The Once and Future Woman

By L.O.V.H. Crowders

The Once and Future Woman

L.O.V.H. Crowders
19916 Mizner Terrace
Ashburn, Virginia 20147
[phone]
[e-mail]

We are introduced to a woman who has had a weekend tryst at the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, DC. When she awakens, the man has left and the woman finds a handwritten note from him that devastates her. Feeling betrayed, and without thinking, she leaves the hotel in a hurry and is promptly mowed down in the street by a Harley. A handsome stranger stoops down to feel her pulse points to find out whether she is alive or dead, then fumbles through her pursr that has been wrenched from her grasp because of the accident. He is shocked to discover her identity.

Moving to the toney suburbs of Washington, we meet the privileged Frances Bittle Adler and her handsome husband, Bill, a high-placed executive, and we meet their four childrenthree gorgeous girls and one handsome sonages 13 to 21. Frances, a college professor, is quite accomplished, and Bill seems to be the ideal husband. But, a malady that has plagued Fran for some time now comes to the fore and causes Bill to have to rush his wife to the hospital the morning after Christmas.

We move back to the scene of the first womans accident and find that debris has been cleaned up and the handsome stranger has disappearedalong with the womans purse. At Washington General Hospital, we find that the woman has survived her ordeallargely because of the efforts of Dr. Pete Gregory, a handsome six-foot-six piece of manhood, who apprises her of her injuries and of what steps he will have to take in order to get her back to normalcy. Intermittently, the woman lapses into unconsciousness and has peculiar dreams.

In another part of the same hospital, Frances is examined, and protests having to be admitted for tests, but Bill assures her that he and the kids will be fine without her. After a while, the two of them realize that the other bed in the room is occupied by a whizened old woman with grayish cat eyes, Hester Culpepper Rockefeller, who doesnt seem to know where she, who she is, or even what day it is.

Francine Hacker, a very attractive, tall African American nurse, comes to attend to the old woman, Hester, who promptly repels her by calling her every name in the book, including the N word.

Cut to 1944, and we are made aware of Hesters background and motivations for her behavior.

Chapter XIII reveals a great deal about the life of the woman involved in the accident, especially about her relationship with her grandmother, Millie, and about the woman touched by miracles.

In the ensuing chapters, we learn that Bill is not the man he seems to be. We are made privy to Francine Hackers enigmatic life.

Now, because Hester has passed on, the two women, Fran and LaDeane, are made roommates and, thus, begin a relationship that will last for quite some time. They also get to know nurse Hacker extremely well. And, when LaDeane is released from the hospital, both Frances and Hacker petition to come and see her in her office. LaDeane wonders who will come to see her first as both Hacker and Frances are needy.

Because Bill, a bi-coastal husband, has been offered a very powerful position with another corporation headquartered in Washington, DC, he prepares to move back East from Los Angeles where his old company is headquartered. Another chapter marks a special time in Bills life; now he gets to visit his new offices in a prestigious part of Northwest Washington, DC, and having familiarized himself with the layout and having made himself acquainted with those who will work for

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 20, 2007
• ISBN: 9781469118291

Book preview

Copyright © 2007 by L.O.V.H. Crowders.

ISBN:                         Hardcover                       978-1-4257-7765-4

ISBN:                         Softcover                         978-1-4257-7688-6

ISBN:                         Ebook                              978-1-4691-1829-1

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.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

35176

Contents

APPLAUSE!

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

XXXVI

XXXVII

XXXVIII

XXXIX

XL

XLI

XLII

XLIII

XLIV

XLV

XLVI

XLVII

XLVIII

XLIX

L

LI

LII

LIII

LIV

LV

LVI

LVII

LVIII

LIX

LX

LXI

LXII

LXIII

LXIV

LXV

LXVI

LXVII

LXVIII

LXIX

LXX

LXXI

LXXII

LXXIII

LXXIV

LXXV

LXXVI

LXXVII

LXXVIII

LXXIX

LXXX

LXXXI

LXXXII

LXXXIII

APPLAUSE!

To my husband, children, and grandchildren, and to all of my friends who know who they are, I dedicate this book. And incontrovertibly, this novel is reverently inscribed to those Family Angels who watch over me & sprinkle down gentle, liberal blessings upon those we all love.

And, to you, Reader, I offer special appreciation for your buying or borrowing this first labor of love. I don’t think that you’ll regret reading it; so, read on! Whatever you think, let me know by sending a word or two to my e-mail address.

Thanks!

