Shared Emptiness

CHAPTER 1

Saturday

July 5th

1975

When do day and night cease to matter?

Is it when breathing stops, when the heart can’t pump blood anymore, or when the brain dies?

One instant I was in a totally black world devoid of all sound, of all smell, of all tactile sensation, the next I was besieged by a bewildering assortment of stimuli. Life, with its myriad experiences, pressed in upon me and took on an entirely new significance. I existed again, but differently! If I hadn’t been reincarnated, I had certainly returned from the dead!

A headache ran in a band across my eyes and a dry-mouthed drowsiness stubbornly refused to be dispelled. I felt an uneasy awareness that something dreadfully distressing had happened--the way one awakes from an almost remembered nightmare--and I kept reaching deep inside my brain, stretching memory fingers that almost touched the disturbance, but could never quite grasp it.

I lay very still, my eyes closed, sensing the contraction and expansion of my lungs as I had a million times before. But something was different! It wasn’t the smooth, steady respiration I remembered, but one punctuated by strong, forceful gasps. I wasn’t being artificially respired, of that I was sure, but my respiration was predominately, if not entirely, diaphragmatic! Stomach breathing. For some inexplicable reason my breathing was being controlled by my phrenic nerves without the help of my spinal cord and ribcage. It was a terribly unnerving experience, one that I would have gladly dispensed with, one that had a frightening permanence to it. Only when I tried to adjust my position, and couldn’t, did I begin to remember things....

Christopher Carter. Aged 24. Medical student at the University of Pittsburgh. Junior. Catholic. Son to Vince and Frances Carter. Brother to Jeannie Carter. I lived on Liberty Avenue, almost directly across the street from St. Jerome’s Church. In a second floor apartment, with my parents and sister....

What was that? It sounded like a public address system. And not very far away. Paging a Dr. Meredith....

Where am I? What is this place? I looked around as best I could. The room was like a hospital room, with a partially closed screen around the bed, some kind of monitor built into the wall above the nightstand, and a dimly lit corner ceiling light. A TV camera on an adjustable arm stuck out of the far wall and eyed me with an almost human concern.

I had a tingling chill and my panic hardened into a mind boggling dread. I tried to turn my head, but to no avail. Why couldn’t I move? Had they drugged me? Was I strapped down? If I was only tied down, shouldn’t I be able to move something? Shouldn’t I be able to wiggle and know I’m wiggling? But I can’t. My paralysis seems nearly total.

Help!

I yelled soundlessly.

Help!

But nothing happened. Nothing at all except the echo of my desperate cry in my mind’s ear.

Be calm! Think! What can I do? Can I flutter my eyelids? Yes. Can I affect my breathing? Yes. I’ve stopped it. And I can hold it. Now, can I start it again? Yes. Yes. I can control my breathing. So my paralysis isn’t drug-induced. My immobility has another cause....

What can I remember? Most things, I think. My family. Louise. Jeannie’s party. Then--then nothing! Suddenly it all goes blank, like I jumped from one time continuum to another....

I’m sweating profusely. Water’s pouring out of me! My face is soaked; there’s salt in my eyes. Why? Am I hot? I don’t feel particularly hot. I don’t feel much of anything. Oh, God, what’s happened to me?

Why am I like this? Where am I?

What was that? Some voices. And one voice coming closer. A girl’s voice. Just outside this room.

Come in! Please, come in! Whoever you are, please, come in.

The door’s opened. There’s a lot of light, very bright light. And she’s in the room. She’s standing on the other side of the screen, just beyond my line of sight. But why doesn’t she come closer to where I can see her? What’s she afraid of?

There she is! A nurse. A student nurse in a stiffly starched white uniform. Plain-faced, short, with difficult proportions: a high waist, large bosom, short arms, no behind but wide hips. Name tag: Sally Crimmons.

She glanced at me, a perfunctory look that saw little or nothing, then focused her dark eyes on the monitor. Ignoring me completely, my feeble attempts to get her to look at my eyes, she was only concerned about jotting down some notes on the patient’s chart clutched in the crook of her left arm. I blinked frantically to attract her attention, but it was useless. She wasn’t looking. She wasn’t interested. She didn’t care. She acted like I was already dead!

I held my breath. Stopped my breathing. But she didn’t notice, caught up in some all consuming fantasy of her own.

Abruptly, she turned and walked away, her perfunctory check completed.

No, wait! Don’t go! Not yet! For God’s sake come back! Don’t leave me lying here like this. Tell me what’s happened to me. I’ve got to know. I can’t stand not knowing.

CHAPTER 2

Sunday.

June 29th.

A week earlier.

Although only forty-seven, Vince Carter’s appearance was something of a curiosity, since it seemed he had been aged by a clumsy make-up man to play a character too old for him. He had a curious patina of underscored wrinkles over a rather youthful base, gray-colored skin and hair, and darkly circled, slightly bulging eyes. Weight acquired over the past two years had concentrated itself principally in his mid-section, leaving his limbs remarkably thin for a man of his size. The net effect was that you constantly expected him to take off his disguise and reveal his younger self.

He sat on the red sofa, hunched over the coffee table, his too large eyes methodically scanning the racing entries in The Telegraph, trying to divine the winning trifecta combination in Monday night’s tenth race at Waterford, though the probability of his getting down to West Virginia the next day was virtually nil. He preferred reading the racing sheet to the Sunday paper almost as much as he preferred sipping an early glass of muscatel to attending the twelve-fifteen mass at St. Jerome’s.

It was twelve-thirty Sunday afternoon, June 29th, and he was alone in the house. Frances, his wife, had taken the dog on a visit to Mart’s, her sister; Jeannie, his twenty year old daughter, had gone to mass expecting him to follow; Chris, the scholar in the family, was, as usual, at the University engaged in some mystifying lab experiment or ferreting out some obscure point of medicine at the library in Oakland where he had special access. All in all, Vince was enjoying his unexpected solitude and not overly eager to have any of his family return to disrupt his reverie.

He tuned the Sony transistor radio to a music station when the news came on, and leaned back, closed his eyes, and pressed the cold glass of wine to his right temple, letting a soothing blackness fill his mind....

