Tenuous Tendrils

By Tom Corbett

Jeremiah Joshua Connelly is about to retire from his academic position at the University of British Columbia. He anticipates a small ordinary affair of conventional speeches, farewell dinners, and the usual parting gifts and well-wishes. Instead, his past visits him in unexpected ways. He not only confronts people from the mists of a distant era he thought long lost but also accepts some truths about himself. Over the next week, Josh Connelly comes to terms with who he really is, with a past he tried to avoid, and with the people he had run away from for so long.
This work takes us deep into the scars left by a war that tore the United States apart in the 1960s and which left an indelible mark on many who lived through that turbulent time. While a work of fiction, the novel touches upon the real emotions and struggles that many young people endured during this conflicted period. It explores the inner turmoil with which they contended as they fought to make sense out of competing claims upon their loyalty. This was a time where easy answers were not available, where each young man and woman who cared about this country had to arrive at their own interpretation of events. Each had to decide the contours of their personal character and for what principles they would stand. Each had to articulate their own moral compass.
Tenuous Tendrils is the story of one such young man as he journeys from exile and isolation to reconnect and embrace a life he thought long lost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543426298

Tom Corbett

Tom Corbett is the co-author of The Dreamer's Dictionary.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by TOM CORBETT.

Library of Congress Control Number:         2017908358

ISBN:                        Hardcover                  978-1-5434-2628-1

                                  Softcover                    978-1-5434-2627-4

                                  eBook                           978-1-5434-2629-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/03/2017

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1     Day 1 Morning

Chapter 2     Day 1

Chapter 3     Day 2

Chapter 4     Day 3 Morning

Chapter 5     Day 3

Chapter 6     Day 3 Evening

Chapter 7     Day 4 Morning

Chapter 8     Day 4

Chapter 9     Day 4 Evening

Chapter 10   Day 5 Morning

Chapter 11   Day 5 Evening

Chapter 12   Day 6 Morning

Chapter 13   Day 6

Chapter 14   Day 7 Morning

Chapter 15   Day 7

Epilogue

About The Author

DEDICATION

W hen my father passed away in 1987, I went through his effects. I found a newspaper article on him from the 1930s. It was about the high school basketball team on which he played. When asked what he wanted to do as an adult, his dream was to become a journalist. Of course, as a poor Irish kid whose own father had been institutionalized with a mental disorder, college was out of the question. My dad did factory and janitorial work in the real world. But he was a wonderful storyteller with a quintessential Irish wit. I was fortunate enough to go to college, which I enjoyed so much that I pretty much remained within the bosom of the academy for the remainder of my adult life, with only a couple of brief lapses. I majored in psychology at the undergraduate level since it was the strongest department at Clark University, my college. In addition, I had no idea at all what I wanted to do other than pursue a vocational path that did not demand heavy lifting or any real work.

In truth, though, my own secret ambition was to be a writer, which is reasonably close to journalism. As a small kid in the immediate post–World War II era, my friends wanted to be cowboys or athletes or maybe even astronauts. I wanted to write great works of literature or at least something others might want to read. In the Peace Corps, while surviving two years in rural India, I wrote a novel. Several women, including a lovely Peace Corps secretary in the New Delhi main office, volunteered to type it up. I must have been a charmer in those days. I think my first effort was quite good, but it remained stuffed in drawers while I went about making a living as an academic and policy wonk, pursuits I enjoyed immensely. In addition, such work involved no heavy lifting whatsoever, thereby satisfying my life’s goal.

That dream of being a writer remained hidden but never died; our early quests never do. While an undergraduate, I recall running into my English literature professor at the lunch counter one day. I confessed my secret dream to him, something I rarely revealed for fear of the laughter that was bound to follow. He was kind enough not to laugh out loud. He then asked me if I could tell a good story. I didn’t know at the time so stood mute. According to him, that was the one and only key to the kingdom. I have since written tons of papers, book chapters, and a few academic books and memoirs. But can I write a good story? I believe it is time to find out. This is my first attempt to do so since that initial effort in India, which I buried out of insecurity until it was lost to time and posterity. Now, however, I am too old to care if people laugh.

In the pages that follow, I give you Tenuous Tendrils. It is written in honor of my dad, who bequeathed to me the precious gift of Celtic blarney.