I

Lytotic Hyperbole

Lady! The sharp-eyed flaming auburn-haired girl with the ten thousand freckles and colorless eyebrows and lashes shrieked from the front doors of the Mayflower Hotel. She wasn’t aware of it at the moment, but this tiny child was the only person around who could comprehend what was going to happen to the woman. But, it was too late, as Fate had a calamitously, catastrophically, cruel surprise awaiting this already stunned woman.

As she stepped from the curb, oblivious of where she was going, she heard neither the admonition of the little red haired girl, nor the frantic beeping of the jet black Harley’s horn as the vehicle that was traveling down Sixteenth Street, from out of the blue, sideswiped the woman on the left and pitched her headlong toward the bumper of the Toyota creeping slowly from the opposite direction of the motorcycle.

And, it was swift, over in a matter of seconds, as she was pounded down into the asphalt – head first – and there lay supinely helpless, presumably lifeless, on a bed of broken glass, snow and debris. Then a ravenous crowd gathered robotically…

. . . "M-m-m-m . . ."

She awoke with a smile on her porcelain-smooth, wrinkle-free café au lait face as bright as a morning sunbeam; and, after wiping the sleep from her eyes, she slowly stretched upward, squeezing into nude consciousness every healthy cell in her body.

Shortly before complete cognizance, she at last made herself aware that she had done it! She had won the heart of the man she had desired for these past several months. He was her bright and morning star, the Guernsey cream in her coffee, the one she had been destined not to have, never to hold.

Bob, she moaned sweetly, joyfully, from a soulful space inside her that she never knew existed, for the sound of his name as she uttered it seemed to originate not from the usual place – wherever that was – ,but from outside herself – from somewhere undefined, unknown, yet, totally familiar. And, she was comfortable saying it, though she had not yet let herself become accustomed to hearing herself express it.

Then came the impulse to touch him. For, to tell the truth, this weekend could have been some sort of surreal dream, she thought. This union may not have truly taken place. Their lovemaking may have been only fantasy. Was this passion, this melding of flesh upon flesh, after all, some figment of her imagination? Yes, she had just to touch him to make certain that he was really there, that he was finally and actually hers.

For some time now, she had ached to have him just notice, maybe smile at her, maybe say something clever, or not so clever, say something other than the generic, detached, Hello, and then conduct business as usual as he made occasional visits to her offices for professional reasons. After all, she considered herself more than just what she had chosen as her profession. She was a human being; she was made of flesh and blood, and she possessed all of the human idiosyncrasies, foibles, desires that anyone and everyone else had. Truly, she remembered the times when any acknowledgement by him of her very existence would have made her heart sing, beat a thousand times faster than it was beating now.

What attracted her to him, she did not know. He was handsome, but he was no Denzel; she adored him, but she understood that he was not perfection; he was attentive to her, but not in the way she wanted him to be. So, how was she to tell why, or how this had happened, except that she had wanted it to. But then, all of that didn’t really matter now, did it? What mattered was that he was here, in this room, in this bed beside her, and this state of affairs was much better than she could have ever imagined, or hoped for. She was sure of him; she could feel it. She knew that he was absolutely the one.

I got him! She whispered barely audibly without meaning to, because she didn’t want to awaken him.

God, she cringed, but I don’t want to wake him. It’s barely daylight, she thought as she rolled her sheet-draped body softly over toward him, and to touch him lightly with her French-manicured, slender fingertips. She had to make sure that this dream was a reality.

But, as soon as she moved toward him, she sensed for the first time, a peculiar absence of warmth beside her. So, now, her ebony eyes with the sleep still in them now opened completely as her outstretched hand failed to touch his firm sensuality.

"Maybe, in this dim light, I just can’t see him because he’s moved over to the other side of this big ol’ bed," she rationalized quickly.

So, she grasped at his pillows and touched nothing but pillow. Then, with her hand, she whisked over the sheet in one fell swoop.

Bob, she whispered, her heart quickening more.

No answer.

Bob, a little more emphatically – a little louder, as it had become wholly evident that he was not in bed beside her.

He must be in the bathroom, she again rationalized a half-second following that revelation as she quickly hopped from beneath the bed covers onto the soft, powder blue carpeting of their hotel room floor, and wrapped the top sheet around her.

Bob!

No answer.

No Bob.

She was now in a state resembling mild panic; so, she looked for him even beneath the king-sized bed and behind the draperies, hoping against hope all the time that he was playing some sort of childish game with her.

Then, as she surveyed the room for what seemed to be the thousandth time of the thousandth month of the thousandth year, her eyes came upon a folded sheet of parchment lying on the floor just slightly under and next to his side of the bed.

