A BRIEF AFFAIR, Chapter One, The Kiss

This is chapter one of my much-revised first novel, A BRIEF AFFAIR. It's a semi-autobiographical, sort-of-a-memoir, fictionalized version of how a nice, engaged, Jewish nursing student from Queens got mixed up with a backsliding Baptist from Louisiana.

Any comments and/or suggestions would be appreciated.


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A BRIEF AFFAIR

Chapter One
The Kiss


“In other national news, a Defense Department spokesman said 18,000 of the 31,000 US troops ordered into Cambodia by President Nixon have been withdrawn.”

Gwen Kaplan gave her bangs one last touch. Before this summer, news about Vietnam had been little more than the background noise to her life. She cared—had worked at a student nurse run aide station during the Wall Street riots, and still wept at the weekly list of US fatalities on TV. But the war had never been personal. Now things were different. Now she knew someone who had fought over there, and been wounded.

“Investigations are continuing into the killing of protesters at Kent State and Jackson State universities. Authorities are discounting recent allegations by Mississippi officials that both incidents were started by snipers firing from student dorms.”

Two weeks ago, the south was just a blur to her. Now that was also different. Now she also knew someone from the south. The same patient on her ward at the VA who’d been wounded in Vietnam. Her hair would do, she decided, and put the brush into her purse.

“In local sports the Mets and Yankees both dropped Sunday double-head--.”

She turned off the radio, then got up and gave herself a last check in the long mirror her father had mounted behind the bedroom door. The short white uniform looked okay but, as usual, Gwen didn’t like anything else she saw. Despite visual evidence to the contrary, her self-image was still that of a pudgy schoolgirl with dull brown eyes, drab brown hair, and a sprinkling of freckles across an otherwise nice enough nose.

After dieting all winter, her figure was at the point where she could actually consider buying a bikini for trips to Rockaway and Jones Beach later this summer. Johnny would like that, a lot. She shook her head and glanced at the framed photo of Johnny DeAngelo. The face of her long-time boyfriend was frozen in a self-conscious smirk.

Of course, she’d end up with a more modest two-piece. That still marked a vast improvement over the dowdy, one-piece suits she’d always worn. But no matter how she might really look, what she saw in the mirror never seemed to improve. She sighed, grabbed her purse and suitcase, and headed for the living room.

“So you’re going to miss your cousin Sammy’s party this Wednesday, am I right, and not come home until Friday?” The sound of her mother’s hectoring voice made Gwen cringe.

They had fought all weekend about her decision to skip the bar mitzvah of a particularly unappealing cousin. Gwen felt a little guilty about not going. But staying away from her mother all week was too tempting. “That’s right, Mom. But I’ll call tonight from the dorm.” Not wanting to give her mother a chance to re-start the hostilities, she gave her a quick kiss and then hurried out the apartment.

It was a beautiful, almost balmy Monday morning in the borough of Queens. Birds were singing in leafy oak trees. Spring flowers bloomed in well-kept beds. Clean looking clouds floated in a blue sky lacking the usual load of pollution.

Mrs. Esther Katz and Mrs. Irene Goldman were in their accustomed spots on the front stoop. Deep into one of their non-stop morning dialogues, they appeared oblivious to all these marvels of urban nature. But when Gwen came out the front door, they smiled and interrupted their conversation.

"Morning, doll. Hi ya doing?" asked Mrs. Katz, who had known the newcomer all her life.

"You always look so nice in your pretty nurse's uniform,” gushed Mrs. Goldman. “So tell me, dear, do you still like working at the VA?"

"Yes ma'am," replied Gwen, in a brief, consolidated response to all their questions. Both women had well-deserved reputations for knowing practically everything about everyone who lived in the building. This included Gwen’s summer job as a nurse tech at the Manhattan Veteran’s hospital.

"Those old vets aren't giving you a hard time, are they?" Mrs. Katz gave her a knowing wink.

"You know they are, Esther," teased Mrs. Goldman. "I mean, as cute as she is, especially with those pretty legs of hers and the short skirts all the young girls wear these days."

Gwen felt her skin flush under the appraisal. To cover her embarrassment, she set down the suitcase and began rummaging around in her roomy purse, making sure she had some of the new thirty-cent subway tokens and exact change for the bus.

