Perhaps, You have a demon morphed into You have a vampire, which in turn became You have a deadly disease, all the way down the line to, You have a parasite, Mr. Fuller.

Which parasite had not been answered yet. Were there so very many? Which strand of microbial life was swimming in his blood, his internal organs, his brain, had not even been touched upon. Yet.

Dr. Gromwell was not Jack Fuller’s doctor, either. He was simply the specialist that the hospital had called in to diagnose him, and Jack was not impressed at all. This Dr. Gromwell seemed to have nothing of substance to say about it, and Jack was just beginning to despise him.

A parasite? Jack repeated, swallowing something stuck and dry in his throat. What kind?

Gromwell shrugged. The care lines in his face could betray any emotion he might be apt to express—something a doctor, no doubt, worked hard to effect over the years when in the business of giving folks grim details—but now, the elder shook his head and his thick eyebrows knitted together.

I don’t know, he said flatly.

Jack bit down on his lower lip. What kind of answer was that? What breed of incompetence said that particular sentence to a man inquiring about his health?

You don’t know? Well, can you tell me anything at all? Jack asked, trying to remain calm and polite.

I can’t, the modern shaman replied, with any confidence.

Here appeared the beginnings of a game that Jack did not want to play. Ask and Not Answer, Ask and Get No Where.

Well, sure you can, Jack insisted, verging on a mad giggle. Sure you can, Doc. Like how do you even know it’s a parasite in the first place? Let’s start there, shall we?

Jack did not think of himself as an angry man, but he admitted to developing a certain soreness toward that segment of the population that seemed to espouse a philosophy of customer non-service, such as the brand received when calling the phone company or the internet service provider, or God forbid, the bank.

Here was that non-service, showing up in the doctor’s office, rearing its bland head, filled with scripted messages and canned responses. Here was a doctor playing it cool while the patient was heating up. Here was Jack getting pissed and a teleprompter of a man not responding properly to the situation.

Gromwell walked to the other side of the room, crossed his arms in his stiff, over-starched lab coat and looked down hard at the floor. It was the first sign of emotion.

You’ve lost weight, he began. You’ve got muscle loss as well as fat, but your muscle is very clearly defined in your physique. That would seem to indicate testosterone levels are up, while nutrition is lacking.

Gromwell blinked his eyes, as if to comment on the unlikelihood of such a scenario. He took a deep breath and continued.

Your lipids panel would also seem to confirm that your digestive system is struggling for nutrients, and you mentioned the fatigue and the fevers. You’ve got a variety of symptoms that point to nothing clear cut, but obviously, you are in a state of pathology, to some degree. Nothing is wrong on the one hand, but many things are wrong on the other. So—he shrugged—a parasite.

Jack laughed without humor. What are we talking about then, a tapeworm? Let’s put this into categories. I am sure there are many. Aren’t you the specialist?

Gromwell ignored Jack’s insult and abruptly said: This is no tapeworm.

Well what then? Jack implored.

The buttoned lip approach used by this doctor was quickly getting under his skin. Aside from the usual colds and flus, Jack had never been sick a day in his life. The man sitting with his shirt off in this small room had enjoyed the steadfast certainty, day in and day out, that his body was solidly healthy, reliable, free to operate without concern.

Because that is how it had been for forty-five years.

Mr. Fuller, I know how hard this can be.

No, goddammit, don’t give me that! Now, come on, I want answers and you can’t honestly stand there and say you don’t have a clue about what I might have, can you? This is the United States, for Christ sakes, we got it all figured it out.

The doctor didn’t respond to that.

For the love of goddamn Christ, Jack said. Help me out, what the hell am I supposed to do here? He was now seeing Gromwell as something less than human.

Gromwell took a deep breath. Are you on a diet, particularly one of these fad diets?

No.

Have you been out of the country?

Jack shook his head.

Do you own a cat?

What? No.

Have you noticed your testicles enlarging?

Doc, what kind of questions are these?

Gromwell shrugged and put his hands up.

There is a parasite that affects about twenty-two percent of the population. It infects the brain. Your testosterone levels are quite high. Normally this wouldn’t concern me much, except that you also have a preponderance of a hormone called HCG in your blood. It’s the pregnancy hormone.

He lifted a hand as if to ward of premature questions. "Men and women have this hormone in their bodies at all times, but when a woman is pregnant, the hormone spikes off the charts, as it should, to signal the body to prepare for pregnancy and create the placenta.

In men, too much of this hormone can convert into testosterone. That is what I think is happening with you. This could result in an enlargement of the testes. Have you felt agitated, more so, more recently?

Jack shrugged. Yeah, I guess, a little. In truth: very much. He’d been a ticking time bomb most days.

Gromwell nodded. Well, he said, his voice tinged with triumph. "This parasite I told you of infects the brain, it is called T gondii, it is—it breeds in cats. Comes out in their feces. That is why I asked you if you owned a cat.