PROLOGUE

T he young man drove slowly through darkened streets on a cold November morning. The icy rain had ceased, but the going remained slow. Would it snow? he wondered. That would make it tough. As he peered ahead, a faint hint of light suggested itself on the eastern horizon. Was that the first hint of morning or were those merely the lights of some nearby town? The car slowed and slid seamlessly before stopping completely as it bumped against the curb. He opened the window to a sharp wind that slapped him with abrasive indifference. He hardly noticed. There he sat, focusing within, indifferent to all surrounding him.

It seemed just yesterday they sat around a student apartment arguing the same points they had done so for week after week, month after month. Those assembled focused on war, racism, social injustice, poverty, and mostly the need for a revolutionary moment. These were the universal calls in an age where utopian dreams seemed palpable and real change inevitable. Hope survived against the inexorable erosion attached to daily experiences that dashed plebian dreams of ordinary men and women. So far, the gods were kind in that they did not permit this tiny collection of idealists to peer too far into the future nor to be swept into some abyss by their own hubris and zeal.

A wiry young man named Morris, the natural leader marked by a top of frizzy brown hair, broke through the banter with an intensity that, as always, commanded attention. Do you know what I heard from a guy who worked for Senator Morse?

Of course not, we are not fucking clairvoyant. The insult came from an equally thin, yet striking young woman with dark hair and ferocious eyes.

Always the sweet words, Carla, no wonder guys are lined up to propose, Morris barked. Anyways, he told me about a conversation that Johnson had with Senators Fulbright and Russell about the escalation in Nam. Apparently, Johnson admitted that he knew that sending more American boys was a mistake, and I mean a disaster, but he feared that the Republicans would have his balls if he didn’t. There you go, thousands of Americans and probably hundreds of thousands of Asians will perish because the toughest guy in Washington does not have the balls to say no. What is wrong with this country? Doesn’t anyone have the guts to stand up for what is so obviously right? Kennedy never would have allowed this to happen, but they cut him down before he could set things right.

A young man known as Josh, who sat on the opposite side of the circle, watched his friend closely. They were unlike each other in many ways. The speaker was thin and intense, ready to explode with ideas and energy. He had a brittle intelligence out of which a cornucopia of ideas flowed. He could paint Picassos or Rembrandts through the medium of words, not colors. His eyes bore into you when you came into his view, usually rendering the object of his attention mute.

In contrast, Josh was taller, well built, and handsome with those dark Irish good looks that many women found seductive, if not irresistible. He had a pair of pale blue eyes that did not hurt his cause with the distaff side. He also was more thoughtful and considered ideas with greater care. What really attracted others to him was an easy manner and lopsided smile. People were comfortable around him; they found both his demeanor and his words soothing.

He spoke up in his calm voice. Why are you surprised, Mo? We all know the Democrats are scared shitless on the Commie question. They have not recovered from McCarthy. Hell, if one puts an ism on the end of any word, the good American people will crap in their pants. I, for one, wisely invested in a toilet paper company. I will have earned enough for my yacht in a month or two. The crowd snickered at his words, less the meaning than the easy manner of expression. They always tended to smile no matter what he said.

Okay, Josh, leave ’me laughing like always. Sometimes, though, you’ve got to suck it up and do the right thing. You simply need to do the right thing, even when no one else sees it. During the worst moments of the Cuban missile crisis, every member of the Joint Chiefs argued for invasion. Every goddamn one of them. They virtually called Kennedy a traitor for holding out. That fat fuck who headed the air force was the worst—he barely could contain his vitriol toward Kennedy. These so-called adults running the country would have reduced our world to a cinder in an instant. They are adults only in a chronological sense. In truth, they are kids playing war in a sandbox, but we are the collateral damage. But Kennedy didn’t give in and just may have saved mankind for what that is worth. I am so tired of talking. It is time to do something. We have become the real adults, the ones who see things as they really are. It is time to strap on a pair.

And do what, for god’s sake, blow up the goddamn Pentagon?

The wiry one looked across the circle with his typical intensity. Perhaps, someday. But tonight, tonight, I only ask for one thing. I want each of us to pledge our trust and fidelity to one another.

Mo is right, added the intense young woman named Carla. Change does not happen just by asking. Women’s suffrage! That did not come about by asking politely. Female activists had been asking for decades. They got nowhere. Then Alice Paul disrupted Wilson’s inauguration in 1916, scores of her followers were beaten and arrested. But she kept the pressure on until it just became too hard for Woodrow to hide behind World War I. Women finally got the vote, not by being nice, but in accepting nothing less and by being total pains in the asses. They went out and took it.

