Realities

By Jim Farrell

Realities is the fictional biography of Sam Turner, who has a PhD in theoretical physics; is a Nobel Prize winner; is a senior faculty member at the Institute for Advanced Studies, Princeton, New Jersey; is Time Magazines Man of the Year 2018; and is the codeveloper of the Turner-Simcock Propulsion System (TSPS), which will enable mankind to travel to the stars. He is also a lover of beauty, especially but not limited to, the feminine kind.

Dr. Turner lives in five realitiesone real and four virtual, or so he thinks at first. But are the virtual realities virtual realities or alternate realities? Is his real reality just one of many alternate realities, all equally real? Not even Dr. Vihaan Patel, inventor of the Patel VR Theater, can answer these questions. As Dr. Turner says, The beauty is, we will never know.

The realities Dr. Turner lives in are inhabited by a group of women whose various histories are interwoven. These are Nancy Swann, the most beautiful woman Sam has ever seen; Becky Alsace and Sarah Burke, fellow students with Sam at Columbia University, linked with him for life; Caroline Williams, director at the New York Museum of Modern Art; a Catholic nun in Tanzania; the Vietnamese trio, Pham Thi Hua, Mai Thi Lan, and Nguyen Thi Tran, all of whom are involved with Sam in the final days of the Vietnam War and alternately in Manhattan; and Pam Windham, botanist and widow of a panda expert.

You will wonder, along with Sam, what is and what isnt real. You, along with Sam, will have to come to your own conclusions. And you will enjoy, along with Sam, the entire adventure. Start reading and meet Nancy Swann.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532053986

Jim Farrell

Jim Farrell earned a master’s degree in accounting from the University of Rhode Island and a bachelor’s degree in philosophy from the Gregorian University in Rome, Italy. He spent eleven years in a Roman Catholic seminary, served as a captain in the U.S. Army, and worked with Air America in Vietnam. Now retired, he lives with his wife, Marianne Collinson, in Palm Coast, Florida. He has published four novels and two collections of short stories.

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Realities

JIM FARRELL

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REALITIES

Copyright © 2018 Jim Farrell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

New American Bible (Revised Edition) (NABRE)

Scripture texts, prefaces, introductions, footnotes and cross references used in this work are taken from the New American Bible, revised edition © 2010, 1991, 1986, 1970 Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, Inc., Washington, DC All Rights Reserved. No part of this work 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.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-5397-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5399-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5398-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018908214

iUniverse rev. date: 07/19/2018

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Nancy Swann

Chapter 2 Rebecca (Becky) Alsace & Sam Turner

Chapter 3 Pham Thi Hua

Chapter 4 Rebecca (Becky) Alsace & Sam Turner

Chapter 5 Pham Thi Hua

Chapter 6 Nancy Swann

Chapter 7 Sarah Burke

Chapter 8 Rebecca (Becky) Alsace & Sam Turner

Chapter 9 Sister Caroline Williams, SDS

Chapter 10 Sarah Burke

Chapter 11 Sarah Burke

Chapter 12 Nancy Swann

Chapter 13 Pham Thi Hua

Chapter 14 Sarah Burke

Chapter 15 Sarah Burke

Chapter 16 Rebecca (Becky) Alsace & Sam Turner

Chapter 17 Pham Thi Hua

Chapter 18 Sister Caroline Williams, SDS

Chapter 19 Rebecca (Becky) Alsace & Sam Turner

Chapter 20 Nancy Swann

Chapter 21 Pham Thi Hua

Chapter 22 Sarah Burke

Chapter 23 Rebecca (Becky) Alsace & Sam Turner

Chapter 24 Sister Caroline Williams, SDS

Chapter 25 Pham Thi Hua

Chapter 26 Pham Thi Hua

Chapter 27 Nancy Swann

Chapter 28 Sarah Burke

Chapter 29 Mai Thi Lan

Chapter 30 Rebecca (Becky) Alsace & Sam Turner

Chapter 31 Mai Thi Lan

Chapter 32 Sister Caroline Williams, SDS

Chapter 33 Rebecca (Becky) Alsace & Sam Turner

Chapter 34 Sarah Burke

Chapter 35 Rebecca (Becky) Alsace & Sam Turner

Chapter 36 Caroline Williams

Chapter 37 Nancy Swann

Chapter 38 Sarah Burke

Chapter 39 Mai Thi Lan

Chapter 40 Rebecca (Becky) Alsace & Sam Turner

Chapter 41 Nancy Swann & Sam Turner

Chapter 42 Becky Alsace, Nancy Swann & Sam Turner

Chapter 43 Caroline Williams

Chapter 44 Sam Turner

Chapter 45 Pam Windham & Sam Turner

Others books by Jim Farrell

Brooklyn Boy (2013)

