Second Chances

By Paul Donaldson

James Hart steps off a curb in front of the restaurant where he and his long term girlfriend have ended their relationship. His mind hears her nagging voice and not the squealing tires of an oncoming vehicle. The driver of a red Honda never sees him. James lies dying in the street, until the touch of an elderly gentlemen heals him.
Now a gift has been passed on and James must answer the call to heal seven individuals, not of his choosing.

How many of those who receive a second chance are deserving?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Donaldson
• Release date: Sep 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370587452

Paul Donaldson

Born in 1957,Paul J Donaldson lives in a small town in Southeastern CT.He worked in the defense industry and is now retired to a quieter lifeHe has written poems and short stories since his teen years.Visit Paul's Blog: http://writerstemptation.blogspot.com/

Book preview

Chapter 1

He lost the final argument of their relationship. There were many, and as he watched her walk through the glass doors into the street, waving her firm backside like a victory flag wearing a red skirt, he remembered only the most recent. A torrid eulogy of hatred, a vile prefix, ending a bond never completely brought to unification. The bell above the door rang, not announcing a new customer; instead it spoke of love’s solemn exit.

James Hart sipped the remains of his third cup of coffee. His stomach rolled with waves of acid. His digestive tract swam in a sea of nervousness amplified by his destructive relationship with Sheila Gilman. An ulcer might be forming in his abdomen with the initials SG carved in blood.

Do ya want a refill? The waitress asked as if caffeine corrected all the world’s incurable evils.

He knew her name was Candi. She led cheers for the Plainfield Panthers ten years ago, when they were both high school seniors. Candi Mize understood bad relationships. She’d gone through her share, one ending in divorce.

Probably shouldn’t, James answered, but given the present situation… coffee indulgence is better than booze.

She tipped the glass pot and refilled his mug. Ten years ago, Candi wore her hair long and bleached. Now her natural color, an orange brown, took control. Twenty extra pounds gathered on her hips, the price of two children, booze and junk food. Candi no longer looked the part of the babe Jon Whateley got into bed with the night of their junior prom. In the past decade she molded the shape of her body into one of dejection.

If you want my opinion, she offered. Candi Mize always had a personal outlook on any situation. Usually those in her company didn’t care to share her views. Candi gave them anyway. Sheila is a bitch… always was. I think you can do much better.

James smiled. Friendship never blossomed between he and Candi Mize the cheerleader; in retrospect he wished it could have. She waved pompoms on the sidelines while he played starting point guard for the Panthers in his junior and senior years. She flirted, though usually not with the unsociable guard, wore her skirts too short and a bra too seldom. Candi wasn’t his type, or maybe in truth he wasn’t hers. James on the other hand felt a peculiar attraction toward a certain artsy girl a year behind him. Audrey Martin and her mismatched attire, she hated jocks and wouldn’t give James so much as her opinion on the weather. James forsook any involvement with the opposite sex, until after graduation, in hope Audrey would see him differently. Today Audrey Martin was married to an advertising executive and living in White Plains.

The bell over the door welcomed a new customer. Candi left James’s table in search of new conversations. He figured he could’ve sweet talked Candi and filled a void Sheila left dry, now that the once popular cheerleader lived life as desperate and lonely as he.

James took a small taste of the freshened coffee and decided he had already drunk enough. He left two bills with Abraham Lincoln’s face on the table to cover eight dollars of eggs, bacon, home fries and caffeine. It was the last time he would ever pick up Sheila’s tab.

***

A smoke gray sky augmented the morning. James exited the small diner, still tasting coffee and onions from his last meal. For a moment he stood before the glass windowpanes where the morning’s specials were posted for passersby. Freedom smelt like a fresh new day.

Sheila Gilman was a year older than James and she possessed a much firmer grasp on the future. A Masters in Business Administration led her down a path of a lucrative career at General Dynamics Corporation. James barely survived two years of a technical college. He worked as a Draftsman at Electric Boat, a division of GD. They met not long after Sheila took a job with the government contractor. They made an odd couple, one working his five-day week away in quest of a two-day weekend, the other climbing the corporate ladder with every breath. Sheila referred to his occupation as drawing pictures of submarines. Her comment always seemed cynical.

