The Premise: The Vampire Origins

By C. F. LaMora

The Beings are with us. They have been here longer than humans and coexist on the same planet. The only question is..., when will they decide they no longer need humans?!
Join two young midshipman as they first, seek to contradict the Premise of alien existence on earth, then struggle to stay alive once the aliens focus their attention on them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524622435

C. F. LaMora

Exercising his decades of experience, investigating, and writing intelligence information for the US government, C. F. LaMora opens exciting doors of perspective into modern and historic science fiction subjects that mesmerize readers. Combining suspense with romance and everyday life, Mr. LaMora has found a unique approach to keep readers turning the pages to the very end and then wishing for more.

Book preview

Chapter 1

There are only two things that you really need to know about me, said Terry, leaning forward in the chair to stare intently at the middle-aged, well-dressed man sitting across the table from him. First, I believe in UFOs, aliens, werewolves, vampires, elves, gnomes, trolls, and the abominable snowman. Terry spoke with an intensity that demanded attention, and despite the seemingly incongruous nature of his declaration, his face spoke volumes about his sincerity.

The man opposite him merely nodded and indicated with a slight wave of his hand that he should continue.

Terry leaned back in the chair. His glance traveled over the man to the gray, cinder block walls, the bars on the windows, the Italian guard at the door with the holstered nine-millimeter pistol, and down to the shackles attaching his wrists and ankles to the ringbolt in the floor of the cell.

"Second, I did not kill my best friend, Mark!"

The gentleman sitting opposite him leaned forward and gently placed his hand on the knee of the young American, whose shoulders were now shaking slightly, whether with suppressed anguish, guilt, or remorse was unknown, but he was definitely overcome by some strong emotion. Please, signore, said the man. I am here only to help you. I am your consigliere, your umm—how you say?—lawyer. No? You must trust me and help me to understand everything. There are many people who say this and who say that about what happened. You must make it clear to me. I need to know all so I can help you. Io necessito sai tuto para ajudarte, capice? Do you understand?

Terry, his shoulders steadying, looked up and nodded. Well, ‘everything’ will take quite awhile.

The man leaned back in his chair and smiled. Then he motioned to the guard and spoke rapidly in Italian before looking back to Terry and saying, I will get us some café, no? You can begin. We have as much time as it will take.

Terry looked down at the shackles and up at the window, listening to the muted sounds of the chimes of Saint Peter’s echoing down through the streets of Rome to the headquarters of the Roman carabinieri police station where he was being held.

What should I call you, signore? he asked.

"Ah, perdona, said the man, who rose to his feet and bowed gracefully in one smooth motion. My name is Don Giuseppe Mangione di Luco. And I feel I must warn you that, unlike your American system of justicio … umm, justice, in Italia, you are guilty until you prove your innocence. So you must be very—how you say?—onesto, honest, with me, no? So that we may prove you innocente."

Of course, said Terry. But your ability to believe me may be more of the problem than my honesty.

Only to try me, said Don Antonio, reseating himself and removing a pad from the briefcase at his feet.

The sound of church bells also reminded Terry that it was Christmas Eve and he should be with Sarah, not sitting in this cell talking to some Italian lawyer. Well, I guess I have to start from when Mark and I were young …

Chapter 2

Two friends had never been more unlikely. Although Mark and Terry were both born and raised in the same small town in northern New York State (not upstate, as the New York City people called anything north of White Plains). Both went to the same schools and played with the same small group of children their whole lives. But they came from very different families and lived on opposite sides of the tracks—literally. Harrisville was a town composed primarily of miners and farmers, with very few upper-class families like Mark’s and equally few lower-class families like Terry’s.

Mark’s father was the area veterinarian. With the large number of dairy farms in the region, along with quite a lot of small-animal pet work, Dr. Richard Woods, his wife, Marge, their elder son, Mark, daughter, Sherry, and younger son, Kevin, were considered very well off by the entire community. Dr. Woods was on the town council, sat on the county board of commissioners, and was the pack leader for the local Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts. These were, in the 1960s and early 1970s of the boys’ youth, honorable distinctions for both himself and his children.

Terry’s father was a brakeman on the railroad. Despite his natural intelligence and good humor, his reputation was hampered by his five brothers’ histories of antisocial behavior. This was an era when your family connections determined who would associate with and talk to you or your children. And everyone in Harrisville, possibly in the entire northern tier of Saint Lawrence County, knew the LaPointes and avoided social contact. The family was considered rough in a time when most adult men were veterans of either World War II or the Korean War (or both, as in Terry’s father’s case), and rough was a way of life. But the LaPointes were different. They were mean drunks, some would say, and on more than one occasion, they said this in Terry’s presence.