"Now, Mrs. Goldman, you’ve got to remember, I'm working on an ophthalmology ward. Most of the patients are pretty old and have such bad eyesight they couldn’t tell if I was even wearing a skirt, much less notice its length." A protective instinct told her not to mention the ward’s new patient, the young, wounded Vietnam vet from the south named Mark Cahill.

The ladies laughed and began warning her about dirty old men. The discovery of both tokens and change reprieved Gwen. Giving her tormenters a smile, she said good-bye, picked up her suitcase, then hurried down the steps and across the street to the bus stop.

In Gwen’s opinion, getting on a city bus during rush hour was a form of hand-to-hand combat. People in front and back would be pushing and shoving while you battled to hang onto the handrail and whatever you were carrying plus your tokens or exact change.

Doing all this with a suitcase in one hand and a purse on your shoulder, while trying to keep your white uniform clean and the hem of its short skirt in place, made the experience even more interesting. Sometimes it didn't all work.

Today she was taking the early morning Q65A bus, however, which meant things were easier. To her delight she grabbed an empty window seat near the front. Depositing the small, battered suitcase on the floor, she sat, tugged at the hem of her skirt and strategically positioned her large purse on her lap.

After checking her watch, she pulled out a paperback copy of The French Lieutenant's Woman and prepared to endure another long Monday bus ride from her working-class neighborhood in Flushing to the subway station in upper-crust Forest Hills where she’d transfer to the F train for the even longer ride into Manhattan.

Mondays were busy on the ward. It was after lunch before Gwen had time to begin rubbing a medicated ointment onto Mark's upper torso. The idea was to treat a mild rash, a side effect of the cortisone he took following his recent corneal transplant. For the past two weeks she’s used her best massage techniques to carefully apply the thick, topical medication.

Today’s treatment was to be the last one. To her surprise, she felt some vague, mixed emotions at the prospect of no more back rubs.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, while spreading the creamy ointment over Mark’s back.

“Okay, I guess.” There was a distant, mechanical, almost truculent tone to his voice.

“Is something bothering you?”

The question seemed to annoy him. “No, nothing.”

“Don’t tell me nothing,” she insisted, while still working on his back. “I’ve never seen you this moody. Something must be wrong. Whatever it is, I’d like to know--I really would, but only if you feel like talking.”

After a long pause, Mark began speaking in a low voice. “I met a guy down in the canteen this morning. Turns out, he was with the armored unit working with us the day I got hit. According to him, there was a second KIA. I knew a guy named Tony Doughty got wasted. The last thing I remember seeing was his body being tossed around by the blast. That was bad enough. He was new, a cherry, and in my squad. I felt responsible for him. Now I find out someone else got killed and I’ve got no idea who the hell it was.”

She didn’t interrupt, letting him talk through his emotions. The muscles in his back tensed, then began to ease. A few minutes later, he looked at her and winked. “Thanks. Guess I needed that.”

Something told her the subject of the unknown dead soldier was closed. "Glad I could help.” She smiled and recapped the bottle of ointment. “It looks like that rash is gone.”

"Well, to tell the truth, I kind of hate to see it go.” He rolled over, sat on the edge of his bed, and reached for his pajama top. "I've grown pretty fond of these back rubs."

She washed her hands while trying to think of something to say. "Actually, you can have a back rub anytime you want. It's standard nursing procedure. It, uh, helps prevent bed sores."

Inwardly, she cringed at her lame remark. No patient as active as Mark Cahill was ever going to get bedsores.

"I'll be sure to remember that," he said, while buttoning the short-sleeved top. "Changing the subject from the fascinating world of bed sores and rashes, when you get a chance, could you help me snag a new pair of pajamas? I managed to get that stuff all over these."

“No problem. Let me put all this away and I’ll meet you at the linen room in a couple of minutes.”

In the nurse’s station, Gwen replaced the bottle of ointment, then pulled Mark's chart and dutifully recorded the treatment. After checking with Mrs. Anding, the ward’s head nurse, she got the key and headed for the linen room.

It was located off the main hall in a quiet cul-de-sac which contained several other small rooms used for storing cleaning equipment and other non-medical supplies. When she arrived, Mark was leaning against the door.

She smiled. "Sorry it took so long. Mrs. Anding was on the phone.”

“No problem. I've just been hanging around admiring this scene of old world culture and charm."