Kiss Me, Kate, and Other Stories (2014)

The Extraordinary Banana Tree (2015)

Mikey’s Quest for Father God (2016)

The Barge of Curiosity (2016)

The Committee and Other Stories (2017)

I would like to thank my editor, cousin,

and friend, Patty Gallagher, for the hours spent reviewing this manuscript. Her corrections and suggestions are invaluable.

Special thanks to my wife, Marianne Collinson, for her patience and constant support.

To my sister, Madeline Nixon, and friend, James Villarreal, who support me in all my writing and in life, in general.

And to my grandson, Max Farrell, who constantly says things that I expropriate for my stories.

After I had finished my last work, a collection of short stories, The Committee and Other Stories, I ran into a dry spell. I had no idea what my next book would be about, or even if there would be a next book. Then one Sunday morning, having Breakfast at Sammy J’s in Flagler Beach, with my wife, Marianne, Enid and George Carlino, Alison and Terri Larkin, and our waitress and my friend, Ashley Zaidel, an idea for a novel, the entire novel, came into my head. I gave myself a year to flush it out, and here it is. In some small way, Ashley was the inspiration for Nancy Swann.

"In the near future, men and women will travel, in effect,

at or near the speed of light.

How exciting and adventuresome

for us, possibly,

and for our descendants, definitely."

Dr. Sam Turner, Physicist

Biography lends to death a new terror.

Oscar Wilde

1

NANCY SWANN

September 2008

Turner-C617. Nancy Swann. September 2008. Initial. Seymour, Tennessee.

I looked around the cavernous room, but didn’t see her. She had to be here. That was a given. I stood with my back to the barroom’s entrance. The wooden floor was covered with sawdust. Five men and two women were sitting at the bar off to my right drinking Rolling Rock from green bottles, alternating swigs of the beer with shots of Jack Daniel’s. The women looked hard, not my type. One glanced my way and then turned back to her girlfriend. She whispered something, and they both giggled. Maybe I wasn’t their type either. A couple was swinging each other around the dance floor on my left. Tables, a few occupied, separated the bar and the dance floor. Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar was playing on the jukebox. It looked like the couple were doing the Texas two-step even though we were in Tennessee, Seymour, Tennessee, home of the 411 Motor Speedway and Nancy Swann. I approached the barman and ordered a Rolling Rock and a shot glass of Jack Daniel’s. When in Rome….

What brings you to Seymour, stranger? asked the barman. He was neither friendly nor unfriendly, but I could sense that he could turn unfriendly without much provocation. I don’t see many dressed like you here in Harold’s.

I had to admit I did look a little out of place in my sports jacket, well-creased slacks, and polished leather loafers. The other male patrons were wearing jeans, plaid flannel shirts, and cowboy boots. I had no intention of starting any trouble, but felt I could hold my own in a fight with any of them. I am a little under six feet tall with a slim waist and the lithe body of someone who spends time in a fitness club. To complete the picture, I have blue eyes and brown hair which looks, and is, professionally barbered.

I am looking for a Miss Nancy Swann. I was told she can be found here most evenings.

And what is your interest in Miss Nancy Swann? he asked. The neutrality was beginning to fade; the unfriendliness ascending. All conversation at the bar ceased. Fourteen eyes turned in my direction. The couple on the dance floor stopped two-stepping. The only sounds were Toby Keith’s dulcet voice and the clacking of pool balls in the rear. This could be awkward, I thought. Maybe more than awkward. Does she know you? asked the barman.

In a way, I answered. I think she’s expecting me. I hope she’s expecting me.