It was unusual for him to be totally alone; in fact, it was almost unheard of. At the Mercury Drug Warehouse where he more or less directed operations, he was constantly surrounded by people making demands on him; the frenetic pace barely permitted a stop at the john, let alone time for reflection or introspection. If he wasn’t occupied with shipments to the various stores or reorganizing some aspect of the voluminous warehouse, he was touring the massive Mercury chain assisting with inventories, helping open a new store, or directing the closure of one that had ceased to be profitable.

At home, too, there was rarely time for the luxury of inactivity. The kids were forever in motion, occupied with school or one of their multifarious side activities; Frannie, outwardly the epitome of casualness, was perpetually involved with one person or another, and had a controlled intensity about her that kept him uneasy and somewhat apprehensive. The house, therefore, was rarely empty, rarely a sanctuary for retreat, this stolen hour truly a refuge in the storm, and Vince didn’t know quite how to utilize it to the fullest, but willingly accepted the challenge.

He scratched his paunch through the open white shirt, idly fingering his old appendix scar, toying absently with the mass of blackish-gray hair that covered his chest and abdomen from the top of his sternum to the base of his scrotum. Not a particularly sensual man, he nonetheless derived a definite erotic pleasure from caressing his body openly in the middle of the living room. At that moment he could do whatever he pleased, secure in the knowledge that he was truly and utterly alone, that he wouldn’t be disturbed for nearly an hour. His safety heightened his satisfaction, and enhanced the delight of his intimacy. Yet he couldn’t help wondering what his family’s reaction would be if they could see him enjoying himself as he was now.

Four years ago he had undergone a series of debilitating X-ray treatments for a bladder tumor that was diagnosed precancerous. Reacting severely to the treatments, he had hovered near death for several days, and only massive blood transfusions brought him back from the brink. The cure, literally and figuratively, had been as bad as the disease, and it was nearly a year before he regained anything resembling his normal stamina and vigor. But the scars from that ordeal were numerous. Physically, he had aged tremendously and was now often embarrassingly mistaken to be nearer sixty than the meager forty-seven years he had actually lived. His eyes, once centers of merriment and curiosity, were now distressingly exophthalmic, listless, nearly devoid of interest or question. His six foot frame was hunched; he often neglected to shave; his attention to his dress was neglectful and unnecessarily self-deprecating. He had lost whatever self-respect he once had and now only fitfully attempted to convince the world otherwise. His physical and mental deterioration was a constant source of irritation to him and he worried constantly about it, yet he never once confided any of his misgivings to anyone and didn’t intend to.

However, the symptoms of his distress were easily discernable through the smokescreen of banal activity that filled his non-working hours. The Saturday and holiday hegira to Waterford Park was escape, pure and simple, but not escape from his family as some people suggested, escape from himself and the seemingly endless hours that stretched between dawn and the end of the Late Show. Ego forced him to studiously avoid mirrors, especially full-length ones, for he continued to nurture a pristine image of the virile youth he had once been, the pain of reality too great a burden, one he couldn’t consciously accept. Pride often kept him silent when he knew he should have spoken out, ever fearful that by venturing into some previously unexplored arena he might betray his lack of basic education and appalling ignorance of so many things that school children nowadays took for granted.

His education had been interrupted when he was only fifteen. His father’s death three days before the Normandy invasion compelled him to leave school to help support his mother and younger sister. His older brother Ed, already married and living away, couldn’t contribute anything to the family’s support, and the burden was Vince’s. His meager earnings were barely enough to keep food on the table, yet, with his salary, the money his sister earned baby-sitting and running errands, and his mother’s sewing, they somehow managed to keep their heads above water.

The war years were difficult ones for the Carters and the late forties and early fifties proved even harder. A job, any job, was the family’s life blood, and Vince worked at anything and everything. Newsboy. Shoe salesman. Parking lot attendant. He often talked about going back to school, although that possibility remained a remote one, for his mother constantly assured him that he was smart enough to learn what he needed to know without that. And, for awhile, she seemed right: he beat out three other applicants for the job at Mercury and appeared on his way.

A perforated eardrum--as well as his head-of-the-household status--enabled him to avoid the draft, but that eventually proved to be a questionable bonanza. Years later he felt cheated, denied his one big chance for travel and adventure. All the fellows he grew up with served abroad, in Europe or South Korea, and he was therefore excluded from their war reminiscences, which generally was the major subject of conversation.

Vince worked hard at the drug company and a natural inquisitiveness and enthusiasm kept him moving upwards in the early years, but there was a ceiling to his advancement that he didn’t realized at the time, a ceiling called upper management. Able to do most anything in the company by the time he was twenty-two, he had languished as warehouse supervisor ever since. Openings upstairs came and went, always filled by younger, more educated men. Yet, whenever there was a serious problem, more times than not he was the one summoned to Mr. Harris’ big downtown office to offer advice and suggestions and, almost invariably, his counsel was listened to and proved beneficial. But these successes meant little, for the obvious prestige added insignificantly to his pay packet as time went on.

Justifiable anger and frustration festered inside him unendingly, but never once did he dare risk all in an attempt to break through that upper barrier. He didn’t even seriously consider the possibility of going elsewhere to work. His family depended on him for its very existence and he couldn’t bring himself to gamble with their future. Mercury, despite its obvious shortcomings, was his and their security, and although there were countless times when he didn’t know how he could continue to endure it, he somehow always did. The immediate crisis passed and another few months slipped by before he was once again overwhelmed by the seeming futility of it all....

He hardly looked up when he heard the front door open, but his stubby fingers hastily buttoned his shirt and he arched himself forward over the racing paper, focusing intently on it, as though only it could insulate him from the pending confrontation. Although he didn’t fear his wife, he chose to give her a wide berth, especially when harboring guilt feelings, as now. Normally he could expect Frannie to accept his lackadaisical attitude towards religion with sullen equanimity, but today she would be upset by his truancy. And justifiably so, since he had specifically said he intended to go when she was leaving to take a load of laundry down to her sister’s. But Mass had little attraction for him. Born Presbyterian but never baptized into a faith, he had simply assumed the mantle of Catholicism one day shortly after his marriage, carrying it loosely when convenient, hardly at all when called upon to make some sort of sacrifice. He had allowed the children to be raised Catholic, as the Church demanded in the case of interfaith marriages, but he had never been to confession nor received Holy Communion; his only enduring concession to his adopted religion was a fitful attendance at Sunday Mass.