Morris picked up the argument. We need to stop just being silly, pesky students and become much more. I am asking each of you to join me. With that, he put his hand out in front of him. Okay, if you are with me, put your hand on mine. If not, just leave. I will understand. What I am asking is great, and not everyone can make the sacrifice. I would not expect this from all of you. If you choose to leave, all I ask is that you forget about this night.

What are you asking of us? someone queried.

For that, you must simply trust me. First the pledge, then we can plan.

An athletic-looking young man with short reddish-brown hair stirred, and everyone looked in his direction. He left the room with an expression trapped on his face that none could quite explain. Was it contempt, sadness, anger, regret? It would be a matter of debate in future weeks. Then the one called Josh rocked a moment as if he would join him but settled back into his position. He looked around furtively to see if anyone had noticed his tiny movement. One after another, they shuffled forward to put a hand on the growing pile of commitments. Only Josh held back. He looked intently at the wiry leader. They had been together so long, but this was a watershed moment. He just knew it. All eyes were on him as he hesitated until his body seemed on the verge of exploding from the tension within. Then slowly inching forward, his hand found the top of the pile. He hoped no one noticed the imperceptible tremor in his fingers.

Now, weeks later, on this cold morning in the inky blackness, Jeremiah Joshua Connelly realized that further internal debate was useless. He had been thinking about what he should do ever since that night when he pledged himself to the group. The pranks and protests had turned into stronger actions that now crossed over the line to outright felonies. It was only a matter of time before someone died. In his own mind, he could accept his own demise, but the thought of taking another’s life was beyond his comprehension. Now he was running out of time. But there was no analytical method for making this choice. Feelings of loyalty, outrage, and principle incessantly swirled through his head. This conundrum was beyond conventional calculation. There were no acceptable metrics for the emotions, values, principles, and normative dispositions that waged war in his brain and heart. He wanted to scream but emerged from the car instead.

He stood in the cold searching the faces from that night. There was Morris Greenstein, or Mo, the unelected leader. He had charisma, maybe from his pedigree. His grandfather was a revolutionary leader among the Bolsheviks during the October Revolution, which he always reminded people took place in November. But his father’s dad stayed true to Trotsky when Stalin pushed his way to power. His grandfather knew he had backed the wrong horse and fled, eventually settling in America where his son and Mo’s father worked in the mills but mostly focused on organizing unions and giving the bosses a hard time. Fleeing proved a wise move. Stalin had virtually all the original revolutionaries killed off, even those handpicked by Lenin himself.

Carla Shapiro was the daughter of a rabbi. As an only child, she had been raised as if she might somehow become a Talmudic scholar herself. But that was not permitted by her conservative father in that day so she substituted academic studies instead. What she embraced from her religious upbringing was a sense of purpose, and a great deal of guilt. To her, life was pursuing something greater than herself for some vision of the good. She instinctively sought to destroy the dystopian reality about her and seek a utopian alternative while her inbred guilt kept her pushing toward the unattainable.

Josh had met Peter Favulli through high school athletics. He did not know any Italians from his neighborhood. They were from a different tribe, but Josh appreciated his skills on the playing fields and struck up a friendship. When he visited Peter’s home, he was struck by the sense of religious devotion that pervaded everything. It seemed to carry an aura from a different time. Two of Peter’s sisters would become nuns though one brother and a couple of cousins would wind up as mobbed-up wise guys. Peter himself inexorably was drawn into the religious life and almost entered the seminary after high school. His devotion to God did not last, but like Carla, he brought forward a back bent with guilt and a sense of responsibility to do good.

Bob Wilson, unlike Peter, gave the Catholic seminary a shot. He studied for the priesthood for two years before enrolling at this decidedly secular school. The switch in direction was semi-intentional. Soon, his passion for finding God quickly mutated from the transcendental to the political. If one could not achieve perfection outside of this world, then why not within it? Josh had liked this quiet young man from day one.

Helen Mueller was a late addition to his circle. She was from a wealthy family but found her privilege a burden. She always sensed that she never fit in no matter where she was. Though pleasant of appearance, she could not match her two sisters who dazzled with their beauty and poise. Helen had a roundish face and a body that leaned toward the chunky side. While her family glided through society with ease and the familiarity of those born to position, Helen struggled. Everything was conscious effort for her, and she grew tired of the perpetual pretense. She buried this overwhelming sense of failure in an anger that burned below a quiet exterior.