Having a father from a rough family was not the only challenge Terry faced as a youth. His father, Terrance Francis LaPointe Sr., had another, much more serious failing. He had never actually married Terry’s mother. Although Annette Marie Pistolacci took the name LaPointe, she had not been able to marry Terry Sr. because he was already married. A war bride, or fifteen-minute wife he married just prior to his departure for WWII, had consistently refused to grant him a divorce, making him unable to wed the wonderful woman he met upon his return from nearly twenty years of military service. That made Terry Jr., despite the love and affection both his mother and father held for each other and their children, a bastard. That word, in northern New York during that time, was more than just a slur on your origins as a human being. It was an epitaph of your future in the community.

Terry Sr., or Big Terry, as he was called, worked hard, loved his wife and two children—Terry and his older sister, Yvette—and went to church each Sunday, where he pledged sobriety and diligence to a God he had long thought abandoned him. His nature was one of ingenuity, and he was constantly improving some gadget or fixture in their humble home beside the tracks on Railroad Street. Little Terry absorbed and developed the same trait of inquisitive development from a father who thought it natural that his son should know about, and understand, the calculations for estimating sheering weights of freight, surface pressure of boxcars, and the dynamics of train motion, which constituted a small portion of the work that absorbed him.

Terry’s mother, Ann, played her part by instilling what she considered socially acceptable traits in both of her children. She insisted on proper grammar and sentence construction from the time both Terry and Yvette were old enough to gabble. She did not condone baby talk or childish ways, expecting from them proper (meaning adult) behavior at all times, which made for an interesting childhood for both. Whatever the discomfort, certainly her attitude toward correctness enhanced their ability to learn and absorb materials once they embarked upon their educational path, as his mother always referred to their school days.

But Ann was not haughty. Far from it. She was very sensitive to the social status of her children because of her indiscretions. As such, Ann was determined to armor them with every possible benefit of good behavior and proper etiquette she was capable of superimposing on what turned out to be two very intelligent and extremely stubborn children.

Despite the fact that Mark and Terry lived in a very small town, they were not often thrown together until one day in early summer of 1968, when both boys were in fourth grade.

On the corner of Route 3 and Main Street sat Welton’s World Famous (at least that was what the sign said) Bakery. The parking lot was a notorious hangout for the tough kids from the tracks, including the local bully, Dwight Mitchell. Now some boys got their growth spurts in junior high and some much later, but few attained the size and bulk Dwight had at the age of ten. Dwight’s size was combined with a vicious disposition, which had been developed from being regularly subjected to a drunken father bent on taking out his anger at his dissolute life on someone he could actually dominate. This treatment had created in Dwight a bully mind-set that was a real threat to smaller and younger children.

Mark had been walking home from Little League practice and was in the habit of cutting across the parking lot and jumping through the back fence of Mr. Dalton’s yard to cut the corner off and arrive at his home on High Street that much sooner.

Usually, Dwight did not bother High Street kids. He’d learned long ago that the parents of such children usually complained of any ill treatment to his father, which resulted in more unwanted attention to Dwight. But that day, Saturday, following a lively Friday night at the Mitchell residence on Railroad Street, Dwight, bearing the fresh bruises of fatherly affection, was in the mood to lash out.

Dwight and his cronies—a group of four smaller, though not necessarily younger, kids—sat on the curb. Watching Mark’s approach, Dwight saw only the new cleats hanging from tied laces around his neck, smart black Keds, and a Louisville Slugger bat with a Big League-style first baseman’s glove threaded through the knuckle hole. All were obviously gifts from a loving family. That day, with the new black-and-blue marks aching to remind him of his own loving family, Dwight’s anger burst into a bright, hot flame of rage that he needed to vent.

Disregarding the age-old formula of taunt, threat, and push, necessary to work into a fight in that era, Dwight leaped to his feet in abuse-generated rage, strode toward Mark, and leveled him with a roundhouse right.

Initially startled by the absence of preliminaries, the cronies began the necessary chant, Fight! Fight! Fight! Dwight’s back was to the door of Welton’s, and so he did not see Terry emerge with a donut in his hand, the product of earning a nickel from his grandfather by weeding his tomato plants all morning.