Tuffy, the mongrel, Heinz 57-variety dog preceded Frannie into the living room and leapt immediately onto the couch. The animal rubbed its snout against Vince’s arm, tamped one paw on his hand, circled once or twice, and plopped comfortably down beside him. Although a street animal, he was not scruffy, in fact, his long chestnut brown coat was neatly combed and the patches of white on his chest and feet stood out in bold relief. His collie-type ears, folded at the tips, were constantly in motion even when he was at rest, and the large brown eyes flirted mischievously with any living object, particularly the female of a species. Insatiably curious about genitalia, he usually gave a rather perfunctory examination to most males, but a probing, if not obscene, going over to all females. There was only one notable exception: for some inexplicable reason he loathed both sexes of Cocker Spaniel.

Vince reached over and gently stroked the dog, smiling weakly at the alert eyes. Have a good run, did you? he asked with affection.

Vince? his wife called from the bedroom at the end of the long hall that connected one end of the three bedroom apartment to the other.

Yeah? She could hear a pin drop, he mused, not like himself, with only one good ear.

I thought you’d still be in church, she called. Coming closer.

Did they have to discuss his aberrant behavior at a distance? He decided to remain quiet and await her arrival in the living room. That way, at least, the upstairs neighbors wouldn’t have to know about it, too.

She appeared a moment later, removing the pin that held the flower-bedecked hat to her black hair. A tall woman with milky, freckled skin and dark blue eyes, she wore her hair pulled straight back off a smooth brow that made her seem much younger than her years. She was clad in a white pique dress with a high waist that unintentionally emphasized her flat-chest and a high hem that discreetly accentuated her good legs. The same age as her husband, she possessed a joie de vivre that belied her years and enabled her to mix easily with people many years her junior.

Her thin face carried an expression of mild surprise and niggling irritation. Mass couldn’t be over already, she observed.

I doubt it is.

She stood across the coffee table from him, looking down at The Telegraph. You couldn’t take the time to go to Mass, but you could drive all the way downtown to get that damned racing paper?

He made no response. He hadn’t gone out for the paper: Jack Ludlow, also a racing enthusiast, had dropped it off. He always picked one up for Vince when he made the trip downtown.

Why did you tell me you were going to Mass when you knew all along you weren’t?

I didn’t know, he answered meekly. I intended to go. I just changed my mind.

When? As soon as I left for Mart’s?

While I was getting dressed, he continued lamely.

You evidently didn’t get very far. Most of your Sunday clothes are still hanging in the bedroom.

Her anger was out of character. After twenty-five years of marriage she knew Vince’s foibles and weaknesses pretty well and had inured herself to them. This morning, however, two things conspired to undermine her normal tolerance. Firstly, Father Whittier, the pastor of St. Jerome’s, had given a particular strong sermon at the seven-thirty mass on the growing laxity of Catholics and some of his points had an insistent relevance to her own family situation, Secondly, her sister Martha, who attended the same Mass, was equally disturbed by the sermon and took the occasion of her visit with the laundry to criticize Vince’s careless attitude about religion. That double assault, plus Vince’s ill-timed confirmation of guilt, momentarily clouded her desire for peaceful co-existence.

Look, Frannie, he implored sorrowfully. Jack just happened to come by with the paper and--

You couldn’t wait to see what nags were running, she interrupted. Not even for an hour.

He straightened but still didn’t look at her. The truth is I wasn’t in the mood for a sermon. Not one across the street, not one here. He hesitated, surprised by the strength of his declaration, and decided to temper it. So please, can’t we just pretend that I went and I’m home again?

I don’t care if you go to church or not, she snapped harshly, but your children care. And the least--

Don’t give me that bullshit, he cried, shaking his head vehemently. Chris doesn’t give a damn and you know it. He doesn’t believe in God anymore than I do.

She blessed herself quickly, scowling fiercely at him. Don’t say that again. Believe what you want, but don’t accuse the children of your atheism! She took a deep breath, composing herself. Chris is just too tolerant to let you know how he really feels about God. But Jeannie isn’t. You have to know how seriously she takes her religion. And I don’t see how you can selfishly continue to ignore her feelings. If you can’t go for yourself, you could at least go for her.

That’s great. Then I’d be a hypocritical atheist.

Clenching her fists in impotent rage, she charged into the kitchen without uttering another word. Tuffy climbed to his feet and trailed after her….

By one-thirty a truce had been declared. Frannie sat in the armchair by the window reading The Pittsburgh Press, while Vince dozed on the couch, The Telegraph sprawled completely across the coffee table and over the left edge onto the floor. Tuffy lay curled up at Frannie’s feet. The transistor radio droned unheard.

The front door rattled as someone entered the vestibule downstairs. Intuitively, Frannie knew it was Jeannie and probably Wilma, Vince’s brother’s wife. Wilma was in the habit of stopping by on her way home from church and usually met with Jeannie en route. Her visits, although far from stimulating, served the questionable purpose of keeping one side of the family apprised of what the other half was doing.

Frannie folded the Sunday paper and tucked it into the telephone stand near her armchair, then quickly went to the coffee table, collected the pages of The Telegraph into a pile, and stored them out of sight under the coffee table. Next she turned off the transistor radio and, discovering the Agatha Christie novel she was currently reading, stashed that out of the way, too. Finally, casting a last glance around the large living room and finding things more or less in order, she settled back down in her armchair to await the imminent arrival of her daughter and sister-in-law.

Seconds later the front door opened and there was a mild commotion in the hall as the two women made their noisy entrance. Tuffy rose stiffly, strolled into the hallway, and gave a disinterested look at the new arrivals. Satisfied there was no need for alarm, he wiggled his way back into the living room to plop down again in his original position as though nothing had transpired.