James Daley was a follower. He wanted to belong. Unlike Peter and Josh, he did not have the athletic skills to compete and gain any notoriety. To compensate, he became a classic hanger-on, the guy who internalized the aura of others and did their bidding without question. Josh always looked upon him as a slightly comical figure destined for either tragedy or anonymity, most likely the latter. Josh sometimes speculated whether Jimmie might be better off seeking a life of quiet desperation as an accountant with a wife and 2.5 children. If only he had been fortunate enough to fall in with a different crowd.

Finally, there was Katherine Kit Olson. She was a blond beauty who followed Josh like an adoring puppy, even to the point of mouthing revolutionary slogans and pretending the requisite fervor. Josh could never quite respond to her; her tendency to fall back on the usual feminine charms put him off. Perhaps his reticence is why she kept after him as so many boys made passes at her with total futility. Still, her attraction to him could not sustain her faux commitment to leftist causes as the small group drifted toward a scary cliff. Funny, he mused, how we evolve and mutate into something new, shedding old skin as we transform. Life really is not a constant, but not all can accept the flux and change.

Of course, there were others from his past who were absent from Josh’s college circle. They mostly were the neighborhood Irish toughs destined for lives of mediocre aspirations and more modest results. They all hung out in one another’s homes until Josh began to drift in a different direction. The break was in slow motion. First, there were more silences. The jokes flew back and forth with less celerity and frequency. Then there were fewer excuses to get together, and finally the actual arguments started.

His circle had long been evolving, shedding old inhibitions as they became more focused and committed on the war. The teach-ins, the marches, the never-ending debates of issues and evidence were no longer satisfying. Mo’s call for doing something dramatic seemed natural and inevitable by the time he uttered the words that committed them to dangerous acts. And yet, Josh wavered. He always wavered. His life always seemed to be on some transformative cusp as if the struggle between what was right and what was necessary would inexorably become a lifelong sentence in hell.

Life must be so easy for those who see it as if all were black and white. Certitude is a calming anesthetic that rubs off most confusion and doubt. What if you could just live out a given script, not be required to confront deeper, more existential choices. Then you could simply grow tall and strong and certain, no deviations and few questions. He rather felt like a weak vine, weaving this way and that, looking for a tendril through which to attach his wandering path to something solid and permanent. He often saw himself grasping for something solid, but it was not there. Only doubt and discontent lay before him.

What the fuck! he yelled into the darkness. Then he walked to a nearby lamplight as he pulled out a quarter. He flipped it skyward and watched it tumble through the frigid air. It struck a jagged piece of concrete and bounced off the sidewalk into the shadows of the street. For a moment, he could not see how it had landed. Even now, he thought, the gods are still screwing with me. He bent over the coin … staring at the result. Okay then.

He returned to the car and started off again. When he reached the highway, he paused only slightly before turning on to the west-bound ramp. For a couple of hours, Josh drove through occasional snow squalls and the haze of early morning. Eventually, he slid into a northbound lane after he had passed into New York State. Hours later, he stopped near a sign that said Welcome to Canada. He took one deep breath before continuing. Things would never be the same again.

CHAPTER 1

Day 1 Morning

D o you know what a tendril is?

A root? A young root, I think, responded Rachel, breathless. But I am sure you are about to set me straight, oh wise and omniscient one. She had rushed from the house to catch up to her brother on realizing he had left even before the first hint of dawn. She had recalled him saying that he always walked Morris, his beloved pug, before sunrise when solitude could be guaranteed.

Close. Josh smiled. It is a threadlike organ found in climbing plants like vines. They typically encircle both the plant and some other structure. They don’t flower or anything like that. But they do perform an essential function—they grasp onto these other structures to keep the thing from falling over … from dying. Rather amazing. Okay, not amazing but interesting, at least to me.

So, this is the crap you think about before the damn sun is up. Okay, so just what is the point here, that I don’t flower or that I like grabbing on to things?

Hell, Rach, you have to get over thinking everything is about you. I am talking botany here.

Rachel threw her head back and forced a tiny chuckle. Great, we have hardly seen one another since I was in high school. Then you do your usual dance so we only exchange meaningless pleasantries when I finally arrived last night after the trip from hell. Then I hear you escaping this morning in the middle of the damn night. So I scamper up and race to the beach to find you and what do I get? A botany lesson from the kid that hated all that sciency stuff, at least he did when I last knew him … really knew him, that is. Her voice caught a bit, and she hated herself for it. This wasn’t turning out as she had pictured it in her mind.