Oh, I guess he had to leave, and didn’t want to wake me, she softly whispered to herself, an unaddressed trepidation still there. "Should have said something, though . . ."

What else was she to think, her heart sensing something that she was not yet willing to concede?

Reluctantly, though, she slowly stooped down, her eyes glued to that wretched piece of paper; and, as she did so, she felt faint, lightheaded.

The piece of hotel stationery was folded neatly in half – exactly in half, with her name printed in large capital letters on the outside; and, her name was significantly punctuated with a bold, blackened exclamation point. As she opened it, she could feel a dryness invade her mouth and throat at the same time, a dryness that choked, while her heart continued to palpitate at a rate faster than normal, faster than she was able to either physically or mentally control.

With trembling hands, she unfolded the note and read it:

Sweetheart,

By now, you know that I’m not there with you. Sweet thing, you don’t know me well enough yet to understand this, but when I’m apprehensive about someone, or if something is bothering me, I get out of the way of whatever it, or she, or he is. In this case, I’m terrified of you. Or, maybe I’m just seeing a pattern in your behavior that I can’t live with. Sweet Thing, sorry, but I know already that I’m going to grow tired of you really quickly. You cling, girl. That’s why last night, it dawned upon me that I could never see you again. As a matter of fact, & to tell the truth, I can’t stand being controlled by you. After all, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Manipulation. Control. Power. Girl, you possess! You take control! You choke! You have to be in charge, don’t you? Well, I don’t like that. In fact, I don’t know of any normal man who does. That’s one of the many reasons I don’t care to see you any – more. So, do me a favor, sugar, & don’t try to call me, don’t try to write me, don’t try to E-mail me, don’t try to see me! I am unavailable. Can’t stand you. Don’t need you. Don’t want you. Don’t have to have you. Won’t be your slave, Miss High & Mighty. Slavery is dead. So, leave me the fucking hell alone – for my sake, sweetie, as well as yours (smile).

Now, I know that this might seem like a blunt, cowardly, inhumane thing to do, but, sorry, I couldn’t think of any other way. Just leave me the hell alone, girl. OK? I mean it!

By the way, you’ll notice three crisp hundred-dollar bills under your pillow. You might say they’re for the two dinners you insisted on paying for. I told-and you knew-that you need not have paid for anything. You knew that I was perfectly capable of taking care of the weekend; but, you insisted. So, if you’d prefer not to accept them as payment for the dinners, then just think of them as payment for something else, if you know what I mean. You do know what I mean, don’t you, sweet thing? Incidentally, the hotel bill is taken care of, too. You have to get out of the room by noon. Anyhow, thanks for the memories, and goodbye . . . but tenderly. And, I thought we could do this again, but I didn’t think you’d want to. So, goodbye again, and it was good, Baby.

Love ya,

Bob

II

Disbelief

S he was irrevocably stunned. How could this ugliness have happened so quickly?  . . . At all? How could she have misread this man so completely? How could she not have known, not have had even an insinuation of how he felt about her? About them? She had put her heart and soul into this brief relationship because, finally, she was so sure of it, and of him, though he was not that aware of how she felt. She had previously given up on being in any kind of meaningful relationship because her career had always taken front seat in her life and now this, that she had let take precedence over everything in her life that mattered, was what had come of it. She just could hardly believe that this could happen to her, the careful one. The perfect angel had fallen from grace, and the devil was the playmate that took her dream of eternal, unqualified, pure passion for this man, Bob Thibideaux, rolled it into a ball, and kicked it into eternal damnation. This letter. That cancerous language. Yet, despite the vitriolic words, this was not the Bob she knew. But, there everything was laid out before her in this hellishly burning letter.

What had she done to him? Better yet, how had he changed so quickly toward her? Something didn’t add up, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. In her entire life, she had never misjudged anyone to this extent. This just didn’t make any sense at all.

Then, before she realized what was happening to her, something, some intangible something stultified her brain, and her faculties, in a sense, simply ceased to function. They now almost completely shut down as she gazed around the lush, tastefully-appointed room, but saw nothing, for the full recognition of her situation took the last drop of strength from her, as she lapsed back on to her pillow and wept unceasingly, unrestrained.

Then, after a lifetime, she managed to lift herself from her reposing and, so, plodded her way to the shower. She had to cleanse herself because she felt so filthy, so defiled, as she mechanically turned on the faucets – full-force – and stepped in, oblivious of the water’s elevated temperature, as clouds of steam rose all around her diminutive body. But, there was no pain.