The barman gestured with his head toward the rear of the building where three pool tables were located. The one table in use was brightly lit under a large hood containing four rows of fluorescent tubes, but the surrounding area was dim. I saw movement around the table in play, but could not distinguish the players. Then the shooter leaned over the table, and I gasped. Young Nancy Swann. Perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. The first time I had seen her she was twenty-five and a cast member of Cats in an off-Broadway revival. Becky (Becky?) had brought me backstage after the show to meet her new friend, Nancy Swann. I was always a dog person, but I converted the moment I saw Nancy with her whiskers.

Sit at a table and I’ll ask her to join you when she’s finished. She gets pissed when I interrupt her game. If she doesn’t want to join you, I will ask you politely, one time, to leave. I suggest you honor my request should I make it.

I sat sipping my Jack Daniel’s and taking long drinks from my beer while I watched Nancy Swann play pool in the back. Her hair, red-brown, flowing in waves, shiny, reached the top of her perfect ass. Even in the dim light, I could appreciate that ass. She was wearing faded jeans and a brown sweat shirt which was tight enough to show her small, but perfectly shaped, breasts. She had comfortable leather boots on her feet. Her face took my breath away. It was the same magnificent face I had seen in 2015 and beyond, but younger. I couldn’t wait until I had a closer, more intimate view of that face, even without the cat whiskers.

Thought you might like another Rolling Rock, said the barman, handing me another cold green bottle. She is beautiful, isn’t she?

Yes, I said. She is most definitely beautiful.

We all protect our Nancy Swann, he said. Don’t ever forget that.

You have no worries with me, sir, I said.

Good, he replied. I don’t like worries.

I glanced over toward the bar. Nobody was paying me any mind. I turned back and, as if by magic, Nancy Swann was standing a foot from me, holding her pool cue vertically between her legs, looking directly into my eyes. The young Nancy Swann had freckles, but they were not a flaw on that face.

You going to get me a beer, Sam Turner? she asked. Then I’ll whup your ass in pool.

How did you know my name? I asked. I was signaling to the barman, holding up two fingers.

I knew you were coming, she said.

Who alerted you?

No one alerted me, she answered. I just knew.

How did you know? I queried.

You know that better than me, she said.

I did.

The barman placed two ice cold Rolling Rocks on the table. Thanks, Nick, Nancy said. And to me, I knew you were coming tonight, but I had no idea what you looked like. The blue blazer, the button-down blue oxford shirt, the khaki pants, and the expensive loafers gave it away.

She sat down at the table, straddling the chair, resting her elbows on the top of the backrest. I sensed everyone looking at us. She took a long drink from her beer, then finished off my Jack Daniel’s. The shot glass had been almost full. I needed that, she said, exhaling her bourbon-scented, honey-sweet breath in my direction. Heavenly! Then she laughed. So you’re going to be in Seymour until Sunday? she asked. It was not really a question.

Yes, I said. It was Thursday evening, September 17, 2008.

Tomorrow’s my birthday, she said.

Yes, the big one, I said. Eighteen.

How old are you, Sam Turner? she asked.

Just turned twenty-three, I answered. August seventh.

I think twenty-three is perfect for eighteen. A five year spread. Pa is putting on a pig roast at Uncle Billy’s place for me tomorrow. I expect that’s why you’re here.

Getting to know you better, that’s why I’m here, I said. And I do enjoy a good Tennessee pig roast.

Saturday you can take me to dinner and dancing at the Willow Barn. I’ll be an adult then. I’m going to want a big steak and a legal beer or two. Maybe a little Jack on the side.

Isn’t twenty-one the legal drinking age in Tennessee? I asked.

"Not in this Tennessee," she answered.

Then, it will be my pleasure.

Good. Now take your beer and follow me to the pool table. You do shoot pool, don’t you?

Yes, I’m pretty good.

Let’s play stripes and solids, dollar a ball. We’ll see how good you are.

You’re on, I said.

Pa is picking me up at eleven, after he gets off work. We have an hour. On the way to the pool table, she motioned to Nick to bring two more beers to us. Put it on his tab, Nick, she said. She smiled at me. Definitely worth the price of a beer, that smile.

How do you buy beer here if you’re only seventeen? I asked.