Morris! Professor Jeremiah Joshua Connelly, universally known as Josh, was looking down to the squat rumples of fur ambling happily alongside his feet. How many times have we talked about women, what pains in the asses they are? Morris slowed his waddle to look up at the human he adored. This was different, he must have thought. The morning walks were usually just the two of them, accomplished in silence where man and pet could meditate in silence. Really, how many times have you told me that broads are nothing but trouble? But do I listen to you? No! I have spent my whole life in schools and you not a day, except for that ill-fated obedience training. I do apologize for putting you through that, buddy. But at least they gave you a social promotion for being cute. And yet with virtually no formal education, you still are the wise one while I am the dumb ass. When will I learn? Then again, I suppose I don’t set the bar very high, probably not hard to beat me in the smarts department. I guess I should always listen to you. You may look a bit slow, but you carry in that ugly head of yours the wisdom and insight of Solomon himself.

Rachel knelt over to the pug. Oh, sweetie, let me take you away from this hell you are in. My evil brother is such a bad influence on you. I would just love you to bits. She ran her hands over his wrinkled coat as he squirmed in delight at the attention. Morris was in his element; he loved attention. Oh see, he loves me.

Hah, Mo would love the Ripper if Jack had scratched his ears. Josh looked out over the inlet. The beach he walked most mornings ran eastward from the north end of the campus, stretching along the southern edge of Burrard Inlet leading into English Bay and the city of Vancouver. Directly across the water, the mountains, still snowcapped, appeared to rise out of the water. To the right lay central Vancouver, shimmering in the receding blackness.

He never tired of this view. He walked along the beach most mornings, particularly since he had adopted the pug from a colleague who found a dog too much of an inconvenience once his children were off to college. He would amble along the shore often just as the ink of night yielded to a faint light. Then his thoughts would overtake him until he realized that the world was in transition. What had been blackness pricked with tiny spots of light melted to a hazy gray. Another pause and then gray fused with a hint of blue punctured by the outline of a city center and dominant mountain peaks.

Throughout this slow evolution each morning, his restless mind would flit from thought to thought, image to image, topic to topic. Work, women, the day’s expectations, a long and tempestuous life—such things crowded his head, seeking attention. But nothing seemed to stay in his head very long. Maybe he had been cursed with an attention deficit disorder.

Morris squatted to do his business. After picking up the delicacies, his attention focused on the panoramic view and then his interior space—the long view and the most intimate apprehension. With each shift in focus, the world would have changed, becoming more defined and comprehensible. As the landscape defined itself, it also became so familiar. It had now been part of his world for decades now. How could that be? He thought Canada would be a temporary refuge, a place to hide from events and from himself until the world had righted itself. But that rebalancing never happened or he refused to see it. Here he was, about to retire from the faculty of the University of British Columbia. Just how long had he been here, well over three decades? Just where had this life gone, his vision of a life worth living?

Mo, cooed Rachel, want to run away with me? I would treat you much better than this bozo. Josh, he is just so cute. Ugly as sin but cute, just a little like you were as a kid. Maybe that is the connection, why you ended up with this dog. You see him as a twin brother. But what’s with the name … Mo? Really, Mo?

Josh looked at his sister. She had never lost her natural beauty, sandy blond hair falling to her shoulder. Unlike his more rugged and masculine look, she had a slim face with a classic composition that drew people to her. Most felt her looks were rather elegant though Josh had always thought her features a bit on the angular side. At times, her visage reminded him of the cubist visage he had seen in some museum. Yet all imperfections, if any really existed, were swept away by her eyes. He could never figure out their true color, pulsating between hazel and blue, depending on light and mood. But they were always inviting, taking you in with an implied transparency and sometimes an impish humor. Above all, they betrayed a quick wit and deep intelligence.

Surely you remember Mo, well, Morris, he said. He was around the house all the time.

Oh yeah, the skinny Jewish kid. You two were very close … Where is he now?

Josh looked toward the Vancouver skyline, which, as was often the case, had now sprung into a tentative existence. Well, that is a really long story, one I cannot answer. Then he lapsed back into silence, looking afar at where the mountains were a mere hint in the receding darkness.