She let the water roll methodically from head to toe and, then, she stepped out of the shower, reached for a plush towel and lethargically dried her wet parts; but, as she did so, she did not do so thoroughly, because as she slipped into each piece of clothing – her lacy black bra and panties . . . an ankle-length sheer lined navy blue embroidered ankle-length skirt . . . a white, long-sleeved embroidered silk mandarin-collared tunic blouse – it was difficult to do so, but she barely noticed. It was as if she were an observer of this scene – some objective someone viewing it from beyond the ethers. Her senses would not make her privy to the feeling of wearing apparel or anything else in the vicinity – neither the temperature of the hotel suite, nor the intense, ecstasy-filled sounds emanating from the room next door where the young newly-married couple resided . . .

He hates me! But, why? Finally, she came to herself and blurted it out from the caverns of her mouth’s soul, as the intensely sharp grieving agony rose from the middle of the earth and pierced her in the heart. At this very instant, at this moment in time, all of her reasoning faculties, all of the training she had succeeded in acquiring, all of the education that she had paid so dearly for, all logic, everything that made her a human being, abandoned her as she grabbed her purse, threw on her coat, and bolted out of the room as does a deer that has been wounded in a non-vital part by the hunter.

Now, reality again crashed into the core of her being and the water came again in a flood as she scampered down the long, wide, endless, velvety-carpeted hallway. And, as she reached the elevator and frantically pressed dozens of times on the lobby button, she wept uncontrollably until the elevator came.

As the doors finally parted after what, to her, was an eternity, she slipped in, hardly noticing a red-haired little girl and a smartly-dressed man and woman inside. Neither did she notice that the little girl was wearing a mink coat, a matching beret, and had her hands cloistered in a mink muff, and that the mother was holding on to the little girl’s shoulder as tightly as she could, while all the time staring contemptuously at her.

Tears clouded her vision, but she was numb to the watching. She didn’t notice. And, she didn’t detect that there was a glint of puzzlement in the eyes of the strained-faced woman who, at first, stared at her for a second and then doubted, then stared again, and then turned away in condescension.

She could hardly wait for the lobby button to light. When it did, and the elevator’s doors opened, she walked out in even steps, wearing, finally, a dry-eyed, vacant expression. Had the doors to the outside not been directly across the cathedraled lobby from the elevator, she might not have made it there.

Her full lips parted once again as she softly mouthed over and over, He’s gone. And, I don’t know why.

Out of the huge, beveled, freshly-washed gleaming glass and brass doors she pushed her way. On to the sidewalk and into the street she trekked, looking neither here nor there, neither left nor right, neither upward nor downward . . .

. . . As her tangled body lay there in the debris, a neatly dressed, tall, lean, and very good looking, brown-sugar-colored man, wearing a charcoal-colored tweed sports coat and charcoal gray trousers saw what had happened and hurried to LaDeane’s side. He kneeled down and expertly placed his trim forefinger exactly at her jugular, felt her pulse at the wrist; then touched her profusely bleeding head at a pulse point.

She’s alive, he said calmly. Call an ambulance, and somebody get the police! he yelped into the stunned crowd to no one in particular and without averting his eyes from her.

Obediently, the father of the little red-haired girl quickly, almost automatically, extracted his cell phone from its holder on his belt and called the police as his pale wife stood beside him with a dismal look on her face. As the bewildered little girl attempted to touch some part of the woman, the mother came to herself and pulled her daughter away, and both stared in wide-eyed amazement at the youngish woman lying sprawled on the cold pavement. The little girl now wept uncontrollably while her auburn-coifed mother stared stonily as she clumsily attempted to protect her daughter from the sight of the mangled corpus with the crimson river flowing from it. It was obvious to all around her that there was absolutely nothing the woman would not do to shield her precious young daughter from the ugliness in front of her, from anything that the world chose to thrust at her beloved treasure. As she pulled her daughter up into the protection of her sable coat, the girl nearly smothered.

Who is she? Do you know who she is? someone whispered to another.

What in the hell possessed her to walk right in front of that bike, I’ll never know, said another.

She’s a pretty little thing, an octogeneric someone softly declared.

As the crowd buzzed, the brown-sugar man noticed that the young woman had fallen on top of a clutch, and had partially covered it. It was the one that she had grabbed absent-mindedly as she hurried from the hotel room. With nimble fingers, he unsnapped the flap and fumbled inside for some means of identifying this woman. There he came upon a French wallet, a cluster of a eight or nine keys, several neatly folded tissues, one off-black knee high stocking, a quarter-used roll of sugarless mints, one tinted lip gloss, a frazzled regular-sized tampon, a small agenda and a tiny gold crucifix.