In humans they are not too sure what it does, but it can affect personality. And, being in the brain, the hormonal changes brought about could explain why. Anger, agitation, even an increase in outgoing behavior can be indicators.

Jack was nodding his head. It all seemed rather elaborate.

So, you think this—what did you say, T gondii—?

Toxoplasma gondii, Gromwell replied, casually.

Jack nodded. This T gondii is making me aggressive, or flooding my system with testosterone?

HCG that becomes testosterone, yes. Either way.

Okay, Jack said. Is that the only thing it could be?

Well, Gromwell said, smug in his certainty. Sometimes Candida can do it, too, meaning cause mood swings, elevate certain hormonal levels, this kind of thing. But it seems less likely.

Okay.

Jack had at least heard of Candida. He didn’t know how much he agreed with it as an actual disease, but it was less a foreign word than this T. gondii.

Anything else, Doctor? Any other theories?

Gromwell licked his lips and considered his words.

Have you been sexually active more than—or with different partners—than at other times?

Jack eyed the aging man sternly, unsure whether this doctor knew the answer to that last question or not.

Yeah, he said, yeah, sure. He sighed, not knowing how much of his personal life he wanted to divulge here. I’ve been seeing a few people. But, I’m not out there, you know, bingeing or anything.

The truth was that Jack himself felt very close to a binge. He had done it before, and would do it again. It wasn’t something he planned for, it just happened. A certain pressure built up, fomenting inside, day after day, week after week, until he needed an outlet. Or several.

He never could reckon that one partner could sate all of that hunger. And well, he would binge, that’s all. Three, maybe four different women in a month. That was his binge, nothing too lecherous, nothing as devious as he had heard about sex maniacs--or what they call satyrs--men who can’t help themselves from taking a different woman to bed every chance they get, forgetting not only the women’s names, but also their faces.

He wasn’t uncontrollable, he was just a man. Three or four and he could neutralize, discharge all that pressure out of his head, out his body, so that he could think clearly again. And then months would go by where he wouldn’t touch a blessed one—well, more than one.

Are you telling me I have an STD, Doc?

Gromwell shook his head. No. I am not telling you that. I am merely exploring all possibilities.

Well, Jack said. I don’t have…anything, you know, down there or whatever. No rashes, or whatever.

That’s good, his doctor said. Look, Mr. Fuller, I’m going to send all these tests and all of your samples to the lab, and they’re going to go through it all again, and we’ll see what they say, okay? I will have it expedited so we can get to the bottom of what’s going on with you as quickly as possible, you understand? In the meanwhile, I need you to get plenty of rest, eat healthy, no raw meat—he waved a finger in the air—"T gondii loves raw meat. Drink plenty of water and if you can, abstain. If you can’t, then you can’t.

I don’t think you have an STD, but while we rule things out, it would be best. But for the record I believe you have a parasite, but not a tapeworm. He smiled softly. "Okay? I don’t want you getting all worked up. I need you calm, Jack, calm. Your body will thank you for it. Can you do that?"

Jack nodded, chewing on his lip. The fight had gone out of him.

Outside, Jack tried to enjoy the sun, the clear sky, the radio. He tried not to think about it, not to dwell or obsess over the problem. He went to the supermarket and purchased two grocery bags of vegetables and a case of water. He also picked up some probiotics and a bottle of whiskey. When he got home he sat on the couch and took three probiotics with his whiskey and sulked.

The light of day waned and slowly turned to twilight and already he was drunk, but wouldn’t admit to it. He went online and surfed pornography. Sometimes it could calm him down. Right now, he found it tedious and clicked off.

He ate a celery stick with peanut butter and when he was feeling good and drunk and sorry for himself, he pulled out the photo album and paged through the leafs. It was the only thing he had kept from his marriage. Most of the photos were black and whites because his ex-wife, Kate, loved that kind of photography. In a world where everyone was storing gobs of digital photos, Kate had been taking black and white pictures with a 35mm camera, developing them in a homemade darkroom and stuffing them into photo albums for posterity.

He leafed to somewhere in the middle of the book, to the photos of Bones.

That wasn’t her real name, of course. Her name was Amalia, Amy for short. Her willowy frame had been little more than skin and bones before she’d hit puberty and became the beauty that she was today.

The nickname had come out as a joke on a Saturday morning many years ago when she had either refused to or couldn’t eat more than a single egg. That’s when he had called her Bones for the first time and after that, there was no going back.

She’d never seemed to mind and when she’d grown older, answered to little else. It was funny, if he called her by name, she seemed to tune him out, but when he used that disparaging moniker, she gave him her undivided attention.

She was pretty like her mom with a body type and sense of humor like her dad and she was his last link to his former self. She was a daddy’s girl, but he was a girl’s daddy, too. He loved her more than anything else on this earth.

When she had gone off to college, he had gotten her settled in her apartment and spent the afternoon with her on campus, then he had gotten back into his car and driven to a Denny’s parking lot, where he had cried like a baby. It wasn’t even as though she had gone far, staying in Los Angeles near UCLA, less than an hour away. Yet, the event had taken on a symbolic meaning. His little baby girl was gone, and even though the particular nest she had departed technically belonged to his ex-wife, she had left it all the same.