I have a fake ID. Shows my birthdate as September 18, 1988. But I’ve never used it. Nick is my uncle, and both cops here in Seymour are my cousins. I’m going to burn the fake ID at the pig roast tomorrow.

She racked the balls, putting the eight ball in the center and evenly distributing the solids and the stripes throughout the wooden triangular form.

You want to break? she asked.

Ladies first, I answered.

She launched the white cue ball into the triangle of multi-colored balls, sinking three solids – the one, three, and seven – and leaving the black eight ball exactly where it had been before she had taken the shot.

Not bad, I said.

She just smiled. She then methodically sank the two, four, five, six, and finally the eight ball.

You owe me eight dollars, Sam Turner.

I paid her while she re-racked the balls.

We usually play winner breaks, but I’ll let you go first, Sam. Something tells me we have a future together, and I don’t want to mess that up for a lousy eight dollars.

I broke, and the twelve ball ended up in one of the side pockets. Then I missed an easy shot on the fifteen ball, turning the table back over to Nancy. She ran out eight straight solids, finishing with the eight ball. I handed her a ten; she gave me back two singles.

Let’s go back to your table and have a couple of Rolling Rocks while I wait for Pa, she suggested. She turned off the fluorescent light illuminating the table we had been using.

Nick brought two bottles of Seymour’s favorite brew to our table.

Tomorrow the pig roast begins at three. Where are you staying?

The Seymour Inn, I said. On Highway 411.

Nice place, she answered. Great view of the mountains, both north and south, from the parking lot. And there’s a Waffle House right across the road from the inn. To get to my Uncle Billy’s place, take Highway 411 south about ten miles. Just after the Coca Cola billboard, take the dirt road on the right. Leads right to Uncle Billy’s house. Let’s finish these beers and then go outside to wait for Pa.

We went outside a little before eleven. Her father had not yet arrived.

Something’s happening here, Sam, that I don’t understand. But I like it. And I knew it would happen. How? I don’t know, but I knew. She brought her lips up against mine. I had wanted her to do that since I saw her leaning over the pool table. It tasted as good as I thought it would. Rolling Rock, bourbon, of course, but much more: sensual wildness, female delectations, a sweetness beyond description, Nancy Swann.

That was nice, she said, but I’m still a minor so that’s all you’re going to get. She laughed as she backed away from me. Here comes Pa.

An old Chevy convertible stopped in front of Harold’s, and Nancy dropped into the front passenger seat. See you at Uncle Billy’s tomorrow, she hollered to me. She blew me a kiss before turning to face her father.

Is that him? asked her father.

I didn’t hear her answer, but I assumed it was, Yes.

The view from the parking lot of the Seymour Inn was exactly as Nancy Swann had promised: the Appalachians to the north, the Great Smokies to the south. Seymour is in a valley protected by mountains. I could almost touch Bluff Mountain, the closest guardian to the south. At that quiet time of the morning – it was seven o’clock – I was reminded of a line by Robert Service: "I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that’s plumb-full of hush to the brim."

Into that hush I sang out, Happy eighteenth birthday, Nancy Swann, and then I crossed Highway 411 to the Waffle House in pursuit of breakfast and Southern hospitality.

Good morning, cried out five waitresses simultaneously. I gave a general Good morning to the wait staff while seating myself at the counter. After a delicious breakfast of a waffle, two fried eggs over easy, crisp bacon, and flavorful sourdough toast, I asked my waitress where I could find some clothes in Seymour. I didn’t plan on wearing a blazer, an oxford shirt, and khaki pants to the pig roast. The waitress suggested Danny’s Duds, located a half mile north on the same highway as the Waffle House and the Seymour Inn.

Danny’s Duds was exactly what I was looking for. I bought pre-faded jeans, a Carolina-blue flannel shirt, a tan cowboy hat, and a used, but very serviceable, sheepskin jacket lined with wool. The boots at Danny’s Duds started at one hundred dollars so I decided my soft loafers, the ones with the leather tassels, would suffice.

I parked my rental car out front at Uncle Billy’s and headed toward the voices and rising smoke behind the house. The aroma of roasted pork and the desire to see Nancy Swann hastened my steps. I tipped my hat to two young girls, and one of them whispered, loud enough for me to hear, "That’s Nancy’s beau." That made me smile. Sam Turner, Nancy Swann’s beau! Now what do you think of that? What would Becky think of that? Oh my God.