Carefully flipping through the unfamiliar faces in their plastic casements in the wallet, he came across the equivalent of twenty-one dollars in the billfold part. Then, he scrupulously examined the rest of the wallet’s secret compartments. Finally, his eyes fell upon a section he had overlooked. Between the leaves of a piece of attached plastic film, he spied a Macy’s and a Neiman Marcus credit card, a frayed Blue Cross card, a well-used corporate American Express card and a state of Virginia driver’s license. His eyes wandered first to the back of the license:

BIRTHDATE: April 15, 1971

COLOR OF HAIR: Black

COLOR OF EYES: Black

SEX: Female

WEIGHT: 0 (under 121 pounds)

HEIGHT: 5 feet and 3 inches

RESTRICTIONS: DO (none)

BLOOD TYPE: 0+

RH FACTOR: negative

Quickly fumbling further through the hidden compartments of the wallet, the man came upon a half dozen business cards from contacts that the woman had obviously made. Four of them were identical with the name on the driver’s license. This made them hers, he surmised. But, what next struck his eyes made him gasp because of the difficulty of fathoming what he saw.

What’s the matter? an observant, inquisitive man with a Spanish accent asked when he detected the expression on the man’s face.

Without looking up, brown sugar showed one of the cards to him. On brown sugar’s face, there appeared an austere, almost unbelieving aspect, and then there came a dryness to his throat that he didn’t notice until it made him cough. Brown sugar turned to the inquisitive man, and said, almost whispering:

Her name is The Rt. Rev. LaDeane M. Taylor. She’s a bishop in the Episcopal Church…

III

Frances Bronwyn Bittle-Adler, et al

I n somewhat the same time frame, not very far from the scene of the carnage, in Northern Virginia, Frances Bittle-Adler had been in a battle with her back for some time. But she had, so far, successfully warded off everyone’s latest attempts at urging her to see a doctor – any orthopedic person, man or woman; it truly didn’t matter. The reason: Fran, as she was called, was privy to dozens of horror stories told to her by a legion of friends who either had had, or who knew of, back surgery disasters. One of her closest friends, after having gone through a half dozen surgeries over a period of some ten years or more, was as permanently dowagered as a nine-hundred year old Yoda . And, her friend was only thirty-nine years old. No, Fran was not going to risk having such a deformity, or any similar fate, occur to her, if she could avoid it.

Never. I can take this little bit of pain, she would often tell herself every time she experienced any kind of discomfort. She had learned to live with pain. Pain was, in a sense, her friend because when it recurred, she knew to slow down, or to exercise just a little more, whatever she thought best. And, if the distress were severe enough, she would call her doctor with whom she had that special kind of relationship, a relationship that dictated that whenever she needed a pain reliever, she could call him and he would call in a prescription for her. She knew her body. Fran was one well acquainted with, and accustomed to discomfort and severe pain. And, the ploy worked every time, so why should she be concerned? Never mind that her other doctor, her real doctor, Pete Gregory, had warned that this would all catch up with her if she continued to ignore his admonitions to have something done about it.

Fran, after all, was an intelligent, well-educated, somewhat pretty, hazel-eyed college chemistry professor at Georgetown, who led an American Dream existence, both in what she & her husband had acquired, and in her physical appearance. From the top of her blonde-haired head down to her waistline, except for a surprisingly perky, full, ample and rounded bust line, and from the knees to the toes, she was well proportioned; but, the glutei were somewhat out of proportion to the rest of the body, and she was at a loss to do anything about them. She was forty-three years young, and had a very supportive husband, Bill, who was a high-placed executive with one of the Fortune 500 companies, and who was in very good shape for a man his age. The fact that he was ten years her senior seemed to be no factor in their idyllic lifestyle.

Bill and Fran had met through mutual friends – he, the interesting older man she had been looking for as a diversion from the usual immature college boys she had been used to dating, and she, a charming, intelligent, innocent, but mature and sophisticated graduating senior at Georgetown. Bill spoke with a somewhere-from-New England accent, every word being significant of meaning. People listened to him. And, that was one of the reasons that Fran fell so deeply in love with him – and so quickly. It was the proverbial love at first sight for both of them, if that were possible, and they were engaged only six months after they met.