A job in Arlington Virginia had been offered to her. A bargaining chip presented to him by Sheila, share an apartment with her while he sought suitable occupation. Sheila wanted them to move in together. She came packaged in a pert body with ideals dead set against marriage. He was a little too old fashion for her liberal tastes. Still, after a year and a half they remained a couple. That was until this morning over breakfast in front of the no longer bleached blonde Candi Mize.

Sometimes what you believe is right… isn’t the way for everyone. He heard her statement reverberating through the portion of his brain that memorized such things.

God isn’t for everyone… neither is marriage. If the desire between two people is strong enough… There’s no need for a piece of paper. He realized with a start that he was talking out loud, verbalizing the moral compass of his ex-girlfriend.

He stepped to the edge of the sidewalk and watched a red Honda pass. Sheila praised foreign cars, he owned American, one more thing they clashed about. When it came right down to it, the only thing they ever agreed about took place beneath the sheets. James wondered how it was possible to waste so much time in such an indifferent relationship.

He ventured a stride into the street, to wade through the traffic behind the Honda. A horn, squealing tires and Sheila’s voice in his head, none seemed real until the impact of flesh and steal.

Chapter 2

The table by the window should have worn his name. Godfrey Utes ate breakfast in the same location, at the same time, every morning. He was a vibrant seventy-eight, widowed and immune to the harmful effects of bacon and eggs.

He overheard the conversation between the casually dressed young man and the professionally dressed woman, from an adjacent table. The harsh dialog ended with the male’s humiliation. Godfrey tried not to listen to the sounds forced against his eardrums. The young woman caught his roving eye a couple times, a fault that got him in trouble more than once, during his marriage. She wore a red skirt, not too short, and heals. A matching vest complimented a white blouse. Her exterior was all business, but he believed women like her were vixens beneath, lace bra, see through panties and very few inhibitions.

When she stormed away from the table, victorious, Godfrey watched her confident long legged strides. He wished he were young again, being given an ultimatum by a woman shaped like her. He would have accepted any terms the looker placed on any table as long as she made the offer while undressing.

He expected what he saw on the young man’s face, empty confusion. The humiliated male was obviously stuck with both feet planted in the soil of his birth. The woman in the red skirt wanted to see more than just the thrills of southeastern Connecticut. At one time they most likely thought they could change the other, one laid back, the other a little too intense. How much time had these two wasted, trying to be a couple?

He’d seen it before with young people. A few rolls in the sack and they try to build a relationship on a physical moment. Maybe these two should have been a three week fling and then moved on to more suitable pastures.

The waitress with the nametag reading Candi tried to sooth the humiliated. She was weak in that department, tired, worn out and not a lot to offer. Her capabilities didn’t go much beyond the art of warming up a cup of coffee and buttering toast.

Even though it was none of his business, Godfrey wondered about places like Arlington Virginia. He’d spent all of his days, except two years in the military, living in Connecticut. The girl’s future home was going to be just outside the capital. He wondered if the couple shared an apartment, a bed. Were they married? He hoped not, now a days those vows weren’t taken seriously by young people.

The young man got up from the table without touching much of his reheated coffee. Godfrey watched through the glass of the front window as the morning crowd bustled by. A red Honda zipped by, driving a little quicker than the posted twenty-five miles per hour. Foreign cars were destroying the United States. He figured the woman in the red skirt to be an owner of a Saab or Volvo. The guy, who gave up looking for answers in his coffee, probably drove a Chevy or a Ford pickup truck.

His attention followed the Honda as it headed north along the limited business section. He didn’t see the cause for squealing tires, or horns and shouts. When Godfrey turned back to the view he previously surrendered, the guy who just walked out into freedom, lay face down on the pavement, broken and bleeding.

***

He stepped off the curb… without looking, a middle aged woman shouted. I couldn’t stop.

James listened to the innocent plea. He heard car doors slamming and the rustle of the curious gathering around.

An ambulance is on the way. He heard a male voice announce to the crowd.

He was broken, completely. He couldn’t feel his legs, for all he knew they were severed clean from his hips. A minimal amount of pain spread throughout his upper body. Shock, a spinal column snapped in two, he knew these were the reasons for his lack of discomfort.