There was a fuss over to the side and, when I glanced that way, I saw two teen-aged girls fighting. Fist fighting. I started over to break it up when a hand grabbed my shoulder.

It’s a common occurrence, said Nancy Swann. My cousins, Uncle Billy’s daughters. They love to fight and not just with each other. Uncle Billy won’t let it get out of hand. Let me introduce you to Pa. He’s eager to meet you.

I looked back at the combatants, and they were still mauling each other, pulling hair, cursing, swinging wildly. Sisterly love. A crowd had gathered to view the proceedings.

You sure you don’t want me to stop them, I said to Nancy as we walked away from the battle.

I’m sure. They’ll be fine. If you tried to stop them, they’d turn on you, and then I’d have to get involved. I’ve had more than a few fights with one or the other of them, sometimes with both concurrently, but I really don’t want to fight on my eighteenth birthday. I want to stay clean and pretty for you. She kissed me on the cheek.

Once they get this out of their systems, they’ll be hugging and drinking beers together. And looking for two other girls to fight with or two guys to make out with. There’s Pa by the well.

She took my arm and led me to her father. He was a tall man, a few inches taller than I, with a kind appearance. There were three or four small cuts on his cheek. He must have nicked himself shaving, part of his grooming ritual to look his best on his daughter’s big day.

I’ll leave you two alone, to get acquainted, said Nancy. I’ve got to go into the kitchen to help Aunt Bessy with the preparations. Uncle Billy is roasting the pig, Sam, but Aunt Bessy is preparing the fixin’s, the beans, the coleslaw, the potato salad, the greens, and the rolls. She squeezed my hand and headed into the house.

A chill ran through my body as I watched her walk away. Such natural beauty. I’m in Seymour, Tennessee, with Nancy Swann! There’s Nancy’s beau. It was soul-satisfying to hear that. And now what do I say to her father?

A stout woman stepped from the kitchen onto the back porch and yelled, Billy, your daughters are going at it again. Put a stop to it right now. Do you hear me, right now! She smiled at her niece, and then she and Nancy entered the kitchen, laughing. So that’s Aunt Bessy.

Mr. Swann said, Cassy and Pussy at it again, eh? They’re like two cats in a burlap sack.

Pussy? I thought. I offered to break it up, sir, but Nancy told me not to bother.

They would have joined forces against you, and then been back at each other later. Those two, they love to fight. Just between us, for the right man, they’ll be great in the bedroom, but a living hell the rest of the time. He started laughing. I guess every man wants Pussy in his bed, he added. After this double-entendre, he was bent at the waist, snorting and coughing. I slapped him with my open palm between his shoulders. A few times.

You, okay, sir?

Yes. Thank you, Sam. Gotta cut down on those cigarettes. My Nancy, she can take care of herself too. I taught her how to fight, but she only fights when she has to. If you two do get hooked up, she’ll be a real asset in a bar brawl, against men or women. She’ll stand by her man, you know what I mean.

A real asset in a bar brawl. What every woman wants her father to proclaim.

"Sam Turner, eh? Nancy always said that a Mr. Sam Turner would be here the day she became a woman to take her away. I thought it was just her imagination talking. She does have a fanciful imagination, Sam. But when I saw the smile on her face last night when she got into the Chevy, I said to myself, ‘Holy shit!’ Then I asked her, ‘Is that him?’ and she said, ‘Yes.’ I just said, ‘Holy shit!’ again and drove home in silence.

I’m a God-fearing man, Sam Turner, but I don’t know what the hell is going on here. Scared me something bad last night. But she looked so happy. She hasn’t looked so happy since before her ma died. Cancer. Nancy was only eleven. Me and Nancy both loved that woman. You think Nancy is pretty?

Yes, sir, prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.

"Well you should have seen Josey, her ma. There was pretty for you. Sometimes I think the only thing that kept Nancy living was knowing that you were coming on her eighteenth birthday. How she knew that I don’t know, but she knew it. The two things Nancy knew: Sam Turner will be here on my eighteenth birthday, and Jesus is coming back for me at the end of time. And now you’re here. She still has to wait for Jesus.