Wilma entered by herself, Jeannie having exited along the way to deposit some belongings in her bedroom. A wispy woman in her mid-fifties, her turkey neck joined a rather drab body to an incredibly expressive face; no word escaped her thin lips that wasn’t accompanied by some finely honed facial movement; no sentence wasn’t punctuated by some exaggerated lip gymnastics. Her washed-out blue eyes were invariably dilated, as though afraid a momentary constriction might deny their ravenous appetite some juicy morsel.

Hello, Wilma, Frannie greeted her affably. How was Mass?

Father Norman’s sermon was a bit too long, but otherwise-- She didn’t finish, instead stared questioningly at Vince who somehow managed to sleep through all the noise. Maybe I shouldn’t stay? she suggested politely, knowing her offer wouldn’t be accepted. I’d hate to wake him. He looks so tired.

Frannie shook her head reassuringly. He’ll be getting up soon. I have lunch on. Sit down and tell me what’s new.

Wilma perched herself precariously on the edge of the footrest near Frannie, not attempting to move it from its original position, and faced some imaginary person midway between her host and hostess. Even Tuffy, who lay between her and the armchair, was within the scope of her vision.

It’s been a rather dull week, I’m afraid, she intoned almost apologetically. Ed’s been working all hours and sleeping most of the time he’s home. He was too tired to make it to Mass this morning. She paused delicately, waiting for Frannie to make some clarifying statement regarding Vince’s absence. She continued when none was forthcoming. I hope he doesn’t have to keep it up much longer. He’s no kid anymore. She punctuated her end-of-sentence with a forlorn sigh.

I’m always after Chris to take it easy, too, Frannie said, realizing that her comment should have been about Vince. If he isn’t studying or working in the lab, he’s out with Louise. He goes until he drops.

That sounds serious, the part about Louise, I mean. The lips roamed wildly.

Frannie smiled self-consciously. It’s not serious enough to interfere with his medical school.

You should know, Wilma conceded a little sadly. What’s he doing now that school’s over for the summer?

Professor Wilson got him a three month research grant, only don’t ask me for what. I can’t pronounce it, let alone explain it.

Is it at the University?

Frannie nodded. In the Pharmacology Department.

It certainly sounds impressive whatever it is. She evinced a grudging approval.

Jeannie made an abrupt, ungainly appearance: she tripped near the door leading into the room and nearly fell, just managing to catch herself on the sofa before the fall became serious. Her collision with her father’s bed aroused him from his lethargy, and he uttered a deep moan: What the hell!

I’m sorry, she gushed with a beguiling naiveté, straightening up and giving him a quick peck on the cheek. The carpet’s come loose again. Whether it had or not she didn’t know or care; it was simply a convenient excuse for her infamous clumsiness. Fairly tall, large bosomed, she had the kind of prettiness often seen in sleepy Southern towns or on Midwestern campuses: the short nose, the fleshy cheeks, the light colored eyes, the long brown hair. Her bright pink dress, white shoes and hat showed her off to the best advantage.

Tuffy, aroused by the disturbance, circled the room to be sure the danger had passed, then dropped near the door where he had an unobstructed view of everyone present.

I didn’t know you were here, Vince grunted at Wilma, sitting up. Dazedly, he scratched his head, attempting to rub the sleepiness from his eyes. Where’s Ed?

He wasn’t feeling well and stayed in bed, Wilma explained patiently, again pausing. But again no explanation for Vince’s failure to attend Mass was offered.

Jeannie, first becoming aware of her father’s appearance, stared at him in surprise, the muscles in her face tightening shrewishly. She glanced questioningly at her mother, demanding her own explanation. Frannie’s eyes commanded restraint, but the college sophomore was not to be silenced so easily. She sprang up from the easy chair where she had positioned herself and charged into the kitchen, expecting her mother to follow.

After saying something about checking on lunch, Frannie dutifully joined her daughter behind a closed kitchen door.

Didn’t he-- Jeannie began angrily, falling quiet when Frannie scowled and put a finger to her lips.

The whole world doesn’t have to know, she quietly berated the irate girl. What your father does is nobody’s business but ours.

Jeannie fumed openly. When he doesn’t go to Mass it becomes everybody’s business. Right now, all his friends are gathered across the street for their weekly gabfest and you know as well as I do what they’ll be talking about.

We’ll discuss it later, Frannie soothed, afraid Wilma had already guessed the reason for their tete-a-tete.

But Jeannie refused to be placated or put off. Why didn’t he go? Was he just too damned lazy again?

Frannie was getting angry now, too. Don’t use that tone of voice when speaking of your father! As long as you live under his roof you’ll show him some respect.

Only when and if he deserves it, she snapped defiantly.

Frannie clenched her teeth tightly. We’ll finish this later, she said, trembling. When Wilma’s gone. She hesitated for emphasis. Now, let’s go back in there and be sociable.

Jeannie deliberated stubbornly before relenting. Only for a minute. I have to go over to the parish house. Father Norman wants to discuss arrangements for the Fourth of July Bingo with the ladies in the auxillary.

Frannie nodded slowly. So that’s what’s behind all this?

Jeannie flushed crimson. How would you feel if you had to go over there now and face him? He’s sure to ask why Daddy wasn’t at Mass.

Frannie’s eyebrows rose sharply. He won’t, and you know it. Even if he noticed your father wasn’t there, he’s too polite to make you account for it.

Grudgingly, Jeannie’s anger began to subside. Maybe you’re right; maybe he won’t ask. He’s got savvy. She added the last with obvious approval.

I know I’m right, Frannie said with conviction, And surely you have time for some lunch. Those meetings never begin on time.

I don’t, Mom. He wants us right away. He’s got to go out of town later this afternoon, and this is the only time he has to meet with us.

Frannie nodded her understanding. Everything had to be done right away. Well, at least go and say goodbye to Wilma. And give your father a big kiss. You’re not leaving here till you do….

Once Jeannie had gone, Vince offered Wilma a glass of wine. When she refused, he went to get himself one. Frannie never drank before three.

Why aren’t you helping out with the Bingo arrangements this year? Frannie asked her sister-in-law, while Vince was out of the room. You’re in the ladies auxillary.