So, her mother and father, as tradition would have it, gave for them a wedding to rival the best that Town and Country had to feature. And, it all culminated with a two-week cruise to the Greek Isles, and in unparalleled, delightfully delicious connubial bliss for the entire time. Not surprisingly, Bill and Fran’s family was started on their honeymoon. But, between babies, she continued with her schooling and working, and acquired both a master’s and a doctorate degree within a short five-year period.

They now resided in one of the more exclusive expensive executive communities of suburban Washington, D. C. in a 10,000 square foot center hall Federal-inspired home with the requisite swimming pool and well-manicured grounds. Of course, in the four-car garage, there were three pricey European cars. The dream team, the awesome twosome, the dynamic duo, they were to be known to their friends and admirers because of the tremendous potential which was yet to be nurtured. And, never mind the fact that the couple was bi-coastal.

To top it all off, Fran and Bill had been blessed with four gorgeous offspring, Beverley, Bronwyn, Billy and SaraJayne. The son, Bill III, 15, was a piece of work, as Shakespeare once put it, a quotation which Fran adopted, and was often heard to say. He was the reason for every gray hair in her head, though she had very few of them – gray hairs, that is. Had it not been for Senora Lampiar, their housekeeper, who, on occasion, insisted on going into his room, termed the maelstrom of iniquity, and tidying up the place despite Fran’s insistence that she wasn’t required to do so, Fran would hardly have ventured in there at all.

The two eldest girls could be termed nothing less than drop dead gorgeous. They were doing well out on their own, Beverley, 22, having almost graduated from the Wharton B school, and already setting Wall Street on fire, making her mark at a prestigious consulting firm. Bronwyn, 21, had hated her given name every day of her life, but, as she grew into womanhood, she came into it, and learned to love its uniqueness, so that by the time she had reached the telling age of fifteen, she had grown comfortable with it, found ease in it. She knew of no one in the world with that name; and, everyone who met her remembered it. Besides, it was her mother’s middle name, so she had been destined to love it, either sooner or later. Having graduated from Manhattanville and, now just about having finished the work on her Master’s degree in an Upstate New York university in some esoteric, impractical subject, Bronwyn was sitting on top of the world.

There were no serious male prospects in the picture for either of the girls – to their father’s satisfaction!

They’re too young anyhow. Let them experience life a little, Bill would often chide Fran, who just as often lamented the fact that each of the girls was alone. Apparently, his sympathies met with the girls’ approval, as none of their parents’ confusion was of much concern to either of the girls, each intent upon having a career and being independent, above all else.

SaraJayne, their twelve-year-old, had been a particularly stunning baby. But, she was the insecure one. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why everyone insisted that she was so beautiful.

They’re all doofs to say that! she was often heard to exclaim, and in no uncertain terms.

Simply put, she was just too naïve to understand the power that she had in the beauty that was hers. What was so special about having pale blue eyes and curly strawberry blonde locks anyway? Yet, somehow, her behavior of late, her mood swings and such, indicated to her mother that SaraJayne was approaching that time when glands and hormones were working in cooperation with, or counter to, Mother Nature’s clock. And, soon SaraJayne, too, would join the ranks of the drop dead gorgeous of the distaff side of the Adler clan.

There was one more thing about SaraJayne that everyone in the family understood. And, that was that she let it be known that as soon as she reached her sixteenth birthday, she wanted one of those PT Cruisers, a turbo model, in yellow, if they made it in such a color, but deep purple would do just fine.

"They’re so neat and cool and sleek and retro and wonderful. When I get it, won’t my friends just envy me, or what? They can have their ‘Beemers’. And, I don’t care if Meghan Neiman thinks that the black PTs look like hearses. What does she know about anything, anyhow? Anyway, I don’t think they look like anything but cool, so what she thinks doesn’t count."

Anyhow, everyone seemed to be in excellent health, both physically and mentally. But, something happened a few days before they were to celebrate their traditionally combined Hanukkah/Christmas festivities…

IV

A Holiday to Remember

F ran had just driven home from a frantic power-shopping trip at Tyson’s Corner; but when she got home and attempted to exit her Vanden Plas , she just couldn’t. So, she rationalized that it must be a muscle spasm, one that had developed from the top of her leg to the bottom. That was it, some sort of muscle spasm, but, God, did it hurt! In fact, there existed a pain so intense, so excruciating, so vulgar , so debilitating, that Fran could neither sit, nor stand, nor walk, nor that night, sleep in any kind of comfort. Whenever she attempted any movement, she writhed in pain. At this juncture, though, she was determined to let slip not one word about this to anyone, no matter the cost to her wellbeing. Especially was she determined not to mention a word about this to her husband, who had been especially whiny about Fran’s seeing a doctor before the holidays were in full swing – her loving, dear husband, always concerned about her well being. Well, it was holiday season now and, damn it, she wasn’t going to spoil it for anyone – not even herself. She would get through this somehow even though she could barely sit. The two older girls were home for a few days, and since this would be the only time that she could enjoy them, well… a few painkillers would have to suffice.