Now I have to get serious with you. You look like a fine young man, Sam Turner. You kept your word, if that is what happened, and came here today, or yesterday rather, to fetch Nancy. As I told you, I don’t know what the hell is happening. But I won’t stand in the way of destiny, or fate, or God’s will, whatever. If my Nancy wants to wed up with you, I have no objections. But I promise you this, if you compromise my baby before any nuptials, I will cut off your pecker and feed it to the pigs. Is that understood?

What do you say to that? You have my word. I will treat her with all proper respect, sir.

That’s good to hear. Now go find Nancy and enjoy the pig roast. Be sure to take a piece of the skin. Best tasting anything you’ll ever have.

As I walked away, he called out to me, Remember, son, if you betray my trust, the pigs will feast.

I headed toward the kitchen in search of Nancy. She met me at the kitchen door holding two ice cold Rolling Rock Extra Pale ales. Did he give you the pecker talk? she asked smiling.

He sure did.

You’re not the first young man to get that talk, but I reckon you’ll be the last.

That’s my plan, Nancy Swann.

Mine too, Sam Turner. Come on in and meet Aunt Bessy, and then we’ll help her carry out the fixin’s. Cassy and Pussy will be helping us.

Fight over?

For the time being, Nancy said. Give me a kiss.

With pleasure. And I did. I think I am going to like doing that.

Taste good? she asked.

Your pa told me the pig skin would be the best thing I would ever taste. I have to disagree. I just tasted the best thing I will ever taste.

We’ll see about that, she said. Her face turned the color of a watermelon ice pop.

Yes, we will, Nancy Swann.

The skin of the pork was exquisite, but it did not compare with the kiss of Nancy Swann. Nevertheless I delighted in three strips of that delicacy, crisp, succulent, thin, flavorful strips. Then Nancy and I went to the buffet table and filled our plates with mouth-watering roast pork, beans, coleslaw, potato salad, and greens. I think they were collard greens. I put ketchup on the greens – my mother and I enjoyed putting ketchup on our kale when I was a boy at home – but I became a singular minority at the pig roast by using that condiment. Sam Turner, the singularity. Only a physicist would use that word. Well actually a physicist-in-training, newly-enrolled graduate student at NYU. Maybe an astronomer would also use singularity.

What are you doing with that ketchup? asked Nancy.

Try it, I said.

Noooo, she protested.

Try it, I insisted.

She did and, wonder of wonders, she liked it. Life is going to be full of surprises with you, Sam Turner. I think all of them will be good too.

While we were eating, a man stopped at our table and cried out, Cassy and Pussy are fighting with the Baker twins.

Ten dollars on the Baker twins, said a fat man munching on pork skin. He dug a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket with his greasy right hand.

I’ll take that bet, said the first man, grabbing the greasy banknote.

Cassy and Pussy will kill the Baker twins, Nancy whispered to me. She called over to the fat man, Got another ten for me?

He pulled out another greasy ten.

Go get it, Sam, she said.

I did, gingerly, and placed it on the table under the salt shaker. A few ants started making an antline toward the pig-fat coated bill.

Who are the Baker twins? I asked.

Second cousins, said Nancy. Everyone in Seymour is related. That’s why I’m not marrying locally. Actually that’s why I’ve chosen you, or is it you who’s chosen me? Same result, I guess. She leaned over and planted a greasy kiss on my cheek.

When I was leaving for the Seymour Inn, Nancy pulled me aside and whispered, "Now that I’m a woman, I’d like to go with you to the Seymour Inn. Spend the night with you. Enjoy that spectacular view in the morning. But Pa would kill me. And he would fulfill his promise to you. I don’t want my pecker thrown to the pigs. What did Jesus say? ‘Don’t cast your peckers before swine?’ "

Pearls, I corrected. "And what do you mean your pecker?" I asked.

It’s mine now, she answered. "Your pecker and your pearls. Looking around to ensure our privacy, she gave her pecker a little squeeze through my jeans. You want it as much as I do, Sam Turner. Not tonight, but soon. Now give me a kiss and think of me when you’re in your bed. Hug your pillow and make believe it’s me.

We kissed deeply. No, the pork skin does not compare.