Blood, he tasted the fluid pooling in his mouth. A puddle beneath him flowed into his limited sight. One eye no longer visualized the world from his perspective. The other eye wanted nothing more than to close and sleep.

Sheila didn’t matter anymore. He wanted to mumble a prayer of confession to a priest. At the moment the future of his soul concerned him deeply. He couldn’t form words, but God understood thought. He was sorry for the weakness he felt in Sheila’s arms; sorry for every indulgence his young form ever took, sorry he didn’t look both ways before crossing the street.

Move aside, a voice broke through the crowd’s murmur. The experience of long years accented the instructional tone. A hand touched the side of his face, warm and dry. The texture seemed old, yet not frail.

You some kind of a doctor? A female voice asked.

Sort of.

A sound of an ambulance began to scream from a quarter mile away. James heard it with more clarity than the voices around him.

Minor injuries, the voice of an elderly man said. James believed it was the spoken announcement of the man touching him.

Gradually he began to feel his legs. Vision slowly returned to both eyes.

Nothing’s is broken, the man’s voice spoke again.

Hey someone get the old guy out of here, another male voice yelled. He’s some kinda nut job.

Vision back completely, a neck capable of turning, James lifted his face from the street. He saw the crowd and the old man, the healer. He knew nearly every bone in his body had been shattered by his collision with the car. He knew he tasted blood. He knew he should have been lying on the pavement in the firm grasp of death.

The crowd of spectators pulled the old man away, but not soon enough, a miracle had taken place.

He’ll be okay… just wait, the elderly angel announced to the crowd. It looked a lot worse than it really was.

James raised himself onto an elbow. Thirty seconds ago he couldn’t feel his arm. Words formed in his throat and passed through his mouth. It’s… okay, he muttered, leave him… alone.

My God… the face with the relieved expression belonged to the middle-aged woman who failed to stop in time for the pedestrian stepping off the curb.

He’s moving, another female voice added.

I thought…

James finished the woman’s assessment with his unspoken revelation… ‘the worse.’

A broad shouldered man released his grip on the elderly healer with the magical touch. The ambulance was no more than a block away. James sat up, inspecting the lack of broken bones and gaping wounds.

He turned to the face of the old man, freed from the encumbrance and accusation of being a nut job. James recognized the ancient, time worn features. The man sat at a table near him during breakfast and the final argument with Sheila.

A smile radiated across the wrinkled characteristics of age. New shouts filled the scene. Paramedics emerged like the Calvary into battle. James scanned the crowd again, looking for the old man. Movement to the rear, unimpeded, marked an unnecessary escape. A young woman dressed in a dark blue uniform bent down to inspect the damage.

Chapter 3

I’m sure he’d hire you, Colleen said. He’s always lookin’ for new girls… and Mitchell has a preference for sweet lookin’ blondes.

But… I don’t know, Melanie responded.

Colleen leaned back against the counter. Her long, shapely legs stretched out from beneath her oversized tee shirt. The kitchen faucet dripped, she ignored it.

He just took on a new girl two days ago. She’s an average dancer… at best, absolutely no experience and you’re a lot cuter.

Melanie got up from the table in the center of the room. Her faded jeans were blown out at both knees, exposing her soft white skin. Her white tee shirt was labeled with her most desired emotion, ‘Love’. She finished her glass of city-filtered water and returned the gas station handout to the side of the sink.

After a rough spell with a couple boyfriends Melanie moved in with Colleen. She was jobless and during high school the two blondes swore allegiance to some adoptive sisterhood of the yellow haired and shallow. At twenty, both girls were simply stumbling through life. To date Melanie’s pitfalls were deeper, causing signs of wear on a once superficial life. Colleen offered to help her climb out of her most recent difficulty.

Tips are good, Colleen added in case Melanie wasn’t aware.

All I have to do is dance topless… with a g-string? Melanie asked the question, knowing the answer would be the same as always.

That’s it… if you choose t’ do more… on the side… Mitchell will look the other way. Some of the girls do, but you’re on your own if you get caught.

I don’t have to…?

No… but you will have to audition, Colleen answered two questions at once. I told him I’d drag ya down there this afternoon t’ shake your naked butt. He has more or less guaranteed you the job… based on my recommendation.