Maybe Dwight would have been more concerned had he seen the look that crossed Terry’s face, first of pity, then anger, and then resolve. He certainly would have taken notice of the sharp move of Terry’s arm as he threw down the hard-earned donut and sprinted across the intervening twenty-five feet because the resulting blow in the middle of the back by Terry’s shoulder certainly got his attention.

Terry wrapped his arms around Dwight upon impact of the flying tackle, and both boys fell in a heap across Mark’s legs where he still lay, stunned from Dwight’s unexpected blow.

Dwight, with the breath knocked out of him, lay gasping as Terry released his grip and rolled to a sitting position across the bigger boy’s waist. Mark, finally regaining his senses, pulled his legs free and got to his feet, just in time to stare down the braver of the cronies who apparently had started forward to help his idol.

Don’t, Mark spoke through clenched teeth. Stay out of it! he added, pointing a finger at the chest of the nearest crony.

Dwight, regaining his breath, found to his amazement that he was now prone with Terry astride his waist, fist raised, staring intently down at him.

Don’t fucking move! Terry yelled.

The use of the F-word was an appropriate and accepted adjective in such circumstances, especially for trackside kids. It still had the desired effect of interrupting Dwight’s immediate response of pushing the smaller boy off him. Terry, sensing the momentary hesitation, reached out and grabbed Mark’s fallen Louisville Slugger and in one fluid move, slid the ball glove from the bat, pushed himself to his feet, and leveled that bat at Dwight’s head.

You move and I club your brains out onto the parking lot! Terry said as he poked the bat into Dwight’s chin.

Dwight, used to pushing aside smaller, weaker kids, was not prepared for anyone as diminutive as Terry who was willing to threaten him. His anger and rage were now rekindling, and he pushed himself up to a sitting position with both hands on the pavement behind him. When I get up, you better be running! he barked, looking back and forth between Mark and Terry.

Well, I guess you aren’t going to get up then, said Terry. The swing of the bat and slap of wood onto flesh, followed immediately by the bellow of pain from Dwight, startled even the cronies. Dwight rolled back and forth on the pavement clutching his right shoulder where the Slugger had smacked into him as Terry, grabbing at Mark’s shoulder, yelped, Let’s go! and leaped away.

Mark, with a glare at the cronies, stooped, grabbed his fallen cleats and tossed-aside glove, and raced after Terry who was heading, strangely enough, toward the hole in the fence at Mr. Dalton’s backyard. Ducking through the fence and barely breaking stride as they passed within a foot of a startled Mr. Dalton working on his knees in his garden, the two boys raced across the grass, up the driveway to State Street, turned left, and streaked up the two blocks to the right on High Street. As the incline of the pavement increased (High Street was some fifty feet in elevation above Welton’s bakery, although only some two hundred yards away), the boys started to slow. Mark’s house, a huge brick Victorian, came into view, sitting slightly off the road. Along High Street in the front of the house was Dr. Wood’s office, which was almost on the curb, a converted carriage house for the grand old home. The two boys slowed to a walk and finally stopped opposite Mark’s driveway.

Mark’s left eye was swollen almost shut, and he was sure to have a remarkable shiner. He reached up and touched it, squinting with the mounting pain, but the unspoken moral code of youth would not let him leak a tear or utter a word about the throbbing pain that was only now beginning to make itself felt.

Terry, looking away to give the other boy time to show some pain without being observed, studied the ground at his feet, the sidewalk, and finally Mark’s house and lawn. He had been up on High Street off and on for years delivering newspapers, but he never really paid much attention to the houses other than that it took a lot to peddle up the hill and was pretty neat to coast down at the end of the route. The differences between this home and his own were things his youthful mind noted but took no real interest in. The fact that Mark’s yard was large enough to accommodate a good game of touch football interested him more than the forty-some windows and three full floors the house displayed. His attention was soon drawn away from such observations when Mark muttered something.

What? asked Terry, turning back to the other boy.

I said thanks, Mark replied, sticking out his hand in mimicry of what his father had told him was the appropriate response between men when a debt was owed.

Terry, sensing the gravity of the moment, shook hands once, and then again. Then smiling at Mark, he muttered, Yeah, well, you can thank me again when we are both beaten to shreds by Dwight on Monday at school.