She laughed and unlocked the door. Inside, she switched on the overhead light and they began looking for a pair of extra large pajamas.

The VA issued two types of pajamas. Most patients wore the traditional style which came in a choice of either faded or washed-out green. Mark preferred ones called convalescents. They were dark blue and made of heavier material which allowed him to walk around without a robe.

The trouble was virtually every pair they found was old and had no label. They lucked out and quickly came across some bottoms in reasonably good shape with a label saying they were his size. Finding a matching shirt proved much tougher. While Gwen hunted, Mark tried on whatever she handed him.

After more searching, she came across one which she was sure would fit. From her kneeling position she looked up and laughed. "You're not an easy man to satisfy, you know.” She stood and pressed the garment against his bare chest. "But maybe I've got just what you need."

It was a very brief triumph. "As the granddaughter of a tailor, I’m certain it would fit. But now I notice it’s missing a button.” With a sigh, she lowered her hands and began folding the shirt.

When Mark said nothing, she continued, “But remember I told you about my friend, Ann? Well, she’s working on another ward. I'll take this one over there and see if they have one like it, but with buttons."

"Oh, don't worry about it," he said. There was an odd expression on his face.

"I don’t mind. It's about time for my break anyway."

With the help of her friend, Gwen’s mission accomplished. She returned to her ward, checked back in at the nursing station, and then headed for Mark’s room. After handing over her prize, she said, "I'd offer to close the curtains so you could change. But you've already put on the bottoms, so if it's all right, I'll wait to see if this fits."

"No problem," said Mark, who was standing in the middle of the room, putting on the top. To her surprise, he began struggling with the simple task of buttoning the shirt. Trembling fingers gave mute testimony to his growing frustration.

At first, Gwen hesitated to offer any help, afraid the gesture might hurt his feelings. But she was unable to just stand by and do nothing. "Can I help?"

He answered without looking at her. "Man and boy, I've been dressing myself for over twenty years. But, yes ma'am, if you don't mind, it looks like I could use a helping hand."

She came over and took the offending button from his fingers. His voice had been relatively calm. But standing next to him, she could feel his entire body shaking in frustration.

"It's these damn cataract glasses," he said. “They make doing some things pretty tough.” When she finished, he mumbled a thank you, then flopped back onto his bed.

It wasn't uncommon for her to spend a few minutes on slow afternoons talking to Mark. She liked him and liked hearing his smooth, southern accent. Not that he didn’t listen. Under his gentle questioning, she’d told him about herself, including Johnny. Her long-time boyfriend and now fiancé’ had dropped out of high school, washed out of the Navy, and was having trouble keeping a decent job. It could be very frustrating, she admitted, but she assured Mark she still loved Johnny and that once his situation was resolved, they’d get married.

Now, something told her Mark was the one who needed to talk. He’d just finished another long weekend alone on the ward, learned of yet another buddy’s death, and now the limitations of his vision had just been brought home to him.

She turned his bedside chair around and sat down facing him. "Mind if I stay for a minute and rest my feet?"

He seemed startled by the request. Looking in her direction, he responded, "If I ever start to mind that, then I really will be in trouble.” While he’d replied with a joke and a grin, to her, the humor sounded strained and the smile looked forced.

"Things like what just happened, do they bother you a lot?” Normally, she wouldn’t have been so direct. But she sensed that if she didn’t move quickly, he might try to rationalize away the incident and once again hide his emotions with humor.

"Just two times," Mark said, sitting up in bed, "daytime and nighttime.” As their conversation deepened, he told her what it was like to be totally blind for nearly a year and how he struggled to cope with his limitations and frustrations.

“The way I figure it, life is kind of like a poker game. You can’t control the cards you’re dealt, but you can control how you play your hand. In other words, you can either make the best of a situation or crawl away and wait to die.”

After a moment of indecision, she decided to risk asking the question that had always bothered her. “Do you mind telling me why you joined the Army? You had to know it meant going to Viet Nam.”

“Well, the war was out-of-style, very uncool, and I was in kind of a slump, so what else was I supposed to do? Besides, it was the only war around and I wanted to do my Ernest Hemingway thing. You know, check out what war was like.”

Gwen sensed they were circling a much bigger issue. Hoping she wasn’t making things worse, she said, “Mark, it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, but I’d really like to know what happened when you got hurt.”