Wilma answered in a quiet voice. Ed asked me not to. With his schedule, he wants me home whenever he is, and that’s a bit unpredictable. Everyday somebody else is out sick. Ed claims it’s because of the weather. He says it’s too nice to work. Much easier to call in, then go for a ride in the country.

I always thought the owner of a gas station had things pretty much his own way. I guess I was wrong. How many hours is he working?

Over a hundred at the station this week. And another five or six at home doing paper work. He gobbles down some food and sleeps what time there is left.

Frannie was genuinely sympathetic. That was certainly no way to live, always worrying about work. You two need a vacation.

Wilma laughed a sad laugh. Tell him that. I suggested it the other day, and he nearly took my head off: ‘How can I go away and leave the station in the hands of those goof-balls? When I got back there’d be nothing but charred wreckage.’ She ran her fingers over the top edge of her black leather handbag. It would be kind of nice though, she added wistfully. We haven’t been away in years.

Now that the kids are grown, we don’t get away either. When they were young we tried to take two weeks every year. We thought travel would be good for them.

Was it?

Frannie shrugged. I guess so. They still talk about it once in a while, and everybody seems to remember something they enjoyed.

Vince returned with his wine and settled down on the couch again. Looking around for his paper, he finally discovered it under the coffee table but, glancing furtively at his wife, decided to leave it where it was. Instead, he fidgeted unhappily with his radio, impatient for Wilma to leave. He resented her weekly intrusions into his world and refused to believe Frannie welcomed her visits either. A nothing of a woman, she had insidiously emasculated his brother with her constant carping, her spying, and her better than thou morality. Was it any wonder Ed buried himself in the gas station?

The phone rang. Frannie answered it without haste. Hello.

Hi, Mom. It’s me.

I guessed as much, she said happily. The sound of her son’s voice always thrilled her.

I’m stuck over here with an experiment and won’t get back for lunch. Okay?

Your sister won’t be here either. She wasn’t angry; she was used to being called at the last minute to be told some pressing matter was keeping one or both of her children away. But she was disappointed, "You’ll eat something, won’t you?"

I’ll get a snack up the street. If Louise calls, tell her where I am and that I’ll call her later.

She expecting you?

More or less, but she’s understanding, like you.

One day you’ll push her too far. It really wasn’t a warning. Louise, she knew, loved him as much as she did and nothing he did would alter that.

I hope not. Easy lays are hard to find.

Frannie swallowed self-consciously. For years now he had delighted in trying to shock her, particularly in front of others, since he undoubtedly knew Wilma was lurking nearby and had deliberately put her on the spot. She resolved to be as nonchalant as possible. I didn’t hear that, young man, she said in a stern voice, glancing at Wilma, who pretended to be absorbed with Tuffy.

I said--

When will you be home? she interrupted quickly.

He laughed triumphantly. Around five. I got to go now--something’s boiling over. Kisses. Love you. Bye. He hung up.

Bye, she repeated into the dead receiver, a warm feeling surging through her.

I’m sorry we don’t have any children, Wilma mused absently. They can be a delight--when they’re like your two.

At first Frannie didn’t comment, then she said, They can be when they’re good. Generally they’re not.

Wilma’s eyes twitched wider. Was Frannie on the verge of a revelation? But no. Frannie settled back in the armchair and gazed pensively across the room. After a moment, she rose restlessly to pull a few dead leaves from a bouquet of flowers on the mantle over the gas heater. Her movement aroused Tuffy, who watched with mild interest. Wilma stood to permit Frannie better access to the flowers, and they both apologized to each other.

Why don’t you stay for lunch, Frannie asked, finishing with the flowers. We have plenty.

"No, thanks. Ed’s probably waiting up there for me now. He’s always hungry when he gets up."

It was an obligatory offer, an obligatory refusal. In all the years Wilma had been stopping by after Mass, not once had she ever stayed for lunch.

Wilma straightened her dress. I guess I should be going. It’s getting late.

Tell Ed to stop down later if he gets a chance, Vince said suddenly. I haven’t seen him in a while.

I’ll tell him, Wilma promised. But I doubt he will. He’s very tired.

Tell him I got a full bottle of muscatel, Vince chuckled.

I’ll tell him you invited him down, Wilma said firmly, with just a hint of irritation. If you want him to know about the muscatel, you’ll have to call and tell him yourself. I’m the one who has to live with him after you two have been into that stuff, and I prefer he didn’t have any. It was her most emotional display in years.

The man’s entitled to a little fun, isn’t he? He works damned hard for his money.

There’s all kinds of fun! Wilma barked.

Vince, wisely, splayed his hands in a gesture of compliance and didn’t comment further.

Wilma looked back at Frannie, sucking in a large mouthful of air. Thanks again for the lunch offer. I’ll see you next week.

Without waiting for Frannie’s response or a goodbye to Vince, she turned and found her own way down the long hall to the front door, down the steep stairs to the outside door, and out onto Liberty Avenue.

You weren’t very nice, Frannie said to her husband when she was sure Wilma had gone.

What do you mean, he asked with exaggerated surprise. I only invited my own brother down for a little drink. What’s bad about that?

You know damned well! Her earlier anger returned. "He never just takes one little drink. By the time you two finished he’d be stinking drunk. And when he gets that way, it’s Wilma who pays."

Serves her right for what she’s done to him.

What’s she done?

What’s she done! he groaned sarcastically. "You know as well as I do what she’s done."

No, I don’t. Tell me.

He sighed exasperatedly. What was all this? Why was she defending Wilma? Woman’s lib? She knew the kind of woman she was. How her neglect had killed the baby. How she had tried to blame its death on Ed. How she had made him a stranger in his own house, forced him to sleep in the extra bedroom, drove him to look elsewhere for what was his by law. How she had refused to have another child. How she had accepted the Church’s refusal to permit birth control and imposed a life of celibacy on both of them. Was it any wonder Ed drank at every opportunity?

Vince shook his head disgustedly. Let’s drop it, okay? It doesn’t matter.

Of course, it matters, Frannie protested, striding to the coffee table to turn off the intrusive screech of the radio announcer. You can’t go on blaming her for something that happened all those years ago.

Why can’t I?