Thus began a friendship that would endure throughout the remainder of their youth and into adulthood. Each boy found in the other the compassion, interest, and support that neither received from anyone else. They were both alike and dissimilar, and the only real competition between them (if the spirited and ribald ribbing each gave the other could be called competition) was on the subject of girls. But that was some years in the future, and for the balance of elementary school and junior high (seventh and eighth grades not being dubbed middle school during the youth of the two boys), the boys spent virtually every waking moment in each other’s company.

Other friends came and went, some more permanent than others. Ricky Scranton was a longtime member of the small group, an underdog at school and the only kid who could drink milk through his nose with a straw. Gross, but in both boys’ estimation it was an accomplishment that certainly was worthy of friendship.

Childhood in that time was not without a background in world events that cast shadows over everyone. The Vietnam conflict was in full swing, as were the sixties, expressionism, Woodstock, and many other world-changing events. But in the north country of New York, things moved slower and were highlighted by natural wonders, irrespective of the greater world.

One of the best parts of growing up in that part of the state during the sixties and seventies was access to a great natural wonder. The Adirondack Park Authority, or APA, protected hundreds of thousands of acres of unspoiled state and federal forests throughout the North Country in New York State. Harrisville sat at the very edge of the park and the deep woods of such places as Greenwood Falls, Black Bear Lake, and Savage River Rapids, which were a short bike ride away. There were no ATVs, cell phones, or other modern conveniences to spoil the wilderness with city people. What you wanted to bring you carried in on rough trails carved out during the depression by the CCC workers. Rope and board bridges, where bridges even existed, spanned deep chasms over fast-running streams, and unchallenged calls of bobcat and timber wolf echoed through the stillness of mountain nights.

It was an outdoorsmen’s life, and both boys thrived on it. They routinely spent six to ten days each month during the summer camping deep in the mountains in a tent or under a canvas tarp. They lived on the proceeds of their own wit and ability to fish native trout from mountain streams and lakes, augmenting that with squirrel or grouse brought down with a .22 caliber that was a Christmas present to Mark in his twelfth year.

The result was that both became expert in stalking game. The many facets of talent were developed as a game when they were young to see which could get the closest to deer. The game honed their respective capacities into an uncanny ability to move almost silently through the deepest brush and heaviest thickets, let alone through the high canopied pine and deciduous woodlands.

With the ability to move soundlessly through the woods came an appreciation of the sounds of the forest. It completely shocked both boys when they finally realized that deer, one of the shyest creatures, made horrendous racket when moving through the woods. Sharp hooves crackled leaves and broke twigs, but because deer have the ability to hear approximately seven times better than humans, they always heard the blundering hunters long before they themselves were heard and so evaded most human contact.

Before long, the boys, knowing how loud even a human whisper would be to an animal, developed a code of hand signals and head movements to communicate silently. Warnings of the of predators and game, necessity for movement, direction of wind, and coming storms, all could be communicated by motion of hand, tilt of head, or light touch on shoulder.

By the time they reached high school, each was so attuned to the other’s mannerisms and habits that virtually no verbal communication was necessary, regardless of the topic. They carried this habit of silent communication into school and their family lives. Unfortunately, both boys were consumed by a humorous outlook on life, so this type of communication led to many outbursts of laughter, occasionally at inappropriate times. The disrupted events for families, formal occasions, some even at church (Catholics are notoriously lacking in humor during Mass), and interrupted public forums resulted in punishments meted out by unhappy parents or irate older sisters (in Terry’s case).

But was it the boys’ fault that Mark’s younger brother, Kevin, looked and sometimes smelled like a wild ferret, especially when eating Thanksgiving dinner? How were they to blame that the visiting Catholic monsignor resembled a particularly portly badger the boys had once trapped? The two boys were certainly not at fault for the fact that Yvette’s butt packed into hot pants looked exactly like two of the red balloons adorning the stage where she was receiving her Certificate of Civil Excellence for public services. Actually, everyone, including the mayor presenting the certificate, knew that she volunteered Saturday to staff the public library because she wanted to flirt with Bobby Hubbard, captain of the wrestling team and the flavor du jour of Yvette’s romantic interests. These observations, silently exchanged, resulted in fits of laughter they could not contain, which earned them many a reprimand from parents and community authorities.

Yet in a way, they were also rewarded by the punishments, as they learned to control the humor and express it silently between themselves. The connection between them made them better than friends, better than brothers. They were pals.