That had been over two years ago, after he and Kate had split. He had never experienced that deep a feeling of loneliness before. It was as if Bones had been the last hold he’d had on his original life. When she had moved out, the death of the old self had come crashing in on him like falling glass, and he’d mourned both.

He closed the photo album, stood up and disrobed, throwing his clothes into a pile on the living room floor. He was thin, now, more than he’d been in ten years.

Around the age of thirty-five, his belly, like so many men of that age, had developed a slight bulge. He had not been fat per se and had always passed the See Your Dick test, his business partner’s terrible system for determining if you were truly overweight. If you can’t see your dick when you pee, you’re too fat. Bill Rasthorpe would say that whenever Jack would pose the issue. Nevertheless, despite passing the test with flying colors, his belly bulge had bothered him.

At some point, the question How do I flatten my belly? became an ever-present nag.

Now, he was achieving that previously impossible task. He should jump for joy.

He inspected his upper body in the living room. Then went into the bathroom where he could see himself in the mirror. He did look pretty good, he had to admit.

Isn’t this what everyone wants: effortless weight loss?

His muscles were defined under his skin and he guessed that he was running somewhere between twenty-two and eighteen percent body fat.

Yet he hadn’t been working out or dieting.

How much muscle had he really lost? Not that much, he thought.

He decided to shave and ran the faucet to hot, waiting for the steam to curl up and fog the mirror. He lathered up the gel into a thick cream and slathered it under his nose and shaved his face and neck cleanly and close.

When he finished, he got an idea. It sent a little zing through his nerves. There was something he hadn’t done since college, since he’d wooed his ex-wife into marriage. Why not do it again now?

He rubbed up a new lather of shaving cream and spread it over his belly. The hair came off easily and he hadn’t lost the knack of not scoring the less hardy skin surrounding the navel.

Oh, youth, he thought. What foolishness. Yet, he had loved the smoothness of his skin back then, and now, wiping the area clean, remembered why.

He was not a hairy man and all things being equal, he didn’t want to be. The line of belly hair came off clean and neat and he toweled away the cream.

He was not an old man either and, being in his mid forties, he still looked young in many respects. That combined with financial stability and a confident, paternal demeanor seemed to give younger women the security they craved. He had, both since the divorce and just prior to it, bedded several younger women. It had surprised him to learn that not all younger women wanted a younger man. He understood that now in ways his younger self would never have been able to. Women of all ages, but particularly the less experienced, needed certainty and confidence that were sometimes commodities very difficult to find in a man under thirty.

His liaisons did not come without some level of shame, however. A fair amount of the women he had wooed over the last year had been quite young; several the same age as his daughter.

He rubbed steam off the mirror, only half aware that the faucet was still chugging out hot water.

He looked at his reflection and ran a finger along his cleanly shaven cheek. Then opened his mouth and inspected his teeth.

Have I become a satyr? he asked, open-mouthed.

He sighed and shook his head, wiping a crescent moon onto the mirror with the side of his palm. He was tired and the booze hadn’t helped. A pair of droopy-bagged eyes stared back at him. The only real evidence of pathology, he thought.

He stared into his reflection for a good long while and before he looked away, he saw another image.

It wasn’t a true reflection, but some trick of the light. A pair of insubstantial eyes hovered somewhere between a wisp of vapor and his right shoulder. They were rheumy and pale and ethereal, staring almost hungrily. A light profile framed them, nearly invisible in the optical illusion.

He wiped the mirror and turned off the faucet. Remember the doctor’s orders, he thought. No mind games.

First thing, he said to the open air, is you gotta stop being such a lecher. He turned off the bathroom light, stepped into his bedroom and crawled, exhausted, into bed.

2

You hear of any kind of parasite going around? Jack asked his business partner, Bill Rasthorpe, over lunch the following day.

Jack and Bill had been friends since college. They had taken the bar exam on the same day. A little over fifteen years earlier, they’d decided to go into business together, and the law firm of Fuller and Rasthorpe, LLC was born. They made their living on insurance defense work. It wasn’t the most lucrative law to practice, but it was steady and fighting on the right side of the Mason-Dixon line as Bill liked to say.

Parasite? What kind of parasite?

Any, Jack said. I just wanted to know if you had heard anything, that’s all.

Well, Bill said. Odd that you ask, but yes, I have. Candida, you know about it?

"Yeah, that’s the, uh, yeast or fungus or whatever, right?

Yeah, well, it lives in our intestines. Everybody has it you know, but when it gets out of hand, then that’s when all the trouble begins. See, it feeds off sugar and starches and shit that we eat all the time. They say a lot of people are sick from it nowadays. I used to not believe in it. The kicker is, in order to get rid of it, you have to cut the main ingredients of a doughnut out of your diet and then, I don’t know, eat pickles and plain yogurt, I guess.