Because she wasn’t responsible. No one was.

So you say.

So the doctor says.

He grimaced at the floor, Even if she wasn’t responsible for that, she’s responsible for what happened afterwards. What’s still happening. If she was half a woman she’d--

She’d what?

She’d-- What’s the difference? She isn’t.

Am I?

He looked at her strangely, unable, unwilling, to follow her drift.

Am I? Frannie repeated determinedly.

Are you what?

More than half a woman?

Christ, Frannie, he began awkwardly, you know--.

"Don’t swear’

He exhaled deeply. You know what I think of you.

Not really,

What are you getting at? What is all this? He felt intensely uncomfortable, more distressed than he ever remembered being in her company.

How much of a woman do you think I am?

He squirmed uneasily, digging beneath the coffee table to retrieve his paper. He opened it and spread it out before him.

Vince! she shouted. Tell me.

He half-swallowed. You’re a helluva woman he said without looking at her. A helluva woman There was a distressingly long silence as he fingered the edge of the paper. Can’t we eat? he asked finally. I’m starved.

She stood watching his bowed head for a long, tense moment before heading into the kitchen to get lunch. She heard the click of the transistor radio and the sound of music before the kitchen door swung shut behind her.

CHAPTER 3

Time is innately contrary. When I want it to pass quickly, it crawls; when I want it to slow down, it races by. It seems like hours since that nurse was here, yet I know it was only a few minutes ago. But how long must I lie here in an agony of ignorance and uncertainty, waiting for her to return? She should have to check on me periodically. Every fifteen minutes. Every half-hour. Every hour. So where is she...?

I should be able to figure out some of what’s happened and what is happening; my medical background should enable me to piece together part of the puzzle--but it’s so damned hard to concentrate. My mind resists the effort, like a car almost out of gas. But I’ve got to make it work; I’ve got to push it into a higher gear.

It’s safe to assume that I was in some kind of accident, and I’m in a hospital. It feels like my head is bandaged; it certainly is sore. My neck hurts, too. And I’m probably doped up with medication. So, at the very least, I have head and neck injuries. Yet I don’t remember any accident; my last memory is of Jeannie’s party, talking to Father Norman. But amnesia shouldn’t surprise me. Temporary loss of memory following a head injury is quite common. Events immediately before (retrograde amnesia) and those immediately after (posttraumatic amnesia) are lost. Only when I begin to recover will I remember exactly what happened to me--and then there’s no guarantee I’ll recall everything!

If the blow--a fall down the stairs, a car crash, whatever--was to the back of the head, the greatest damage to my brain would be at a point opposite it (contrecoup injury). That could account for the amnesia, but not for the near-total paralysis. That would require damage lower down, in the brain stem or the spinal cord, maybe from another injury or a blood clot. But I’m still breathing on my own, even if only diaphragmatically, and that shows a functioning brain stem, a good sign. The injury, wherever it is, isn’t total and some recovery is definitely possible.

So let’s assume I was hit by a car and brought to this hospital unconscious, in a coma. Let’s also assume it’s Three River’s Hospital, since that’s the closest to home. In a coma, bleeding, barely breathing, they had to operate to patch up the obvious wounds. Afterwards, they’d put me in a Recovery Room, then an Intensive Care Unit. This could be either--or it could be a private room--I can’t see enough to really judge. In any event, with all the monitors they have around me, someone down the hall should be keeping an eye on me. That nurse’s visit was probably just a routine check to see that the medical drips were functioning well, and that I was still alive. But if that’s so, her nonchalance either indicates I’m beyond hope or I’m past the critical stage, and they can relax, ease up a bit. It must be the latter. I’m too alert. If I was in a coma, it’s passed. I’m through the first critical period. And that’s very encouraging. A fairly short period of unconsciousness augers well for recovery. The longer you’re out, the worst the prognosis. So my luck has held....

Would they allow visitors? Probably not right away. If I was unconscious for a couple of days, then they might, but not the first twenty-four hours. That might explain why none of my family or Louise is here right now....

My breathing is different; my control over it less! I shouldn’t have experimented with it. I don’t think it can sustain me any longer. Already I feel weaker. Even my eyes are tired. Maybe my paralysis is from a skeletal muscle relaxant? Maybe it’s only beginning to take full effect? But why would they give me one? To keep me quiet? To keep me from hurting myself? Surely they know it will stop my breathing. They wouldn’t goof like that; not in a modern hospital. They just couldn’t let me be asphyxiated; not with all those sophisticated monitors watching me.

If only I could call out and alert them. If only that nurse would come back. If only someone knew the trouble I was in. God, don’t let me die like this. I want to live. I have too much to give...!

The damned sweat is in my eyes again and it smarts like hell! I’m even having trouble blinking now. But wait! Listen! I’m not breathing anymore! I’ve stopped!

Uggg!

A gasp! A violent gasp!

Don’t panic! Think! Don’t panic whatever you do. The less oxygen you use the longer you’ll last. Someone will come. Someone has to.

Uggg!

What a horrible feeling! What a horrible way to die! Let me breathe. Let me taste the air again. Why can’t I move? Why--

Aaaaahhhh!

A spasm of pain from--from where? Below. Just below. I can’t pinpoint the origin. Now a tingling; a thousand, a million tiny pin pricks all over me. My whole body’s alive with feeling; every nerve ending must be rushing messages to my brain. But the messages are jumbled, confused; there’s no logic, no pattern to any of it. Pain and pleasure comingled in an intense tickling sensation. It’s the most bizarre feeling in the world, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. An orgasmic discharge of awesome proportion without any pleasure. Is it the lack of oxygen? The build-up of carbon dioxide? Am I suffocating? Is this what a drowning man feels like just before he dies? Or is something else triggering it? Some experimental drug or machine? It’s possible. Anything’s possible today.

Uggg!