“No problem. It was last summer. The guy in front of me stepped on a booby trap. I caught the blast from the waist up and couldn’t see a thing. About a month later, I was flown to an Army hospital in Texas. The doctors there removed one eye and said I’d never see out of the other. And if it hadn’t been for a lot of luck, they might have been right,” he said in conclusion.

The brief story was almost too much for Gwen to handle. Hoping to change the mood, she asked, “Does the government pay for all this?”

“They didn’t at first. The Army said I’d never see again and so the VA had me ticketed for a blind rehab center. But now they’re paying and letting me stay here while I heal up.”

“So how long have you been up here?”

“Since January. I’ve gotten home a couple of times. Short visits. In fact, that’s where I was when a certain nursing student named Gwen Kaplan began her summer job.”

Mark was sitting on the edge of his bed, feet propped on the lowered railing, elbows resting on knees. His voice was so low and soothing, Gwen had to scoot closer and lean forward to hear.

He paused in the middle of a sentence, apparently having noticed something around her eyebrows. In a casual tone, he said, "Close your eyes a second.”

Assuming he wanted to remove whatever he’d just spotted, she obeyed—and was stunned to feel Mark's lips press gently against hers. An intoxicating erotic energy took possession of her body. No hands touched her, but she couldn’t move. As if in a dream, she responded to the unexpected kiss.

The tip of his tongue met no resistance as it slipped between her lips. Once inside, it made slow sensuous love to her mouth, caressing and coaxing her into returning its touch. She felt powerless to resist. All she could do, all she wanted to do, was savor the feel of Mark Cahill's mouth against hers.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days later, she couldn't be sure, he broke the kiss and leaned back. Gwen opened her eyes and saw him looking straight at her. What he’d done wasn’t right, she was certain of that. But what was she supposed to do now? After all, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and she’d loved the kiss.

From somewhere deep inside her jumbled brain came a memory of instructors saying to reject the act, not the patient. Now all she could think to say was, "I like you, Mr. Cahill."

He responded in his trademark soft southern voice. "I like you, too, Miss Kaplan."

Unable to think of anything else to do, she struggled to her feet and somehow managed to reach the foot of Mark's bed on legs which threatened to collapse. "And Miss Kaplan,” she paused at the sound of Mark’s voice and looked back, “someday I'm going to kiss every inch of your body."

Still shaken by the kiss, she couldn’t believe this guy had just told her something so blatantly sexual. Things like that weren’t supposed to happen to nice Jewish girls from Queens, especially when they were engaged.

With her head spinning, she mumbled good-bye and made her way out of room 24. In the empty, neon-lighted corridor, she sagged against the wall. Her addled mind raced with unanswered questions triggered by that unexpected kiss.

How had it happened? She wasn't sure.

Had she, somehow, encouraged him? No way.

Should she tell her head nurse, Mrs. Anding, or Johnny? Definitely not. Mrs. Anding was too professional to approve and Johnny too insecure to ever understand.

What should she do the next time? She didn't know.

Would there be a next time? Possibly? Probably?

She glanced back at the door to Mark’s room. Hopefully?

#

"You're not an easy man to satisfy, you know," she'd said, with her soft, inviting, brown eyes gazing up at him from under those long, dark lashes. “But maybe I’ve got just what you need.”

With that, she’d stood and pressed a pajama top against his chest. When her fingertips touched his bare skin, it’d been a struggle to keep standing.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Mark kept replaying that scene, hearing those words. He went over and looked at himself in the mirror above the room's sink. With the thick, milk-bottle glasses he had to wear, the sprinkling of tiny powder burns around his eyes and the small scar on his left cheek, his face just wasn't the sort to tempt an engaged girl to flirt, especially a nice one like Gwen Kaplan.

And yet, back in the linen room, even before she touched his chest, he'd felt something happening between them. He stepped over to the window and stared across the street at the Bellevue nurses dorm and wondered which room was hers. Had she been standing a step closer than necessary? Had she been giving him a sexy look? Was it possible that she'd been flirting? Or was he just wanting to believe a cute girl like her could be attracted to him?

It’d been two years since he’d last felt anything like the emotions which swept over him, first then and later in his room as she buttoned the pajama top, fussed with the collar, and smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles. Looking into her eyes, feeling that touch, remembering those words, his palms had begun to sweat.