Jack was relieved that Bill had not said T gondii because T. gondii scared the shit out of him.

Well, Jack admitted, I like pickles. Plain yogurt not so much. Speaking of sugar, can you pass it to me?"

Bill tossed him a packet, which Jack emptied into his coffee. They were having lunch in Bella’s Trattoria where Candida, no doubt, enjoyed a flourishing campaign.

Bill continued. Brenda’s mother says she has it and says everyone has it and that if we don’t start eating right, we’re all gonna die from it. As in, the whole human race. Why you asking, anyway?

One of my daughter’s friends was diagnosed with a parasite, and they said it wasn’t a tapeworm or whatever and so, I was just curious.

Yep, said Bill satisfied. Candida, man. Everybody’s got it. It’s just a matter of time before it gets you. He smiled gleefully. Anyway, you about done, or do you want to get dessert?

No, I’m done.

Hey, he said after they stood up. You lose weight?

Jack spent the rest of the afternoon perked up with coffee and nose-deep in case files. One of his current cases included an obese woman who had apparently fallen off a six-inch high porch because the railing gave way. She wanted upwards of two million dollars in insurance settlements. The problem with this particular case was not that she had fallen, for no one really believed that she had, but that the railing itself had fallen off earlier that day, and there were two witnesses who had taken photos of it lying in the grass a few hours before Caroline Farnsdale alleged to have bruised her buttocks, to say nothing of the immeasurable and ridiculously over the top emotional trauma she had so terribly suffered.

It was going to be a smoking gun, because even if Caroline Farnsdale hadn’t fallen on account of the failed railing, how could you prove it?

He closed the file and wished he had a cigarette, despite having quit last year. He used to have a saying, Once a smoker, always a smoker. It wasn’t helpful.

By the time he began packing up for the night, Bill had already gone home. He envied his partner sometimes. Somehow, Bill managed to keep his household together. Jack had not known him to ever have cheated on his wife, nor had he heard of her cheating on him. They were a regular peanut butter and jelly family who took the kids to soccer practice in between making sandwiches and picking up dog poop. In other words, happily middle-class.

He wished sometimes that he hadn’t had the affairs. They were the last straw for Kate. Perhaps, if he had not given into his…Oh hell, say it for what it was, Jack, he whined to himself as he pushed through city traffic. Good old revenge sex.

But for what? Everything and nothing. For the fights and the upsets and the clenched jaw when he asked to make love. For all that shit, he thought. All that endless shit. Unhappily middle-class, that’s what we were.

It hadn’t always been like that, though. In the beginning it had been a dream come true. Kate, the beautiful Kate with her long, dark hair and that lithe figure that he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from. Oh, but she was gorgeous and so young when they had met, so pretty, the delicate lines of her face so finely etched and rendered as if Michelangelo had sculpted her into being.

Oh, he’d thought that sometimes. In the beginning, when he would just look at her in passing, when he’d witness some perfectly mundane act, he’d see the perfect lines of her face and wonder how she could be.

But life, he found, wasn’t built solely on romantic notions, or beauty, or dreams. Eventually, the rubber had to meet the old worn and potholed road, where real life took over and if you didn’t have what it took deep down, you just wouldn’t last.

Well, they didn’t have what it took, deep down.

He pulled up to the 7-Eleven on his way home and bought cigarettes and a pack of gum. He leaned against the hood of his car, enjoying the heat of the engine, listening to the sounds of the metal cooling. It was a balmy Los Angeles night, late in the summer season.

He smoked his first cigarette in three months. It tasted terrible and gave him a stomachache halfway through. That was the problem with quitting. It ruined your taste for them.

He knew that once he smoked about half a pack, he would love it all over again. He intended to smoke the whole pack, but slowly over the next week or so. Maybe a month. He didn’t want to start smoking again, but he didn’t want to fight the urge either. Not now, anyway, in his weakened mental state because whether he wanted to admit it or not, this parasite business was getting him down.

He felt okay tonight, though. Better than the previous night when all he could think of was Gromwell shaking his snowy white head saying, I don’t know.

Yeah, you don’t fuckin’ know, you sonovabitch. You don’t fucking know anything.

He smashed out his cigarette on the heel of his shoe, then got into the car and turned the AC on.

It was illegal in some cities in California to smoke outside like that. Can you believe it? he thought. Illegal to smoke a goddamned cigarette outdoors? Sunland, the suburb where he was now, was not one of them. Too many rednecks out here for that kind of bullshit.

He put the car into drive, but he had nowhere to go. It was Friday night, and he simply did not want to be alone. If he went home he would just watch TV or maybe masturbate, he knew that, and he wasn’t interested. He did not have a girlfriend, really, but he did have someone he’d been seeing. They’d spent a weekend together last month in Tahoe and had both really enjoyed themselves, but she was still married and despite all their activity she talked about her husband too much.