The tingling is more intense and I didn’t think that was possible. Is my nervous system dying? A massive nervous discharge would cause any manner of feeling, as well as convulsions! But I’m not convulsing. Except for the occasional gasp I’m not aware of any muscular movement. Yet my body’s on fire! And the sensation’s changing. I’m hurting all over now. The tingling is still there but it’s over-shadowed by a burning: a deep-seated, intensely painful inferno everywhere inside me. Even my eyes are on fire. There’s a searing white heat in front of me. Maybe the building’s on fire? Maybe the bed’s burning up? But I’m being ridiculous! The only fire is inside me, everywhere inside me, consuming every part of me. I wouldn’t have believed the pain could be so intolerable. And I’ve stopped the gasping. No air whatever is coming in now; I’m sure of that. How long can the brain go without suffering irreversible damage? One minute? Two? The gasping probably hasn’t been giving me adequate oxygen, so I’ve already eaten into my survival time. Somebody must come. They must be monitoring my vital signs on all those monitors.

Oh, God!

Unless they’ve gone off for a coffee break; unless they’re away from the TV monitors and won’t be back for ten minutes. Six hundred seconds. An eternity for me. Five times the length of time I’ve got to live. Ten long, incredibly lethal minutes in which I can die five times over.

A coffee break that means the difference between life and death. My life...my death

Aaaaahhhhh...! Aaaaahhhhh...! Aaaaahhhhh...!

CHAPTER 4

Every Monday Frannie carried three brown shopping bags full of laundry across Liberty Avenue and down the alley to her sister’s where the two of them labored for the better part of the day washing and ironing the clothes for their families. It was more than a ritual or a necessity; it was a sharing that united the two women more than any blood bond. And on those infrequent occasions when one or the other wasn’t up to the job, the other gladly assumed the burden for both families.

Normally Frannie arrived at quarter to nine. After dispatching her family and tidying up the house, she would pick up the shopping bags from where she had filled and left them Sunday night and, with Tuffy at her side, leave without haste for her Monday rendezvous. Occasionally, when there was a particularly large washing, she would take part of it down on Sunday, as she had done yesterday.

If there was a lot of traffic on the avenue, she would somehow manage to lift Tuffy to the protective safety of her right arm and juggle the shopping bags in her left until she had safely seen them both across the street. The dog, more than eager to be transported any distance, no matter how short, usually leapt into her arms when beckoned, so the task of lifting him was simplified.

The Samuels’ house on Cedarville Street was far and away too large for the current occupants and much of it lay idle now. Originally intended to house the whole Stasni clan, it eventually accommodated only two of the three families: the Stasnis and the Samuels. The Carters’ need for privacy and independence kept them in the Liberty Avenue apartment. So, today, only Martha Samuels, her husband Joe, and their two daughters, Beth and Mary Lou, inhabited the spacious Stasni castle.

Martha, a big woman both in size and humanity, had long dominated the fortress-home she inherited on her father’s death. Large, pale-gray eyes with wispy eyebrows and lashes gleamed ceaselessly from an oval, fleshy face; thin brown hair, streaked liberally with slate gray, reached to the nape of her neck and dared go no further; of short stature, she seemed to lean forward on the balls of her feet, forever stretching for that extra inch or so. The antithesis of her younger sister, many a joke had been bantered in years past regarding the supposed sire and dam of the Stasni girls, for, nearly ten years Frannie’s senior, Martha looked nothing like her and was often mistakenly thought to be Frannie’s mother by strangers. Their older brother John, who lived in Cleveland and rarely visited, combined attributes of both sisters and was easily identified as part of the Stasni brood.

Drop those things over there, Martha commanded when Frannie appeared at the foot of the cellar steps. My first load is nearly done.

Frannie let the shopping bags drop in the appointed spot and sagged against the whitewashed wall, a dull ache in the small of her back. She took a moment to compose herself before speaking. I must be getting old. I don’t remember having to struggle like this before.

Martha showed mild concern. Did you carry that dog again?

Frannie nodded without contrition.

No wonder, then. He must weigh thirty pounds.

Frannie smiled wanly. If anything ever happened to him I couldn’t show my face at home.

Martha waved a hand in mock disgust. You’d never catch me worrying about a dog the way you do. You’d think he was people.

He is, to us.

Martha shook her head uncomprehendingly. He’ll put you in an early grave, that’s all I know. But I can’t change you. She rested her hands on the washing machine as it slowly shuddered to a stop. "There...now put a load of yours in."

Frannie dragged one of the brown shopping bags over to the washing machine and patiently waited while her sister began transporting her own wash from there to the dryer.

I heard Vince didn’t make it to church yesterday?

News travels fast.

Al--next door--didn’t see him outside the church afterwards and mentioned it. She paused briefly before adding, I know he’s not sick; you’d have said something. So why?

The usual, Frannie sighed quietly.

I love that man, Martha fumed, but sometimes I’d like to give him a good swift kick in the behind. There’s no reason he can’t give up one stinking hour a week to make it look like he’s a good Catholic.

He does pretty well, considering.

Martha shook her head reproachfully. You’re always making excuses for him. When he was out gambling every night, you covered that up for the longest time. It was only when you were stinking broke that you finally told me what was going on. If you could have gotten the money some other way, I probably wouldn’t know to this day.

That’s ancient history.

His horse playing ain’t. He’ll put you in the poor house yet.

He doesn’t lose that much. Frannie was uneasy now, defensive, tired. She hadn’t slept very well and didn’t want to argue. And he wins sometimes.

When’s the last time he won? Martha cried. Bet you can’t tell me. Gambling’s a disease with him, and it’ll kill you both.

You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. What’s really behind this?

Martha’s anger continued to smolder but she now had it under control. He borrowed money from my Joe. Joe didn’t want to tell me; it just sort of slipped out.

Frannie gaped at her sister open-mouthed, swallowing back the tears. She had never known Vince to do that before. Somehow she had always scrimped and saved enough to keep the family going and yet support his habit. Occasionally, she allowed him to discover a cache of money, use it, and eventually lose it. She guessed he assumed that she had never missed it or, more probably, that this was her way of controlling his loses; either way they both carried the tacit guilt of deception. But now he had shamed her; he had sought money elsewhere. His losses were greater than she had imagined, and that certainly meant greater than they could afford.

How much money? she asked in a strained voice.

Fifty dollars.

When?

On Saturday.