Of course, she probably hadn't been flirting. After all, she was studying to be a nurse. Assisting patients was part of her job. That included everything from coming to the rescue when they couldn't even button their damn pajamas to getting them talking about past traumas.

On the other hand, when he kissed her, she didn't jerk away or protest. That's what he'd expected. That’s why he’d hesitated too long in the linen room. They were, after all, practically strangers, and she was engaged, and what he’d said hadn’t just been a line, he really did like her. After a last, thoughtful look at the dorm, he turned and headed back to his bed.

But it had been a good kiss. And when she responded, it became a very good kiss. Very good, hell, it’d been outstanding. There’d been no mistaking the invitation in her moist, pliant lips, an invitation he'd gladly accepted. Nor was there any mistake about his wanting a chance to do it again.

The kiss startled her, he could tell. Of course, that line of his just before she left had probably been a total turn-off. Still, wasn’t there just a hint of a smile on her lips as she said goodbye and left? With his lousy vision, he couldn't be sure.

For all he knew, she might consider this sort of thing just another hazard of the job. Maybe she'd tolerated the kiss because she didn't want to hurt the feelings of a half-blind vet a long way from home.

Maybe. But something in her lips said that wasn't the case. Lying back on his bed, he could still smell her perfume and feel the sweet pressure of her mouth on his. It was a nice memory.

Gwen Kaplan had triggered a feeling he once doubted he’d ever have again. In a way, that was scary. Feeling nothing didn’t hurt. So her being engaged was a good thing, probably. He wondered if this might be the start of something interesting. That seemed very doubtful, but it was a nice thought.

Mark reached over to the nightstand and turned on his small radio. “In other national news, critics of the war in Vietnam are calling for renewed demonstrations over the government’s failure to immediately pull all US troops out of Cambo….”

The radio went silent. Mark released the on/off switch and stared out the window. Lights were still on in several dorm rooms across the street. It’d been a long time coming, he thought. But thanks to Gwen Kaplan, he now had something else to think about, and to sleep on.

A SPECIAL PRESENT: for your special someone

A SPECIAL PRESENT

Bill Fullerton

I was halfway between Sears and flat broke, sitting alone in the mall’s noisy food-court, eating a tasteless salad, and wondering why I let my mother con me into getting dressed and driving into town with her to go shopping the day after Thanksgiving, the busiest shopping day of the year.

She was right, of course. My mother is always right. And to prove the point, I had somehow managed to finish all my Christmas shopping. That’s good, because I could be a little busy in a few weeks.

Today’s shopping cost me more than just max’ed out credit cards. My feet hurt, my back ached, I felt tired, bloated and miserable. Of course, I felt that way long before hitting the mall. Being eight months pregnant can do that to a girl.

Make that an unmarried, pregnant girl. Of course, I’m no girl either, although it does seem like I stopped growing a lot sooner than the owner’s manual told my parent’s to expect. In her infinite wisdom, Mother Nature decided five-foot nothing was more than enough for Becky Miller to handle. So there’s not a whole lot of me to pack around a baby that keeps getting bigger by the hour and seems anxious to get out and look around.

It’s not like I didn’t know better. This will be my second baby. My first, Kylie, is two going on twenty and can’t wait to play with her baby brother. But my knowing better and doing what’s smart isn’t the same thing. At least it isn’t for me, not after falling in love with someone I may never see again.

The new baby’s daddy, Matt Hampton, never knew I was in love with him. And I wasn’t, not at first. We’d known each other forever. Of course, everybody knows everybody else out where we live. In high school, we fooled around a little, but didn’t date. A couple years after graduation, I got married instead of going back to college while he dropped out and joined the service.

Last December, I showed up at my parents’ house with Kylie, and a black eye. Stuart, my rich, good-looking, socio-path husband, gave me both.

A few days later, Matt came limping home with his left leg in a cast. Something very bad happened wherever he’d been doing whatever it was he did. Kylie and I went over to visit him the next day.

A lot of girls have had a crush on Matt. He was an all-everything jock with a boyish smile and a teasing attitude that was just a little cocky. The Matt I saw that day was still blonde and good-looking, but he was no boy. His skin wasn’t tan so much as a hard, weathered brown. There were tiny creases around the corners of his eyes. And sometimes those familiar blue-eyes had this funny, distant look. Most of all, the cockiness was gone, replaced by a quiet self-confidence.