She still lived with this husband, in fact. The story went that he stayed out in the guest house and supposedly made a point of never coming into the main house. Yeah right, Jack thought, and little kids never pee in the pool either. He had no interest in inter-marital tangles. Christ, a guy could get killed that way.

But now, he phoned her despite himself. His heartbeat quickened as the phone rang and that annoyed him. Why should he be nervous to talk to—Hi Beth, it’s Jack.

Oh, hey! How are you, I was just thinking about you, if you can believe it! She laughed. Sounds like a line doesn’t it? No, but really I was. Do you believe me?

He laughed. Couldn’t help it. He remembered suddenly why he had enjoyed her company so much. Hey, use any line you want.

Oooh, well. We’ll see, she giggled. Her voice possessed a sexy kind of resonance when she teased. So, what are you up to, Jack Be Nimble?

She used that nickname for him, for some silly reason.

Nothing, he said and then reconsidered. He didn’t want to appear desperate. I mean, a lot. Actually I got a really interesting case, one that’s been keeping me up at night. A lie.

Oh, yeah, that’s always good. Nothing like being interested in what you do for a living, huh?

So, how are you? How’s, uh, you know, your…

Oh, she groaned. Well, he still lives out there. I mean, I hardly ever see him, but it still makes for awkward scenarios, well, you know. I’m really sorry about what happened by the way.

Oh, he laughed it off casually. Don’t be.

The one time Jack had gone over to Beth’s house, her Soon To Be Ex had decided that on this occasion he would come into the main house and then proceeded to bully Jack into leaving with comments like Shyster lawyer and The brothel is closed. It had worked, but only because Jack hadn’t wanted to make things more uncomfortable for Beth. Left to his own devices, Jack would have gone fisticuffs with the jealous idiot. Then again, the man was her legal husband. When Jack had asked Beth why she didn’t just get a restraining order, she’d said she didn’t have the heart.

Anyway, he said, I don’t know if you’re free tonight, but I could sure use the company. If you don’t mind, that is.

Mind? Oh come on. I really was thinking about you, Jack Be Nimble. I would love to.

Aren’t you getting ready for a hot date or something?

Yeah. You!

They met in Glendale for dinner at a four-star steakhouse with uncomfortable seats. She looked very pretty, and he was once again amazed what she could do for a pair of jeans and a blouse. She was not super thin or super anything, she was pretty in her own way and with the right clothes she bordered on eye candy. More than all that, though, he actually liked her personality. He chided himself in jest. Falling for a girl because of her personality, what’s wrong with you?

I don’t normally eat steak, she admitted. I like it, but I just don’t, I don’t know, let myself have it.

Well, that’s probably a good thing. Too much red meat, you know.

Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m just not worthy of it.

He laughed and wondered if she was serious. She said a lot of things that he wondered about. After stuffing themselves on rib eye—his doctor had said to eat cooked meat, hadn’t he?—and garlic mashed potatoes, they opted for dessert and pigged out on double chocolate cake and ice cream and only felt slightly guilty. Jack was thinking about his Candida or whatever, and wondered what a chocolate lava cake would do for it. Probably eat me alive, he thought. But he had been hungry—really hungry—and she was so much fun, and at the moment it seemed as though the world had paused and they could do whatever they wanted and get away with it.

He realized he felt that way a lot around her. Was such a feeling brought on by too much testosterone? he wondered. The feeling that you could, what, do anything? Get away with anything? Like what, murders?

No dummy, affairs.

After dinner she followed him back to his place. She remarked on his housekeeping and he was glad that he had thought to pick up before he left. His condo was relatively small, being a little over a thousand square feet. That meant a little clutter showed up in a big way. When you entered through the front door, you stepped into the living room and there with the smooth hardwood floors, you got a sense that the place ought to be tidy, and Jack tried to deliver on that promise most times when he was planning on bringing a woman home. Because women didn’t like to fuck in a pig sty was his never-spoken-out-loud rationale.

On the left, as you walked in, sat the kitchen, which meant you had to keep the dishes from piling up or else you’d get hit with a waft of rotting sewer the moment you opened the front door. Another no-no for potentially horny females.

On some level Jack felt terrible for planning his house cleaning around promiscuous sexual encounters, but he was very good at not over-thinking it.

He pulled his date by the hand through the narrow hallway that led from the living room, past the home office or den, to his bedroom at the far end. Beth didn’t resist. She was easy with her body, not too concerned about nudity with the lights on and none too modest about opening her legs for him.

You lost weight, she said, sitting up in bed after the fact, lighting her cigarette. Jack preferred no smoking inside, but when a woman needed to after they’d been intimate, he had no qualms.

Yup.

Some diet you’re on?

Not exactly, he said, rolling over on his side and propping his head up with the palm of his hand.

Well, I would say, don’t lose any more, you’re right about at the perfect level. You wouldn’t want to go less than that or you’ll look like a runway model.

Right, he said. Look, Beth, I want you to leave your husband.

She coughed. Whoa, where’d that come from?

He shrugged. I just want you to.