Capitolo Uno

There was a degree of excitement in the residence. It could be felt in the air, through the floor, and seen in the faces of the attendants. A place that was quiet, ordered, and sedate through wars, earthquakes, famine, and the plague. The excitement could only be attached to the potential arrival of a new devotee.

It must be a male, of course. That was the tradition. The line had only been broken once in forty-five generations of service by the repeated birth of female children. They were nurtured and cared for, of course. The line was not composed of monsters. But it had to be male to become the Devotee. When the repeated female births occurred, despite several partners, the search for a new scion of the line had taken seventeen years. Seventeen years without a curate. Seventeen years of horror and devastation. It must not occur again. The new arrival must be a male. The partner was healthy. She had borne three females in a row. A bad sign, but no change was ordered, so she was destined to try again. Some confidence must be attached to the break in tradition. Only two females were allowed before a change was ordered in the partner. No chance could be taken that the line would not continue. It was a decision, perhaps the only decision, which was subject to interpretation. But surely, surely this time would yield a devotee. The combined prayers of two hundred or more attendants were surely to be heard this time.

The Curate sat in a chair in the vestibule of the residence, his favorite chair. The ring of four keys and a curious small tube held conspicuously on his belt rattled and jingled slightly as he shifted his weight. Despite his apparent youth, his hair was already turning gray from service. It was, however, in perfect order, combed around his tonsure, which was exactly three inches in diameter and centered on the crown of his head. Everything about him was neat and orderly, as it always was. The only sign of tension was in the set of his shoulders. A sign that only another human could note if he or she even noticed such a thing. He often wondered if his service had made him somewhat less than human, or perhaps, more than human.

A cry of pain echoed down the corridors and bounced from the twenty-foot granite ceilings of the residence. The carved and detailed pillars, lead glass windows, and sepulcher-like rooms resounded with the birth cries of the partner and, finally, echoed more piercingly by the cries of an infant. The Curate waited. And waited. The sound of a single chime from the monstrous cathedral bell housed in the adjacent church peeled through the room. A devotee had arrived. The Curate bowed his head and, for the first time in twenty-five years, displayed emotion. Two tears ran down his cheeks. The tears were not of joy. They were in pity for the life of the child who had just been born. The life of a devotee. The life of his son who would someday become curate.

Chapter 3

As the boys grew to young manhood, each became increasingly enamored of the prospect of military life. Terry, as a result of the stories told by his father and uncles (all six brothers on his father’s side and one on his mother’s side had served in World War II), and Mark, mostly through envy of that experience as his father had been in college during the war and—in Mark’s opinion—had missed all the good stuff.

Their ardor for the military crystallized in the year they turned thirteen. It was 1971, and they both had many new things to experience: junior high school with its changing classrooms for different subjects, the appearance of the first manly hair (so called for its location in private places), an interest in girls that was more than a comparison to how weak or silly or noisy they were, and a single interview with their seventh-grade science teacher.

Mr. Glandsburg was new to town, new to the North Country, and new in many other ways. He addressed all the young male students as sir or mister prefaced to their names and the young women as Miss or Young Lady. Some, like Terry and Mark, were attracted to the formality, and the two lagged behind after their third day in his class.

Mr. Glandsburg … began Mark.

What can I do for you, Mr. Woods? responded the teacher, sorting through papers on his desk.

What— began Mark, glancing at Terry.

—is with the Mr. this and Miss that? finished Terry.

Stopping his paper shuffling, Mr. Glandsburg stood erect, hands clasped behind the small of his back, and looked both boys in the eye. I suppose, he said in even tones, it could be that it is a habit from addressing my fellow young officers in the navy. Or … He paused. It could be that addressing other people in a formal manner provides certainty of status and establishes the requirement for correct social behavior.

The boys looked at each other. Mark gave a small nod, Terry lifted one shoulder, and then Mark raised his eyebrows.

Mr. Glandsburg did not miss the silent communication, having noted this phenomena passing between the boys before. He asked, What did you just do?

What? asked Mark.

That thing you two do between yourselves.

The boys glanced at each other and began the series of moves to communicate shared confusion and concern.

That, said the teacher, somewhat harshly.

What— started Terry

—are you talking about? finished Mark.

You just spoke in tandem, said Mr. Glandsburg, sitting on the edge of his desk. You, he pointed at Mark, finished his sentence. And Mr. LaPointe finished your sentence earlier. You do it in class when answering questions from the text as well.

Mark shrugged and glanced at Terry, who said, Just a habit we got into, I guess.