In other words, he was a man—and I wanted him.

The next afternoon, I went back, without Kylie. We were alone, and soon making love.

"Becky Miller, you have the most delectable boobies.” He interrupted a very thorough job of nuzzling my breasts to say that, and was now smiling at me. My sweater and bra were off; my jeans and panties were about to follow. We were on the carpet in the living room. A few small logs burned in the nearby fireplace. The lights on the big Christmas tree were turned on. Just like me.

I stroked his short, blonde hair and grinned. "Don’t give me that, crap. I'm an original member of the Itty Bitty Titty Club.”

"Size don't mean diddly. I’ve always told you that." Matt used the tip of his tongue to emphasize the point. "Quality means a lot more that quantity. Believe me, lady, yours are first-rate. In fact, while these prime samples of female flesh may not be the biggest, they are, without doubt, still the finest pair I've ever had the pleasure of enjoying."

I don’t mind having small breasts. In fact, I prefer mine to the big udders most guys seem to go nuts over. That’s just as well. Even after having Kylie, there was little change in mine. At most, they went from hard-fried eggs to a couple sunny-side up. Matt’s gentle teasing and compliments reminded me how sweet he could be, and how much I wanted him.

"If that’s what you think, then there’s more than just your leg that needs attention. Lay back and let’s see if I can give you an early Christmas present."

When it ended, I was content, tingling all over, and stretched out on his chest. It was a good place to be. I could feel his heartbeat slowing while my body moved to the rhythm of his breathing.

Matt broke the silence. “To me you look a lot more like a cute elf than old Santa Claus. But I sure do like your Christmas presents and the way you deliver ‘em.”

After that we were together almost every day. Since his parents both worked, most of the time at his home, although we go out on dates. I’m sure everybody in town figured they knew what was going on between us. After all, everyone in our town knows everyone else and what their fellow citizens are doing. But I never heard of anyone so much as raising an eyebrow, much less objecting. That included our parents. In fact, I think that, like everyone else, they approved.

Still, Matt and I knew it was just a brief affair, nothing more. He would return to the service, I’d go back to college. No strings attached. That’s the way it always had been between us.

Then I fell in love with him. It’d been coming on for some time, but I wouldn’t admit what I was feeling. Sure Matt and I had changed. But we hadn’t changed that much, had we? There’d been no chemistry between us back in high school, so why now? I kept telling myself that what I felt was a combination of friendship, sympathy, and sex, not love.

All that ended the night he beat-up Stuart, my husband who had beaten me up—twice. It happened the week after the divorce papers were filed. We were at a club with some friends. Matt still had his cast on, so we were just listening to the band.

Stuart came over to our booth and started carrying on. Matt never moved, just told Stuart, who was almost leaning on him to get closer to me, that he should leave. When Stuart ignored him and kept yelling at me, Matt hit him several times, real fast, just how and where I’m not sure. Stuart let out this funny, gurgling noise and sank to his knees beside our table.

Matt put a hand on Stuart’s shoulder and must have done something, because I saw Stuart grimace. Then Matt pulled him close and asked, in this dead-calm voice, if he was ever going to bother me again. Stuart’s a big guy, and believe me, he’s strong. But I could see fear in his eyes as he mumbled, no.

From then on, I was hooked. All my life, I’d felt in total control around men. It’s not my looks. I’m short, flat-chested, and no great beauty. But guys seldom seem to notice. I like to think it’s my eyes, and smile, and personality. Maybe those do play a part, but most of it is my being a total flirt, and having a nice butt.

Everything changed when Stuart beat me up. After the second time, when he started for Kylie’s room before I got him to turn back on me, I would feel this twinge of fear and uncertainty around men I didn’t know. But the fear vanished whenever I was with Matt. Then I was my old self, feeling in control, safe, complete. I’d always liked Matt, now I loved him. My problem was how to convince him he loved me.

Then he told me he wasn’t just going back to the service, but back to wherever he was when he got wounded. He felt responsible for the deaths of two friends. “I trusted someone who betrayed us. My friends are dead. He’s still there.”