Well, we don’t sleep together. I know you probably don’t believe that, but he really does live out there in the tree house and I hardly ever see him.

Why don’t you just file the papers, then?

I have, but he won’t sign them.

Oh, right I remember you told me. Well, I guess you’ll just have to move in here, then, with me.

She smiled. I would love to.

Well?

I don’t want to hurt him right now.

Yeah, I think you told me that, too, but isn’t this hurting him? He gestured to the both of them where they lay.

If he knew about it.

"Oh, come on. He doesn’t know you’re out doing whatever right now? He has to know, Beth. No man is that blind."

She mulled it over. He might. It’s not really about that, though. We haven’t been monogamous together for, oh, like five years. He has women over. Did you know that?

He laughed and rolled onto his back. God, what kind of—

I know, it’s weird. Don’t hate me for being such a reject. But I just—how do I say this?

It’s fine, he said. I don’t want to know. You can just come over whenever and we can, you know…I—I just like your company. You soothe me.

Do I?

You do.

Don’t you have some little hot number going to come in here the second I walk out? she teased.

I resent that.

Oh come on!

And if I did? Then what, huh? I guess you better never leave.

She squashed out her cigarette in a clean ceramic ashtray and pushed the covers off, baring the whole of her naked body to him. Sloppy seconds? she asked.

He howled with laughter and said, You’re gross! But I don’t mind if I do.

Beth left in the early morning hours, leaving a note behind that said, Call me later. xoxo. He folded it and set it on the bed stand. He liked her, and if he wasn’t careful he was going to get his heart stomped on. She was sweet with an almost hayseed personality, but back of that she was a paramour to be respected. In so far as he knew, she had not been unfaithful to her husband until her second child left the house. She then filed for divorce stating that she had wanted to all along.

Jack was sure that Rick—the Soon To Be Ex—couldn’t understand that. Neither could Jack, but he also knew from his own failed marriage that these things rarely stand up to logical third party scrutiny.

He sighed and went into the bathroom, but it wasn’t until he picked up his tooth brush that he noticed the blood.

Oh my God.

Instinctively he reached for a tissue. A clump of ocher-colored, dried blood hung gruesomely from his left nostril. Almost like an icicle formation. He fiddled with it, probed it with his fingertip and it broke off and fell into the sink, melting into the trace amounts of water around the drain. He inspected his nostril with the light and mirror as best he could, then grabbed a tissue and wiped it out. Dried blood crystals rubbed on the tissue. He went back into the bedroom and inspected the pillow casings because he hadn’t noticed any stains when he’d woken up. He used white sheets, pristinely white. He always had. There was something intensely comforting about spotless, white sheets.

There were no blood stains on the pillows or the head area of the mattress. He did find a few grains of dried blood that must have flaked off, however.

But how had that even happened? Not a single drop staining the sheet or pillow casing?

Then his eyes caught something partially hidden by the top sheet and the comforter: a long, narrow stain that seemed to emanate from a source point toward the center of the bed.

His palms began to sweat as he gripped the covers. Slowly, he pulled them back. His jaw dropped. He gagged. In the center of the bed were not just blood smears, but a large, blood deposit.

Oh Christ.

He could see that the blood was still fresh, pooling shallowly in the center of the bed. His head was swimming. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

No, he said, retreating backwards toward the bathroom door, step by step as though he were being pulled by a string around his waist. Just blood. Whatever else it is, it’s just blood. But there couldn’t have been a less comforting observation. Blood in his bed? In his bed?

He steadied himself. Before going completely over the edge into a panic attack, he took several deep breaths and found his courage. He’d had a few of them—panic attacks—since the divorce, and he knew how quickly they could escalate.

He bolstered his nerve and stared at the mess.

Now he had lived with women—or a woman—for most of his adult life. And while being on the rag wasn’t his favorite subject in the world, and while it was surely something he knew more about than he cared to, he had gotten over the heebie-jeebies factor on it about twenty some odd years ago. Yet this…

That’s vomit, he said quietly and rubbed his forehead. Or a still birth.

Had this come from Beth? Wouldn’t he—she—have known or said something? He picked up the note again. Examined both sides. There was no evidence of distress in her neat, even script. And xoxo was hardly code for Help, I just lost my uterus under the covers.

He reached for his phone and called her. It went straight to voicemail and he felt awkward leaving a message about it, so he just hung up.

On his return to the bathroom, another onset of panic opened up a breach in his mind. It could have come from somewhere else, he thought. Breath coming short with a clenched burning in his gut, he slid his hand down into his underwear, first the front and then, God help me, the back.

He exhaled pure relief. Skin and hair and that was all. Nothing sticky or gooey or dried.

I’m fine, he said, staring saucer-eyed and astonished at his reflection, a crust of blood circling his left nostril.

Totally fine.

3

Hi, this is Amy, I went to Cancun!

That’s all Jack got when he called his daughter. Oh, her trip. I forgot all about it.

She had planned that trip for over a year and a half, and though the last time he had seen her, she had reminded him of it, he’d forgotten. It occurred to him, suddenly and crushingly, how far apart they had grown.