By the evening before the day, Fran had done everything that she had wanted to do in preparation: shopped with the girls, wrapped all of the presents, ordered the Honey Baked Ham, and marinated the turkey. And, as usual, she had gone overboard with buying holiday gifts for the family to the point that it was hard to find the floor of the great room where the goodies were placed around the tree. She had decorated the house both inside and out, and called her mother and father, wherever they were in the world at the time, to wish them a Happy by way of their cell phone because that was the only means by which she could be sure of reaching them – that is, if they happened to think about turning them on.

That day, though, everyone – especially Bill – had wanted to say something about the weird, pained expressions on Fran’s face when they caught on to them. Bill was especially troubled because their times between the sheets hadn’t been so lively of late either. In fact, she had, in recent days, answered his overtures with less than enthusiastic – even anemic – responses; but he had not wanted to bring any of this to her attention until he could find the appropriate words… and the right moment. He was accustomed to her behavior. Anytime anyone even alluded to her altered state, Fran would manage to distance herself from the thought and evade the subject by changing it. She was good at that by now.

Nevertheless, Fran somehow forced her body to get through the special day. She had managed to get all the way through these last few days; so why not through the special day? But, on the morning after, she awoke much earlier than normal, a dagger stuck through her left shoulder, so much so that she was forced, with difficulty, to feebly and excruciatingly lift her right arm and touch Bill on his back that was turned to her:

Bill, please… get me some help . . . take me to the hospital… emergency room.

Fran had planned a strategy in case something like this should happen; that is, if she could no longer stand the pain. And, this time, she could barely move, barely talk. There was such a sense of quiet desperation in her voice and demeanor that Bill could hardly ignore it – even in his state of semi sleep.

Fran’s voice was shaky and weak.

Please, . . . please . . . get me… a… doctor . . . somebody… for… me, please. She could hardly speak. When she attempted to sit up, she was forced to bend over in pain, could barely roll out of bed.

Bill observed and said, I was right, wasn’t I? We were all right, all of us! Why wouldn’t you let me – us, get you help, Honey? As he quickly dialed the doctor’s number, he admonished, We knew that something was wrong. What am I going to do with you, Hon? he whined.

All of this he said as he lovingly and tenderly assisted a panic-stricken Fran out of bed and, as best he could, helped her to shower and get presentable for the painful journey.

And, all of the while, all that Fran could do was clinch her strong teeth as hard as she could to help alleviate some of the pain. She uttered not a word of remonstration at the husband who had gently scolded her, because, after all, he was right.

I’ll call Dr. Gregory’s cell phone. Just hold on! Take deep breaths! Honey, just hold on!

Pete Gregory had given Bill his cellphone number several weeks before because he sensed that Fran’s body would go into crisis at any moment. There was a mildly hysterical trepidation now for Bill as he watched, helpless to ease her horror.

It was Saturday morning.

V

The Man Disappears

T he ambulance’s red and blue flashing lights appeared, and its siren could be detected as it approached from blocks away. When it reached the scene of the carnage on 16 th St., Northwest, it came to a screeching halt, but the lights atop remained on. The siren was silenced.

Almost automatically, as the now substantial crowd detected, en masse, that the three white-garbed attendants were moving rapidly, steadily, toward the young woman lying on her asphalt bed, they seemed to disjoin as had the Red Sea for Moses countless eons ago; so, the attendants, one woman and two men, had no trouble reaching LaDeane. After the usual checking for vital signs, and especially after finding, incredibly, no discernible broken bones, they were able to move her onto the collapsible gurney with neck secured in a brace, and were off to nearby Washington General Hospital after speaking briefly with the police woman who had also been summoned.

Witnesses? The zoftig officer queried self-assuredly as she moved easily through the massive crowd.

The bright-haired little girl broke away from her protective mother and obliged the officer by approaching timidly, yanking gently at the officer’s jacket as she look up shyly at her and told her that a tall man had been there kneeling down next to her, Miss Policeman.

Yeah, shouted a male voice. He’s gotta be somewheres ’round here, he announced self importantly as he and the others looked with authority for the stranger.