Suddenly, Rachel bolted upright. Here we go, you are going to shut me out again, I just know it. It’s what you always do. I lost you when I needed you most. You were gone, just gone. Okay, that I understand. I don’t, really, but let’s get past that for the moment. But then you never came back. You were not there when I graduated from college, or medical school, or got married, or when I had a child. You were nowhere to be found when I got a divorce or won my professional accolades or anything else. You just shut me down. It was as if I had bubonic plague or something, as if the whole family was infected. Sure, Dad was furious and Mom fell into a deep depression, but I never stopped loving you. I kept writing, for a long time. Did you ever meet me halfway, any way at all? No! Much later, when we did finally connect, it never seemed close. You always came across as if you could not wait for my visit to be over. It was as if you were enduring a goddamn torture session. So, what the fuck is up with that?

He was startled by the obscenity, the passion. She wasn’t his kid sister anymore, looking upon him with adoration. For a moment, he struggled for a response before she started again. Well, buddy, I am here for a whole week, maybe longer … no matter how long it takes. I am going to get you to open up if it kills me, or you, or both of us. Got that! Even in the dim light, he could see the flush on her face, the hard edge through her eyes.

Wow, Josh thought, she did have a bit of their dad’s Irish temper. Where did that come from? He always thought she was like their mother—not only in looks but in temperament as well. The background of Ora Maki Connelly was shrouded in apocryphal suggestion and speculation. She had never talked openly about her family or background. They knew she had been born amid great conflict, the exact year never revealed.

Her maiden name was Finnish, but there were suggestions that her family were from Lithuania, or perhaps northwest Russia, and lived there until the battle between Reds and Whites in the years after the October Revolution drove them to Finland. Whatever the truth, Josh mused, his mother had been forged of stern stuff, quiet and disciplined and resourceful. She never seemed to lose her composure as her husband, a classic son of the Emerald Isle, attacked life with bold abandon and endless stories but absent much direction or purpose except the cause of Irish freedom and bringing their exiled brothers from the north back into the fold.

Yeah, Rachel, I got it. You want me to open up, maybe even be a real brother?

Not want, I insist. She fought back a tear. If it is not too much to ask. You know, if it is not an inconvenience or anything.

Oh well, you can always ask. He slid into his wry smile that was his go-to default attitude.

With lightning quickness, she slammed him in the stomach. Ouch! he exhaled. That really hurt.

Good! she fumed. It was light enough for him to see her face flush with real anger.

All right, I give, I give. He pushed the words out through some real pain. I will tell you why I have been … what is the word I am looking for?

"Try asshole," Rachel spit out, her anger yet on the surface.

Okay, the truth is, he paused for effect as if deciding if he should really go where he wanted, you were a real pain in the ass when we were growing up. Now, hear me out before you knee me in the family jewels. Remember those times in high school. I would bring a girl home when the folks were out and would work my way up to make my patented move.

Wait—she almost smiled—that was your best move. No wonder you couldn’t get laid.

Shush, my turn. You would waltz in and bust out with something like ‘Oh, Josh, the public health people called a while back. They want a list of all your sexual victims over the past six months.’ They were real panicky like it was a crisis or something. In any case, they need to warn them of something dreadful. Or there was the one about the child support people calling asking when I was going to start paying for all my kids. He stepped back in anticipation of another blow. You know, I pretty much never got a second date.

Rachel seemed to soften a bit. Hah, that was not my fault. You should not have been such a hopeless putz.

Just as Josh Connelly relaxed a fraction, her arm shot out one more time. This time, he bent over with a cry of pain while Mo growled. Damn it, I give. Where the hell did you learn to hit like that?

Self-defense class. Rachel eyed him suspiciously, searching for any sign of disingenuousness or irony. But she only saw pain in his face. Any more bullshit and I will have you on your knees begging for mercy.

Shit, I am begging right now. And after several breathless gasps, Where do you want to start? I have a suggestion, maybe we can start with why the coroner will think I was a POW when they do my autopsy. How will you explain all my internal injuries?

They walked in silence for a while. By now, his face was clear in the morning light, the mountains fully defined against a pale blue sky. The downtown Vancouver area was visible in all its detail with the faintest sounds of a waking, pulsating city. Rachel recalled the constant teasing of her older sibling. Yeah, she thought, it was immature, quite out of character for her. But she was desperate for his attention. He seemed so worldly to her—intelligent and passionate with the same wry, even cynical, view on the world he inherited from his dad. She would follow him around, looking for any sign of attention from him. Whatever she was looking for never seemed satisfied.