Hey, baby, it’s Daddy. I hope you’re having the time of your life. You deserve it kiddo. Listen, Bones, when you get back give me a call right away. I got some news and…yeah, just give me a call. Don’t worry though, the doctors are, uh…well, just call me. All right, honey, love you. Stay safe and mind your Ps and Qs.

Saturday ticked by in a slow march of anxiety.

Jack wore gloves to clean up the sheets, not bothering to actually clean them, but throwing them out. He had a replacement set in the closet, but needed to go to Bed, Bath and Beyond to purchase a new mattress cover.

He called Beth three more times and decided to leave a message the last time. He brooded after that, sitting on the couch, staring at the wall. Hunger finally moved him, and he ordered a pizza with double cheese and threw in a twenty ounce Coke just for the hell of it.

He was not happy.

He went to bed early for a fitful sleep filled with bad dreams and hunger. He got up to eat three times, going through half a jar of peanut butter. When he woke up early the next morning, he was starving. The doctor was wrong; he had to have a tapeworm.

By the time he showered and dressed he was feeling, at least, sarcastic.

He ate at the IHOP a few miles from his home, sparing no expense, feasting like Henry the Eighth, piling up pancakes and eggs and bacon and dousing it all with a healthy dose of sweet butter and high fructose blueberry syrup.

The mother of all tapeworms, in fact.

He had heard urban legends—at least he’d thought they were urban legends—of people suffering from huge tapeworms that ate all their food and made them ravenously hungry. But Dr. Gromwell had been pretty adamant that it was not such a worm. Still, he’d been eating like this for the past three days.

He bolted it down and chugged two steaming cups of coffee. It was gluttony at its finest, and sickeningly good.

He astounded even himself as he folded the pancakes, soggy and steaming, doubled over his fork tines and crammed a dripping wad of egg and cake into a mouth still half full from the last forkful. It was as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

Does sex make me this hungry?

When done, he sat back and burped silently, becoming aware for the first time that the couple across from him was staring. Had he really made such a spectacle? He gazed down at his plate, multicolored with yellow, blue and amber hues, potato slices mixed in with hunks of unmelted butter. Then he laughed wickedly under his breath. Candida, eh?

He had not heard back from his doctor yet. He still did not know what he had.

His phone buzzed. It was Beth. He picked up.

I didn’t think you were checking your voice mails, he said. Hello? Beth?

Yeah, Jack … Her voice sounded harried, like she’d just been having an argument.

You all right? He asked, getting up from his table and taking the ticket to the register.

I’m fine, she said. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I—I got all your calls and I listened to your voice mail. Look, Jack, I have to tell you—

Hang on a sec, Beth. I’m at a restaurant. Just a minute.

He paid with his credit card and stepped outside into the drizzly rain.

Okay, sorry about that. Go on.

She exhaled into the phone like a tired parent. I’m sorry, Jack, but—Jack, Rick and I are getting back together.

He felt it like a blow to the gut. He’d almost known it was coming, some sixth sense he hadn’t really believed. And now here it was. A cannon ball of confusion exploding in his brain.

Oh? was all he could manage.

Yeah. Oh God, Jack. I’m so sorry. I know how this all must seem to you. I—I don’t even know what to say about it. I like you, Jack. I do, a lot, but Rick and me…well, it doesn’t make sense.

Months ago, when she had first told him of how and why she had left her husband, he hadn’t been able to reconcile it in his own mind, either. But he had let it slide with the overly trite logic of different strokes for different folks. Looking back, he had probably done that because he liked her so much, not because he really believed in the philosophy.

I’m sorry, Beth, he said. I really am. But, I understand.

Oh Jack …

It’s killing me, he said, I won’t lie. But, like you said, it doesn’t make sense.

I feel like such a bitch, she said. You must think I’m a total loser.

That’s the last thing I think of you. Beth, you need to do what’s right and–it occurred to him that he hadn’t had the chance to ask her about what he had found in the bed–and you need to.

Is something the matter, Jack? I mean, something else you want to say?

Yeah, he said, there is one thing. Listen, Beth, I wanted to ask you about when you stayed over the other night. Um, are you feeling better?

Sorry? she said. What do you mean?

Well, um, what happened? You know.

I’m sorry, Jack, I’m not following you.

He laughed slightly. No, I’m sorry. I’m not being very clear. Um, did you—did you have a period or something?

She giggled. Oh, Jack, I’m not pregnant! You don’t have to worry about that.

No, uh…

Believe me, Jack, I’m not pregnant.

He had a sense of words being put into his mouth.

Beth, that—that’s not what I meant, he said, observing a note of annoyance coming into his voice.

Well, what did you mean then?

I—look, I just wanted to know if you had had your period in the bed, um, my bed the night you stayed over, not that I mind, I mean, I just—

Jack, I had a hysterectomy after my second child, so, no, I didn’t have a period in your bed. You sure you didn’t have that hot little number come in the moment I walked out?