I thought I was going to have a breakdown. This wasn’t fair. What scared me most was the absolute certainty he didn’t give a damn whether he lived or died, just so long as he killed that other person first. The only thing that gave him any second thoughts was my reminder that he was an only child. I begged him to think of what his death would mean to his family.

But I knew he wouldn’t budge.

After Christmas, he went back to the service to spend a few months getting his leg in shape and preparing to return to his old assignment. Meanwhile, I re-entered college and considered my very limited options.

In April, he came home on leave prior to going back to wherever that other guy was. I met him with a big smile, and a body that was all his and free of any trace of birth control pills. If the next few weeks were the last I would ever have with him, maybe I would have his child. If his parents, who I dearly loved, lost their son, they might at least have his grandchild. Maybe that would ease their grief, our grief.

Now, eight months later, Matt may be dead or alive, I don’t know. But I’ve got his child, his son. “Matt Hampton, Jr.,” I whispered the name, smiling at the sound. Then I heard myself continuing, “…only child of the late Matt Hampton,” and began to cry.

“This seat taken?” I didn’t look up, just shook my head and kept searching for a napkin.

Someone pulled out the chair next to me and sat down. “Is the food here that bad, or are you just sad to see me?”

Who the hell was this idiot? I turned, and was staring at someone who looked just like, Matt Hampton. For maybe the first time in my life, I was speechless. Just breathing was hard enough. Before I could think of something to say, he leaned over and kissed me. It was soft and gentle, and seemed to last forever, which was way too short for me.

Nothing made sense. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “Glad to see you, too, Miss Miller.”

Then it registered. “You’re alive!” I threw my arms around his neck, buried my face against his chest, and really began crying.

I didn’t want to look up. The face I saw might not be Matt’s. This could all be a dream. But I recognized his hard body, his special smell, and his gentle touch as he stroked my hair.

When I worked up the courage to look, all I could say was, “Really, what happened?”

“I quit.”

“You can’t just quit—can you?”

“My mission was accomplished. My time was about up. I told the bosses I had personal business to attend to, and quit.”

“Am I that personal business?”

“Damn straight. I got a message a few weeks ago from old Dad. Don’t ask how. Anyway, he filled me in on what you did and how things have been, well, developing since I left. He said you were way too good for me, and that while there may have been a few bastards in our family, they were all self-made men, not accidents of birth.”

“He shouldn’t have done that. This was no accident,” I touched my belly. “I don’t want you here because you feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t. I’m just—“ The smile left his face. To my amazement, Matt looked away, but not before I saw a tear roll down his cheek. After a moment, he wiped a hand down his face, turned back, and gestured toward my protruding middle. “You love me, that much?”

I nodded.

He swallowed. “Becky, before leaving, I fought falling in love with you. It wasn’t easy, but I wasn’t sure I’d make it back. Nearly didn’t.” He almost looked embarrassed. “Anyway, Dad didn’t let me know about you and the baby until after I finished. He was right to wait. Because since then, I swear, you and the baby, and Kylie, and just life itself, that’s all I can think about. So I had to get out. I want life now, not more death. And it’s because of you, because I love you. Oh, God, how I love you. Becky, will you please marry me?”

I nodded and we were hugging and I was crying again all the while grinning like I’d won the lottery. In a way, I had. We kissed. It made the first one seem like a chaste peck on the cheek. When we came up for air, I patted my very big belly. “I’m afraid it won’t be much of a honeymoon.”

“That’s okay. I’m counting on having a long life to make up for lost time. When’s the baby due?”

“Well, if your son will wait that long, around Christmas.”

“A boy baby, at Christmas.” He seemed pleased with the prospect. “And we’re not even Jewish.”

“You’re an idiot. But I do love you.”

“And I love you, too. Remember last year, when we first made love and I said I liked your presents and the way you delivered them? Well, I still do.” He reached out and laid the palm of his hand on my belly. “It’s just that I never counted on such a special Christmas present.”

I began to cry again, and pressed his hand against my belly. The baby picked that moment to kick. Matt grinned, stood up, and began helping me out of my chair. “I think that was a not-too-subtle hint from our son that we better get moving on this marrying business. Where’s the nearest jewelry store? We need to buy some rings.”

==

Bill Fullerton has been a newspaper columnist, government paper-pusher, oilfield roustabout, and served in Vietnam.