He had gone to the races Saturday and said he broke even. She had accepted that since she hadn’t found any more money missing and he hadn’t asked her for any; it was likely he would have since he was planning an outing on the Fourth.

Tell Joe I’ll see he gets his money back. She brushed the tears secretly from her eyes as she began to load the washing machine.

Hell, Frannie, it isn’t the fifty. But if he’s starting to tap the family he’s probably exhausted all his friends. God knows how much he’s in hock.

I’ll talk to him.

If you want me to be there when you do, I’ll--

Mart, Frannie said sternly, He’s my husband. We still do talk. If he’s in trouble, I’ll find a way to get him out of it.

Yoohoo? Anybody home? Sister Appolonia called from the top of the cellar stairs.

We’re down here, Sister, Martha yelled out, moving to look up the stairs. Come on down.

The nun, holding her skirts knee high, descended to the basement. Of the Franciscan order, she was a tall, robust woman with the unmistakable hint of a moustache, an indomitable spirit, and the gruff manner of a lion tamer. But beneath the rough exterior beat the heart of a Kris Kringle, and once wooed she was forever in bondage.

Hello, Martha...and Frances. I knocked but you didn’t answer, so I barged right in.

That’s exactly what you should do, Sister, Martha beamed delightedly. There aren’t any secrets in this house.

The nun smiled in return. I just stopped by to say hello...and find out how things are going for the Bingo party.

I like the hello part best.

Then we’ll just forget about the other, the nun grinned agreeably.

Oh, no! That part’s not too bad either.

They laughed like school girls. Martha fetched a chair and cajoled the nun into sitting down.

Once we get the next load going, Martha said, we can all go upstairs and have a piece of apple pie. That won’t ruin your lunch, will it?

Sister Appolonia shook her head. You know I can always eat.

Martha’s round face registered satisfaction. And with regards to the Bingo--I plan three apple and three cherry pies. I’ll do them Thursday so they’ll be as fresh as can be for Friday.

And the decorations?

The girls were working on them all weekend and have them nearly finished. They got two hundred colored streamers, two dozen crepe paper bells of assorted sizes, twenty or so flags, and....

Frannie listened pensively to the two women chatter away, a bit envious of the rapport that existed between them. She had no really close friends outside the family, although she had hundreds of acquaintances. Time, and her situation, had always precluded the development of real intimacies, even though she seriously doubted she wanted, or could be comfortable with, loyalties outside her immediate kin. She had an almost obsessive need for secrecy and security, the legacy of a German immigrant father, acquired by growing up in a household where one’s finances and activities were always deliberately kept clouded in mystery. Her marriage at twenty-two, instead of weakening the habits of childhood, had only reinforced them, for Vince was even more vigilant regarding the details of his life than her father had been, although he protested strongly to the contrary.

It had been a bit strange to hear Mart say there were no secrets in her house. She was her father’s daughter and wore his shoes comfortably. There may have been little to see on a quick walk from the back door to the cellar stairs, but Frannie was sure her sister would have been less stoical if Sister Appolonia had chanced upon a Samuels’ bank statement.

You’re looking well, Sister Appolonia turned to her.

None the worse for wear, Frannie lied, still feeling a bit weary from the trek down with the laundry.

The nun smiled warmly. And how’s Chris? I hardly ever see him anymore.

Fine.

He’ll be graduating soon, won’t he?

Another two years.

Imagine that. Dr. Christopher Carter. That sounds good, doesn’t it? But who would have believed it when I was cuffing his ears back in the fifth grade? Her eyes widened in mock horror. Goodness! That’s a long time ago. I must be getting old.

Oh, Sister, Martha scolded laughingly. You still look as young as you did back then. It’s us who show the years.

Martha, you are a dear friend. There was gratitude and just a hint of relief in her voice.

They all laughed.

You’re coming to the Bingo, aren’t you? the nun asked Frannie.

Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Don’t ask about Vince, she prayed to herself.

And Chris?

Frannie shook her head. I imagine he’ll spend the day with Louise.

She’s a fine girl. I knew that the first time I met her that Easter Sunday a year ago. She hesitated, a mischievous twinkle in her dark brown eyes. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting them both to come to the Bingo Friday?

Sister, Martha exclaimed in mock outrage, I think you still got a crush on that boy.

The nun was nonplussed. He was my fifth grade sweetheart, she replied coyly, and one doesn’t forget something like that.

He’s everybody’s sweetheart, Martha said, somewhat dewy-eyed. When my son Bill died, that boy couldn’t do enough to help. It was a difficult time for us all, himself included, but he saw to it that we were all taken care of. He did the shopping; he stood vigil with us up at the funeral home the whole time; he even went with me to the insurance company to notify them of Bill’s death. He’s a real honey, and if he ever needs a home he knows where to come.

Frannie studied her sister sullenly. What she said about Chris was true, but they both knew he would never think seriously about moving in with her. If something happened to his own family, he would simply continue to live alone in the apartment; it was inconceivable that he would move in with anyone else. He was as thoughtful and considerate as could be, but he was basically a loner. Once freed of his human shackles, he wouldn’t voluntarily fetter himself again. That was part of the reason why Louise was having such difficulty collaring him. There was no doubt he loved her as much as he could, but it was beyond his ability to bind himself in marriage--at least for the present, at least until he finished medical school. Louise could have anything else, anything that didn’t restrict his comings and goings. His freedom was sacrosanct, precious beyond price. And Frannie wondered for the hundredth time how much her life with Vince had been responsible for her son’s tenacious hold on his liberty.

Do you think I could get them to come? the nun persisted. I used to have a way with him.

I doubt it, Frannie answered sadly. Bingo isn’t something that appeals to young people like them. It isn’t sexy enough.

Ooohhh! Martha tittered self-consciously, glancing furtively at Sister Appolonia, who simply smiled benignly at Frannie. How can you bring sex into this?

The nun looked at her reprovingly. And how can you suggest that sex is beyond my ken? I may be wed to Our Lord, Jesus Christ-- she bowed her head reverently--but the Good Lord, in His infinite wisdom, gave me the instincts of a woman. And that boy is...sexy!

Both Stasni sisters looked at the nun in amazement, then grinned sheepishly. The nun beamed