I’m gonna be nervous. I never…

You’ll get through it.

My stomach already feels…

Just think that you’re takin’ it off for a guy you got the hots for, Colleen offered. Close your eyes and believe how sexy you are. I usually pick one guy from the crowd, a well-sculptured hunk. I fantasize about the perfect setting and dance… without him knowing of course… for his sole entertainment.

When you… auditioned?

I danced for Mitchell without anyone else in the room. He’s a little chubby and twice my age… but he has nice eyes and a lot of money.

Did you… fuck him? Melanie asked.

Of course, that’s the best part of the arrangement. But don’t worry. I already made sure he knew you were interested in simply getting’ naked.

***

The Horned Toad didn’t look like much from the outside. Route 12 flowed by the front parking lot. The proprietors fought a half dozen legal battles over the past few years in an effort to keep the club opened. Towns at both ends of the strip argued Toad’s closeness to schools.

Mitchell and his monetary backers hadn’t won any battles yet. They only delayed the possible defeat.

Colleen’s early seventies modeled Camaro pulled into a parking space at the front door. The vehicle sputtered, requesting an obvious desire for a tune-up. The driver’s side door of the rust colored fastback groaned when opened. Melanie noticed how bald the vehicle’s front tires were.

If he likes what he sees… and I’m sure he will, Colleen commented before entering the club, he’ll set you up t’ dance tonight.

Tonight?

If he likes what he sees.

Beyond the tinted glass doors a small foyer opened to a shadowed world. No light bathed this dimension, no windows offered escape to other realms. The gray September day gave way to the stale bastion of fornication. Melanie considered turning to leave.

This is the place where you’re the star, Colleen said, adding a bright lining to the cloak of darkness.

Two men stood at the bar, neither were patrons, since the club was closed until four. Melanie assumed one of the men to be Mitchell; the other would become the first of many nameless men she’d take her clothes off for.

Yer early, one of the men said with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Melanie figured he was Mitchell, a little rounded at the waist and balding.

That’s Mitchell, Colleen confirmed. The other guy is a friend of his. I have no idea who the hell he is… hangs around a bit. He’s had his way with a couple of the girls… bondage and shit like that… for their profit… of course.

Melanie sized up the tall, dark individual with Mitchell at the bar. Muscles rippled beneath his tight shirt. You? She asked Colleen.

What? Colleen shook her head as the question drifted over her lips. Melanie had a habit of asking incomplete questions.

You said he’s had a couple of the girls. Has he had you?

I wish, Colleen responded. Believe me… my pussy would not say no to him, tied up or not.

***

So ladies… do we have business t’ discuss or what? Mitchell sat at a table close to the stage. The other guy didn’t join him. The ice in his drink clinked against the glass as he swirled the remains of a rum and coke. He watched the new girl move to the table. His eyes undressed her. Colleen sat to his right. He motioned for the new girl to join her.

This is Melanie, Colleen said.

He nodded. Can you dance?

The girl offered a voiceless nod of her head.

I take that to mean yes. Have you ever danced professionally?

No, she answered quietly.

Sure you got it in ya… t’ take yer clothes off up there? Mitchell pointed to the stage. Both girls glanced in the same direction as his stubby finger.

A single pole decorated each end of the main entertainment area. Wide stairs offered access from the front. From where they sat, one of the two side entrances was also visible.

You don’t got the looks kid, but then neither does your friend. Told her so when she first showed up on my doorstep… tellin’ you the same. Some of the girls have boob implants. It’s obvious you don’t. Hard to compete in a world based on tit size without a little silicone. But ya do got that small town… farmer’s daughter look about cha. Some of the horny customers go absolutely nuts about girls built like you. Can’t imagine why. My preference is for ripe melons. He held both hands beneath his chest as if he supported a full breast in each palm.

The new girl didn’t make eye contact. Mitchell began to doubt her tee shirt would even come off, let alone her faded jeans.

You smoke? He asked, butting his cigarette in a clean ashtray.

The girl’s pale blues met his dark brown orbs for a brief second. She wrinkled her nose as the cancerous smoke wafted into the breathable air.