Well, it is both interesting and somewhat unique, said Mr. Glandsburg. But, strangely enough, I did see the results of a study that alleged identical twins of having that type of ability.

The boys immediately started to chuckle, glancing at the other from toe to head.

I am taller, said Mark in a sing-song voice.

By two crumby inches. But I’m much stronger, said Terry, rocking from side to side.

Yeah, by deadlifting fifteen more pounds. But I’m older, said Mark, a smile creeping onto his face.

By three lousy months. But I’m smarter! smiled Terry, getting into the rhythm of their longstanding exchange.

By two stinking IQ points. But I’m better looking, Mark said, crossing his arms across his chest.

Yeah, compared to an orangutan. But I have sex appeal, laughed Terry.

Says who … the goats? quipped Mark.

No … just your sister … your mother … your cousin Margaret … and about every other girl I know, chuckled Terry.

That’s until they meet me— began Mark.

Gentlemen, gentlemen, the teacher began. Why do I have the distinct feeling that this conversation has occurred a significant number of times before?

Because it has, said both boys in unison.

"Except he really is only two months and twenty-two days older than me," corrected Terry, sending Mark a dirty look. At thirteen, such things were very important.

When did you have your IQs measured? asked the teacher before the two boys could get back into their almost-scripted exchange.

Oh, my dad is into stuff like that, said Mark. He took us down to Syracuse University. They were doing some type of study on the value of early exposure to higher math as compared to current IQ testing results.

But only to see if it skews the results, added Terry.

And you boys scored … what on the tests? Mr. Glandsburg, a fanatic for the intricacies of the human cognitive ability, was sincerely interested.

Oh, said Mark casually, we both registered as genius level. But I know that blockhead there, thumbing at Terry, found some way to cheat. No way is he actually two points smarter than I am!

I don’t know ’bout that, said Terry, buffing the nails of his right hand on the front of his shirt and then examining them without looking up. I think I was probably not even at my best that day. Remember the double chocolate Sundays we had for dessert the night before? I probably had indigestion, which could easily have chopped five points off my cumulative score, he said, egging Mark.

Mr. Glandsburg stepped between the two boys to get their attention, "What exactly were your scores?" he demanded.

Mark replied without even glancing up. I got a one fifty seven and bonehead over there … he peered at Terry around Mr. Glandsburg’s shoulder, got a one fifty nine.

Mr. Glandsburg leaned against the edge of his desk and stared at the boys, who were still darting fractious glances at each another, mostly, he was sure, in mock anger.

Are these results available? he asked.

Sure, said Terry. They are in our guidance counseling folders.

After a pause of a second or two, Mr. Glandsburg asked, So why, if you are both geniuses, do you only get Bs?

Easy. We have much— began Mark.

"Very much," inserted Terry.

—more important things to think about, finished Mark.

Like? prompted the teacher.

Hunting, replied Terry immediately.

And trapping, added Mark

And wrestling, stated Terry.

And lacrosse, put in Mark.

The boys looked at each other, smiled, and together added, And girls!

Mr. Glandsburg shook his head slowly, staring back and forth between the two. Have you ever given thought to the fact that some girls are more attracted to intelligent men than to athletes?

The boys exchanged glances and then looked at the teacher. Mr. Glandsburg was of medium height, a little dumpy, and wore glasses, so, in the boys’ minds, of course he would say that.

Well … umm … maybe, began Terry. He liked Mr. Glandsburg and did not want to offend him, especially not this early in the school year. He really needed to get good grades, unlike Mark, whose parents were somewhat less demanding than Terry’s mom.

Okay, I understand your hesitation, but it is said that a picture is worth a thousand words, said the teacher, slowly leaning forward and extracting his wallet from his right hip pocket. Without any fanfare or introduction, he opened the billfold and the picture of a stunningly attractive woman stared out at the boys’ astonished faces. She was blond, slender, with a dimpled smile, and, as the boys would say later to their buddies, stacked like a brick shithouse.

The boys stared from the wallet to the teacher’s face and back again.

So— began Terry.

—is that your wife? finished Mark.

Yes, she is, and if you care to hang around for another five minutes, she should be arriving to bring me my lunch, smiled Mr. Glandsburg, tucking his wallet back into his hip pocket. I met her while I was in the navy. She and some of her friends came down to RIT. Do you know what that is?