She broke the silence finally. Let’s start with something easy. What about your marriage to Usha? Without warning, you sent a letter saying you were married—married! I mean, what the hell. This woman comes out of the blue. Nary a word about her and then a letter. ‘Dear Rachel, I had to take the dog to the vet and, by the way, I got married last week.’ So I trek up here to meet her. What happens, I get treated as an inconvenience and never felt welcome, not really. Sure, the two of you were nice and all. She was very nice, but there was a wall. It is hard to explain, but no feeling, no intimacy, no … love. And then after several years, it was over. No buildup, no apparent reason. It struck me that you tired of the current model. Ok, what is the story with that? Shit, do you have any freaking idea how badly I wanted us to be a family again? I just wanted to know what the hell was going on in your life.

Josh realized she had finished. Yeah, I didn’t handle that very well.

No shit, Sherlock, she whispered.

Okay. He sighed. Here’s the thing. It wasn’t exactly a marriage, a real marriage. He felt her eyes boring into him. How to say this, it was like an arrangement. Try to understand, Usha and I were good friends. We could talk and share and laugh, and somehow it never spilled over to anything sexual, not very often at least. It was just comfortable. Okay, not that I wanted to nail every woman I came across … maybe just 80 percent of them. He caught himself. No more joking. At some point, we realized how close we had become. We went to dinner, movies, museums, concerts, and even traveled together. It was weird, I guess. Everyone thought we were a great couple. I even met some of her family, she had several siblings. Then it hit us. Even though we never shared a place, we had become a couple. No one asked me over, they asked us over even though we were not committed in any sense, just good friends. Then one day she seemed off … quiet, maybe even furtive. By this time, I was pretty much on to her moods. I could figure out her emotional crap, not bad for a guy. After prodding and pushing a bit, she came out with it. She was gay, a lesbian. I thought … so what is the big deal, why the secrecy? We had shared so many thoughts, why not this? Everyone was out, weren’t they? But she went on about her family, how conservative they were, how badly they would take this. Already, they were quite upset that she was obviously with this guy, me, at least in their eyes. But if we didn’t live together in sin, it was something that could be ignored, but probably not for long. She was way past the age when she should have been married, like by a decade or so. And how were they going to find a suitable mate now that she clearly was spoiled goods. But the big thing was for her was whether she could face coming out of the closet. That would have been beyond the pale in her mind. She would be shunned by the family, an outcast. When she started to cry, I realized just how much pain she was in all the time. She was stuck, emotionally. She loved being with me, but was just stuck. She couldn’t admit publicly who she was and was finding it harder and harder to play at being my girlfriend absent at least the appearance of marriage. I remember listening that day, and it just came out. Hell, I said to her, no problem. Let’s get married.

Wait, you proposed without even sleeping together? Do I have that right? Rachel stopped in her tracks.

Not quite true. We had done it, but just a handful of times. Clearly something was missing there so we just settled back into our comfortable relationship. I was happy to know she preferred women. I thought maybe I was losing my touch in the satisfying women department. Rachel grimaced but let it pass.

Morris suddenly turned around and started back down the beach toward Langara Avenue. He had long satisfied the purpose of the journey and knew food awaited his return home. Besides, they had reached their usual turning spot, and Morris was, as they say, a creature of habit. Josh continued. She turned me down, of course, making all the sensible arguments that she could not possibly ask me to sacrifice for her, she could never be a real woman for me, that I might have to accommodate her lovers on occasion, and blah, blah, blah. But it all made sense to me, this was perfect. We liked each other’s company, and we could be the great cover for each other. I would make her family happy and not expect her to be a real wife. She would nominally be my partner in the eyes of the world. Each of us could pursue relationships without fuss or recriminations. I thought it perfect. What is the big problem with women, from the male perspective, that is? Well, they get attached. You need to be nice to reel them in, and then they won’t go away. Then there are the tears and the recriminations and all that nonsense. Whoops, he thought. Well, you know what I mean. I would now have a built-in excuse as to why I could never be serious. I could tell some gal I was bedding that while I liked her a lot, I was in this committed relationship. If only we had met earlier. Besides, some women preferred that, really, and for the same reason I did, though probably not all that many.

"Thanks for the lesson on female psychology, Dr. Ruth. By the way, you better start guarding