In what turned out to be something resembling moments in the chorus of a Greek tragedy, everyone who had been on the scene early began commenting about it, and searching the premises for this mysterious figure, but he had disappeared.

Now, isn’t that strange? the father of the little girl said quizzically, half whispering to his wife, who simply stared at him.

"It seems to me that he would’ve stayed around for at least a little while since he did reach her first" – emphatically and accusingly by tone of voice, the man in the expensive jogging suit said.

Hey, wait a minute! screamed another. He was the one who found her purse. I saw him! Where is her purse? Has anybody seen her purse?

Buzzing.

That bastard probably took it, hey, stole it, was the apparent epiphany.

That’s why we can’t find it! another assailed the defenseless, absent man.

Sho’ ’nuf. That’s why the fool didn’t stay aroun’ to answer no questions. He better bring his ol’ narrow monkey ass back here, an’ right now! responded a plump woman with salt and pepper hair that, apparently had, at one time, been as long as the snap of a finger, but which now resembled the entanglements of a massive spider web, the roots of which were now as conspicuous as her six-inch-multi-colored fingernails, the woman whose eyes had never left the motionless mass whose home was the pavement. Her hair was slapped precariously astride her head in the likeness of a beehive, and she carried herself with the pride of a gazelle. She wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular. She simply wanted to be and, thus, made herself part of the chaos.

The scene buzzed at a demonic pace, everyone having an opinion about what had happened, everyone moving aimlessly around, everyone wondering what to do about the absent man, and what steps to take next in order to find and snare him.

Yet, in a unseemly turnabout of events, after the ambulance sped off with LaDeane inside and with lights flashing and sirens bleeping, after the police woman had finished the endless questioning and had left, no one had any more interest in the situation, no one made any more of an attempt to determine where this man had disappeared. The excitement was over. And, the crowd faded away . . .

VI

Dr. Pete Gregory

Morning.

Through an anesthetic blue funk, LaDeane awoke from a long sleep, her mind essentially a tabula rasa. She could detect a baritone voice – with a raspy quality to it, and it seemed interesting enough. So, LaDeane made every effort to recognize its source. But, try as she might, struggle as she might to clear her head and prop herself up on at least one elbow, she couldn’t. She was extremely weak, still moderately anesthetized, and she saw everything through a smoky haze.

Now, take it easy there. You’re not quite ready for that game of tennis yet, cautioned the voice.

A pair of strong hands nudged her gently, but firmly, back down on to her pillow.

Wha’? was the most that LaDeane could manage to fuzzily articulate as she wondered who in the world this could be that was attempting to push her around and, more importantly, who felt that he could be so familiar with her.

Almost instinctively and in a semi-panicked state, she resisted his assistance, but was just too weak to offer much, and dozed off again, fading back into the antiseptic hospital pillow.

Many hours later, she awoke again. This time she was more aware of her surroundings. She was sure, now, that she was in a hospital, yet couldn’t understand why or how she had gotten there.

At that very moment, in walked a man – a very tall man – a man of about 6 feet, 6 inches. LaDeane, now being in what she thought as almost complete control of her faculties, observed, through that lingering haze, everything about him without his knowing. He had jet black hair, a baby-smooth golden-ivory complexion, sparkling gray eyes, a thick ink black wavy mustache, eyebrows with flecks of gray sprinkled throughout, a slender build and musculature, and, above all, a countenance so serene that the scene was almost unreal.

Who could this be? Why was he here? But, all of this thinking made her head pound with the intensity of a jackhammer to pavement. As she instinctively put her hand to her head to feel, she touched what felt like gauze and adhesive tape. And, the pain… Her mouth fell slightly open and her eyes widened, because this couldn’t be.

The man walked toward her bed and sat down on the edge of it, as he could see that she was justifiably. As he approached the bed, he ruminated upon the task, the very unpleasant task that lay before him, one that he had been forced to perform on hundreds of occasions, one that he had never relished, but one he was obligated to fulfill as was implicit in the Hippocratic oath he had sworn to uphold thirteen years ago.

That charge was manifold. First, he had to have her see herself as she was at that moment; secondly, he had to relate to her everything that was wrong. At the same time, he needed to help her understand that she would not always be in this condition, but that it would take a while for her to accomplish normalcy. Then, he had to relate the treatment she had already been through, and then what was yet to come, and the period of time it would take. He had to be gentle, but insistent that she take these first steps to recovery . . . for her sake. He mulled over the approach and determined that the direct approach was the best for this feisty, strong-willed, very attractive woman.

"I want you