Sure, said Mark. Rochester Institute of Technology. Right up there behind MIT for applied science—

—and math, finished Terry.

Well, she and some friends came to campus to visit Mary’s—that is my wife’s name—cousin. I met them at the library where I was doing research on my senior thesis, and the sparks flew, if you know what I mean, said the teacher.

Did you look a lot like you do now? quizzed Mark, receiving a solid thump in the side and a dirty look from Terry.

Yes, if you mean was I out of shape and average looking, smiled the teacher in response.

But darn sexy to me, said a female voice from the doorway behind the boys.

Turning, they saw the live version of the picture they had stared at in the teacher’s wallet. She was beautiful … she was attractive, and she was really, really … stacked.

Well, now, what do we have here, darling? she said, addressing her husband.

Two of my most promising students, all current grade point averages to the contrary, responded Mr. Glandsburg, edging around the two boys who were busy staring at the floor, the walls, or anywhere except at Mrs. Glandsburg’s not-inconsiderable figure.

I see you have made your usual impression on the male sex, my dear, said Mr. Glandsburg, kissing his wife lightly on the cheek. And what, if I might inquire, did you whip up for lunch?

Oh, nothing special. Some thin-sliced salami with provolone cheese on rye, she replied, kissing his cheek in return. Then turning her attention to the two boys, she said, Are these young men in your third-period eighth-grade class? with the hint of a dimple showing.

Terry and Mark both stretched out to their fullest height, almost standing on tiptoe. For them to be mistaken for eighth-graders by anyone was a huge compliment, but coming from this … this … vision of heaven, it was almost intoxicating.

No, my dear, said Mr. Glandsburg, sneaking a peek into the lunch bag proffered by his wife, all the while smiling at the boys’ attempts to increase their height. They are both in my fourth-period seventh-grade class. Strangely enough we were just discussing their erroneous belief that young women inherently prefer athletic men to intelligent men.

Really? How very strange. Where would they get such outrageous ideas? she asked in a mock querulous voice while simultaneously offering the boys a conspiratorial smile that brought a blush to both of their faces.

My dear, you really must stop teasing them. Please allow me to introduce to you Mr. Marcus Woods and Mr. Terrance LaPointe. Both boys hated their real names, infinitely preferring their diminutive nicknames, but despite that, they were extremely grateful to their teacher for the formality of the introduction and his continuing habit of using mister.

Mary stepped forward, offering her hand to first Mark and then Terry, and said, I am terribly pleased to meet both of you young gentlemen.

The boys’ mumbled replies did not do justice to either their intellect or their vocabulary, but when accompanied by the shy smiles, they were obviously sincere.

Well, darling, said Mary, turning back to her husband. I must be off. I have some gardening to do, and then I need to start dinner before the children get home.

Thank you for my lunch, said their teacher, kissing his wife again on the cheek.

Nice meeting you both, said Mary over her shoulder to the boys as she left the classroom.

Mr. Glandsburg walked back to his desk, placed his sack lunch neatly in the center, and, turning to face the boys, leaned back on his desk again. I was a straight-A student in high school and college, said the teacher with an introspective furrow of his brow. Mary once told me that she would not have given a glance to a football player unless she could respect him intellectually. So despite the fact that the most aggressive physical activity I was involved with in college was a little handball, I was the one who received her attention, and the football players got to watch as I courted and married the prettiest girl ever seen on campus.

Both boys stared first at each other and then at the teacher before glancing over their shoulders at the classroom door as if to recall a vision of the gorgeous woman whose light perfume still lingered in the air around them.

Well, you know what they say: women fall all over themselves for a man in uniform, said the teacher, with a slight smile. Especially if he also happens to be the class valedictorian.

Then he turned serious again, folding his arms across his chest and regarding the two young men. Gentlemen, we, the United States, are at war.

Both boys nodded. It was impossible to escape the shadow of Vietnam even in that remote corner of the United States.

Mr. Glandsburg, sensing their train of thought, shook his head slowly. No, not in southeast Asia, despite the horrific losses we are suffering and will continue to suffer there. I was speaking of our war against Communist aggression.

Both boys were sufficiently well read to understand the term, but, being only thirteen, not the impact of the declaration. The look of confusion on both faces caused the teacher to not attempt to press on the subject.

Mr. Glandsburg smiled at both, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Well, what it means is our country needs excellent military leaders. Good leaders don’t just happen. They are the product of good men dedicating themselves to a higher cause than personal satisfaction