He was dumbstruck. What they might have called gobsmacked in earlier times. Shock, he thought. I’m going into shock.

What did you just say, Jack?

He inspected the back of his hand, half expecting to watch the blood drain out as he stared at it.

Yoo-hoo! Jack Be Nimble!

I’m sorry! he said breathily, on the verge of hysterics. What did you just say? He had a giggle in his voice, just below the surface. He was giddy, insanely so. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t afford to believe it.

Were you bleeding at all? From anywhere else? It’s okay, Beth, you can tell me. Were you sick? I mean, did you get sick in the middle of the night?

Jack! she said, trying to laugh it off. I told you, I can’t be pregnant. I had a—

But what was it then? he asked, cutting her off. What the heck was it?

Jack, are you okay? she asked in a small voice, seeming far away. I feel like you’re not. I feel like I really hurt you.

How could he say it? Something was the matter with him and he hadn’t been truthful with her.

No, he said. "No, Beth, I can handle that. No, it’s just that, the uh, Beth—Beth, I didn’t tell you this, but I’m sick."

The phone went silent. Too silent.

What do you mean? she asked in a near whisper, now her turn for hysteria.

No, he said. It’s not like that. The doctor said it’s not…

That wasn’t quite true, though. Dr. Gromwell had said he didn’t think it was a venereal disease. Didn’t think. There was a world of difference between that and negative test results. And he had told him to abstain, hadn’t he?

Jack? she said, her voice stern. What the hell are you not telling me?

No, he pleaded. He said it wasn’t.

Wasn’t what, Jack? Goddammit, you need to tell me what you have. This isn’t funny, you need to tell me—

No, I—I’m not laughing, Beth. I’m not joking. I know it’s not funny. I know it sounds like—he could barely bring himself to say it–it sounds like a VD, but it’s not!

VD? What the hell are you talking about, Jack? My God, you have a fucking VD and didn’t bother saying anything?

Not a VD, he asserted. Not!

But what, then?

Jack, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but God help me, if you have something that I could have caught, then you need to tell me right the now, okay? You just need to tell me. That’s all Jack. Just tell me.

He was sobbing. He was sobbing into the phone.

Jack, just tell me, okay? I won’t be mad at you, I promise. I won’t be mad, just tell me.

I don’t know, he said, feeling just like that aging fool of a doctor. "They don’t fucking know. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to say anything the other night. I just…they think it’s a parasite," he said, at last.

Think or know? she asked.

Think, he said. "That’s what they think. That’s all they can do, they just think and think and think. They don’t’ know anything. They don’t do anything. They just say what they think, what they always just think.

They’re doing tests, but I’ve lost a lot of weight, and more every day. I dropped a few more pounds. I mean, I’m eating, oh boy, let me tell you, I’m eating, but…

There was long silence on the phone, before she said, You take care of yourself, Jack. I mean that.

He wiped his eyes. You too.

I’m gonna get some tests done, just to make sure. She was apathetic now, resigned, as if a great burden had been placed on her shoulders, as if she’d gotten very tired. If they come back…with anything, then I’ll let you know. I hope they don’t, Jack. I really hope they don’t.

No, he said. They won’t. But he wasn’t sure if he believed that.

You won’t hear from me otherwise, she said.

He couldn’t keep from weeping.

Jack? she asked.

Yeah?

I really do love you.

Oh God, he croaked, squeezing his eyes and taking a deep breath into the phone. Me too.

Goodbye, Jack.

He hung up and sobbed uncontrollably.

4

He wanted to call his daughter, but called Bill Rasthorpe instead. He hadn’t been to work all week. It was the second time he’d checked in with his partner, and instead of another lie about having the flu, he thought it best, at this point, to tell the truth.

So, what do they think it is then? Bill asked, his voice sounding how it did when he ate a Tootsie Pop and talked at the same time.

Well, that’s just it, Bill, they don’t know.

Is that why you asked me the other day, about, um, parasites?

Yeah, he said, it is.

Jack, why don’t you make another appointment? Isn’t that what doctors are for?

I did. It’s tomorrow. Look, Bill, I’m not going to be around for the rest of the week, okay? I’m—I’m going to take it easy. You know, just let the body heal, kind of a thing.

You think that’s smart, Jack? Won’t you just worry about it?

Jack held up his hand to the light, and sighed. No, he said. I need to.

You okay, buddy? I mean, right now?

Jack took the plug of tissue paper out of his nose slowly, confirming that the bleeding had stopped. He realized he was probably sounding nasally over the phone.

Yeah, I’m fine, he said, forcing a chuckle. I’m just…I just want a few days, that’s all.

Bill laughed heartily. Hey, I don’t mind you taking time off. Shit, take two weeks, if you need to. I’m just worried about you, you know. I’ve been sick before, Jack. I know how it feels and the kinds of things that can go through your head. And you’re all alone to boot.

Bill, I have to go, he said, curtly.

Oka—

Jack hung up,