Pick me up at five tomorrow for dinner and dancing, she said.

It took me hours to get to sleep. Images of Nancy Swann were streaming through my brain. I did hug the pillow, but something was missing. Nancy’s smell. I should have asked her for a piece of her clothing, underclothing preferably, before leaving Uncle Billy’s. What would she have thought if I had asked? It might have excited her. Maybe she would have let me remove her panties. No, not with her pa around. Go to sleep, Turner. By the way, Cassy and Pussy had the Baker twins crying for mercy. Nancy had me clean the ten-dollar bill before she put it in her pocket. Told you they would, she said to me.

Nancy picked up a piece of filet mignon with her fork, and holding it up and off to the side, she looked across the table at me and said, I am leaving here tomorrow as your wife. You know that, don’t you?

That’s why I came here. I’ve wanted to marry you since that moment you purred for me backstage at Cats. Seven years from now. I already booked two tickets on American Airlines tomorrow from Knoxville to Newark. Leaving Knoxville at three in the afternoon. What about the wedding?

That’s all arranged, Sam Turner, all arranged.

I had never line-danced before. Nancy told me to stand behind her and follow her moves. It took me longer to pick up the sequences than it should have since I spent more time looking at Nancy’s ass than at her arms and feet. She didn’t mind. She told me that I am the only one allowed to look at her ass, clothed or unclothed, from now on. Whispered that in my ear. Turned me on. Everything about Nancy Swann turns me on. Despite the distraction, by the end of the evening, I was doing the Electric Slide and the Hokey-Pokey like the best of them. The best of them was not a figure of speech. I was doing them like Nancy Swann, and nobody line dances better than she. I dropped her off at her house at eleven thirty and went, alone but with pecker attached, to the Seymour Inn. Tonight will be the last night I sleep alone.

I picked Nancy up at eight forty-five to take her to the Seymour Methodist Church for Sunday service. I carried out her suitcase and put it in my trunk. I travel light, she said. She was wearing a yellow sun dress and had tied up her long hair in a ponytail. She was not wearing any makeup, but, believe me, she did not need any. Nancy Swann, the woman with the flawless face.

I opened the car door for her and then came around to the driver’s side. She leaned across the gearbox, unlocked my door (a good sign), and kissed me when I was seated. We held the kiss for a long time, exchanged inhales and exhales, played with each other’s tongues. I never kissed anyone like that before, Sam Turner, but I’m gonna kiss you like that all the time. And nobody else. A promise from Heaven. Let’s go listen to Reverend Parker.

Being raised Catholic, I had never been to a Protestant Sunday service before. Nancy led me to the front pew on the left, directly in front of the pulpit. There was no altar because there would be no sacrifice, just a table with two large containers of wine, a few long loaves of bread, and a large Bible. Nancy handed me a hymnal opened to A Mighty Fortress Is Our God and indicated that we should stand. As Reverend Parker (I assumed it was he) headed up the aisle from the back, we all intoned Martin Luther’s great song of praise.

At the conclusion of the hymn, Reverend Parker picked up the Bible and approached the pulpit. Today let us read from Proverbs, Chapter thirty-one. He looked directly at me.

"Who can find a woman of worth?

Far beyond jewels is her value.

Her husband trusts her judgment…

She brings him profit, not loss,

all the days of her life….

She is clothed with strength and dignity

and laughs at the days to come…

Many are the women of proven worth,

but you have excelled them all…

Acclaim her for the work of her hands,

and let her deeds praise her at the city gates."

How much did you pay him to choose that reading? I asked Nancy.

She smiled. Nothing. He’s my cousin. I told you everyone is related in Seymour.

After the service, Reverend Parker greeted us at the entrance to the church. Are you two ready? he asked.

Yes, answered Nancy. And then she turned to a young lady standing a little behind her. Annabelle, do you have the paperwork?

Another cousin? I asked.

Of course, said Nancy. Annabelle is the City Clerk in Seymour. I called her last night to bring the license application and approval stamp to church today.

I have everything, Nancy, said Annabelle. It will be ten dollars, filing fee.