Cigarettes… you smoke cigarettes? He asked a second time before turning toward Colleen and commenting, Your friend a little dense?

No. It was only the second time Melanie’s voice broke free of her throat.

Drink?

Some.

Drugs?

Pot.

The single word responses continued, but at least the new girl chose to answer.

A little weed on the side eh. Then you do smoke… just not these damn things. Mitchell reached into the pocket of his shirt for a pack of Marlboros. He lit a fresh cigarette while casting consideration over Colleen’s friend.

I think she can do it, Colleen added for good measure.

I don’t take well to girls freezin’ up on stage, when it comes time t’ disrobe and show some tit. Customers don’t take to fondly t’ that.

Melanie’s eyes looked up from the table. He expected they focused on his mouth as he spoke and took heed of his warning.

Why don’t you step up on the stage and show us, he instructed, if you’re up to it.

***

A minister’s daughter should have never walked into a place like this, even one wrapped in her own shallow and insensitive little world. Her father warned her about bringing her personal savior into any place of sin, but he was three years in the soil. Cancer did the minister in. His lungs were blackened by four packs of daily cigarettes. He smoked on his deathbed while Melanie cried.

Mitchell had been right about one thing. She was from a small town where farms were in abundance, but her father planted only tomatoes behind the parsonage and he sowed the word of God from a pulpit. Her mother left them, for the next life, when Melanie was four. She had no siblings. Loneliness became her way of life. Now she’d gone from the hospital room, watching the heart monitor connected to her father flat line, to the stark nudity of the empty club where she stood.

Her heart raced in her chest as she climbed the stairs to the wooden stage.

Go slip on some music for your friend. Melanie heard Mitchell instruct Colleen. Any preference… love, he added for her benefit.

A nice beat, Melanie responded, realizing how absolutely dumb her response sounded after it escaped her mouth.

Give her somethin’ ripe… t’ shake her ass to, he called toward the side of the stage where Colleen previously disappeared.

A gyrating rhythm pulsated through the speakers behind the platform. Melanie moved her hips slowly to the passionate beat. Her father rolled in his grave. She thought of Salome, demanding the head of the Baptist in payment for a single dance. Melanie LaChapelle was a kindred spirit with the evil women of her father’s bible.

Enough shakin’… we need to see a little more flesh. Mitchell’s voice rang out over the music, like the many catcalls and propositions she’d be subjected to on future nights.

‘The money is good.’ Colleen’s voice sang out in her mind. ‘Better than waiting tables or workin’ as a cashier.’

Melanie fixed her gaze on Colleen for support and lifted her tee shirt over her head. Beneath, she wore a white seamless bra, which matched the bikini panty still concealed under her jeans. She felt chilled, but ignored the discomfort, turning her back to the tiny audience as she unfastened the strap of the garment covering her small breasts. She dropped the bra to one side and knowingly entered a world she once considered home to the vile and the desperate.

Chapter 4

You’re very lucky, the brown skinned female doctor said. A few scratches and a bruise or two. You’ll probably have a little pain in your hip. Must of taken the brunt of the impact there. She tapped her own womanly shaped backside to demonstrate location of his injury. James was well aware of the pain’s location.

Can’t believe you came through that without broken bones. Your x-rays are fine, not so much as a fracture.

Then I can leave? He asked, wanting to put a great distance between himself and the emergency room of the local Hospital.

I have to run a few forms through… you might as well get dressed. She turned to step from the enclosure and began to open the pale blue drape, dividing the large room into private alcoves. One more thing, she said, without looking back to her patient, one of the paramedics said there was blood on the ground… quite a bit of blood. It’s on your clothing too… and it matches your type.

Obviously it wasn’t mine, James offered, inspecting a drying bloodstain on his shirt. Maybe it was from a previous accident of some sort.

Would have to be recent, the doctor added, turning back to face him.

Would have to be, he agreed.

***

James parked his Monte Carlo against the sidewalk, two blocks from where Sheila last walked out on his life. His failed relationship possessed no lingering effect in his mind. His only concern centered on a single spot in the street, a few strides from the diner’s front door. No other thought seeped through his post Ms Gilman mind.

He reached the diner with its advertised menu printed on the window. About three paces out into the street small fragments of glass littered