I reached for my wallet, but Nancy stilled my hand. Let Pussy and Cassy pay for this. She removed a grease-stained ten-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to Annabelle. Sam, you and Uncle Billy go to the front of the church. Reverend Parker will join you. Then Aunt Bessy will walk up the aisle followed by me and Pa.

Do you, Nancy Swann, take Sam Turner here present to be your lawful husband?

I do.

Do you, Sam Turner, take Nancy Swann here present to be you lawful wife?

I do.

By the power invested in me by the Methodist Church and the State of Tennessee, I now pronounce you man and wife. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.

I always knew I would marry Nancy Swann, and I did, but not on September 20, 2008.

Turner-C617. Session terminated.

10/05/50. IN: 1730. OUT: 1849.

2

REBECCA (BECKY) ALSACE & SAM TURNER

September 2007

S am loaded his tan, plastic, slightly wet plate with macaroni and cheese and looked around the Columbia cafeteria for a place to eat his lunch. He wondered if the macaroni and cheese were Kraft’s. He loved Kraft’s, but feared Columbia’s buyer would purchase a less costly, less tasty, generic macaroni and cheese. But this is an Ivy League dining hall , he thought. Cream of the crop in all things, perhaps in purchasing as well.

Sam didn’t see anyone he knew except for Bernard Simcock, and he did not want to listen to Bernard for a half hour. One does not converse with Bernard Simcock; one listens to Bernard Simcock pontificate on time and space and space and time. All on-table items in Bernard’s vicinity, including Sam’s rapidly cooling macaroni and cheese, would end up as stage props in Bernard’s spatiotemporal demonstration. Sam also knew that there was a greater than 50% probability that Bernard Simcock’s saliva would be randomly scattered over Sam’s cooling lunch. Bernard spotted Sam and raised his arm, a gesture of friendship and invitation. Sam pretended not to see the raised appendage, and headed toward the other side of the cafeteria. Sam would have been shocked had he known that he and Bernard would serve as co-designers of, and participants in, the Outward Journey Project forty-three years later.

Sam is on target to graduate from Columbia, New York City’s sole member school in the prestigious Ivy League, in June 2008 with a bachelor’s degree in theoretical physics. What will Sam do with such a degree? Sam has been offered, and has accepted, assuming his successful completion of his undergraduate studies at Columbia, a foregone conclusion in both Sam’s and the registrar’s minds, a full scholarship into the post-graduate physics program at New York University, NYU. Sam will receive a generous housing and living allowance, and, to enable him to have an income flow, NYU will provide Sam the opportunity to tutor undergraduate physics majors, and to teach undergraduate courses about energy and matter, and the interconnectedness of the two. After all, energy is nothing but matter times the speed of light squared. It’s enough for the layman to understand that a tiny bit of matter, especially unstable matter, can be converted into mind-boggling amounts of energy. Sam had a framed copy in his dorm room of Robert Oppenheimer’s quote at Los Alamos: I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds. That and a wooden crucifix, which had been on his grandmother’s coffin and given to Sam by his grandfather, were the only items adorning his otherwise bare walls. Robert Oppenheimer was quoting the Hindu God, Vishnu. Sam knew that fact as well. He, like his idol, Dr. Oppenheimer, was a polymath, a prime catch, in many ways, and NYU was glad they had landed him. NYU had also landed Bernard Simcock.

Sam searched for an empty seat, competing with other tray bearers who had the same goal. Survival of the fittest, he thought. Then he saw a place being vacated, and he was the nearest searcher to that coveted spot. He placed his tray on the table claiming title and sat at the end of the attached bench. He glanced up and found himself looking into the blue eyes and extremely attractive face of a blond coed. Things have taken a turn for the better, he thought.

Hi, he said extending a hand. I’m Sam Turner.

Rebecca Alsace, she said, accepting his hand with a firm grip. You can call me Becky.

Senior in the physics program, Sam said.

Sophomore in arts and theatre.

Ah, an artist, he said.

No. Just an appreciator of art and theatre. But I did help my father paint his den this summer. He was pleased.

"So you are an artist, Sam said. Did your father pay you for the work?"

Tuition, room and board, summer food and lodging. Yes, he paid me. Don’t let your macaroni and cheese get cold. Is it Kraft’s?

I haven’t tried it yet. Sam put a forkful into his mouth. "I believe it is. What