His short stories have appeared in: Rose and Thorn, New Works, Review, DeadMule, Chick Flicks, Nibbler, and Muscadine Lines. Long Story Short named one of his short stories, Story of the Month.

LSS also ran an excerpt of his second novel, We Danced to Ray Charles, a coming-of-age love story that was a semi-finalist (work-in-progress) for the Faulkner Award, and a finalist in the Santa Fe Writer’s Project contest.

THE PROPOSITION

This very short story (1000 words) is adapted from a scene in my first novel, the still to be discovered and published, A BRIEF AFFAIR.

Bayou Bill

==

THE PROPOSITION
by Bill Fullerton

In Mark Malone’s considered opinion, things could be a helluva lot worse. It was a beautiful, early fall day in New York. He’d gotten out of the VA hospital and now sat in a coffee shop on Lexington Avenue staring across the table at Gwen Davis. The third-year nursing student at nearby Bellevue seemed to be talking about school. This is damn tough duty, he thought, but someone’s got to do it.

With just a touch of autumn crispness in the air, Gwen had on a long sleeved, burgundy turtleneck with a navy-blue vest and matching mini-skirt. Mark didn't know fashion, but knew what he liked, and he liked what he saw—a lot.

There was something special about her today, something he could sense, but not identify. Not only did Gwen look good, she seemed brighter, happier and, if possible, even more desirable.

Since they met back during the summer, she’d become a regular visitor to his room. Whenever possible, they'd leave the hospital. She’d always made it clear, however, that to keep both her family and Johnny, her long-time fiancé, happy, she needed to spend time home almost every weekend. This often resulted in serious schedule juggling.

Well, I hope she thinks it's worth the strain, he thought, while half-listening to Gwen's complaints. After days of hospital boredom, he liked going out with her and splurging on a good time, something she also seemed to enjoy.

Last week, she’d warned him a major exam in Medical-Surgical nursing was coming on Monday and she had to put in some serious book time. A special study group would meet Sunday night in the dorm. She promised to try and get back early enough so they could go out for a few hours.

While Mark admitted to being disappointed he said that, having battled higher education for three years before volunteering for Vietnam, he understood. To his relief, she’d managed to come back in time for them to catch the new Mel Brooks film. Now they were in a small booth at Milton’s Coffee Shop near her dorm eating hamburgers and talking.

"Are you listening to me?” She gave him a look of tolerant exasperation.

"Not really. I do believe you were in the middle of a major rant and rave about the idiocy of one of your teachers, but don't press me for details."

She nodded. "So if you weren't paying rapt attention to my every word, what were you doing?"

"To tell the truth, I was thinking how great you look today, and how I'm glad you got back in time for us to go out, and how much I wish you didn't have that damn test tomorrow."

"Why, thank you." Gwen seemed both pleased and surprised by the unexpected compliment. "I'm really sorry about the test. Believe me, I'd much rather be spending the evening with you than with a study group."

"I think that's what they call a back-handed compliment. But I'll take whatever compliments I can get."

They both laughed. "Who knows,” he said, “maybe it's a good thing you're busy. You look so good today, you might run the risk of me trying to seduce you."

Gwen’s enticing brown eyes studied him until, in a calm, almost matter-of-fact voice, she said, "Well, if you want to do something like that, you'll have to ask."

Mark sat dumbfounded. He had been joking, well, maybe half-joking. It was supposed to be one of those things you said to a girl to let her know you wanted to make love with her without having to come right out and say so.

According to the small town, southern script he’d always followed, the boy asked. The girl then ignored the remark, acted insulted, or smiled coyly while shaking her head, hinting that while not now, maybe someday.

For whatever reason, this girl hadn't followed that time-honored script. Instead, she’d all but dared him to proposition her.

Over the past few months they’d gotten into some heavy make-out sessions, but nothing more. After all, she was the proverbial nice Jewish girl from Queens, and engaged. Making out with a beat-up vet you liked and felt sorry for might be okay, but nothing more. Now this.

Wish I understood what the hell’s happening, he thought. But if this is how they do things up here in the big city, I'll try to go along with the program.

With Gwen’s gaze still boring into him, Mark stammered, "Sure. Well then, uh, so how about it? I mean, would you like to, you know, spend the night with me, some weekend?"

To his astonishment, he heard her say, "All right. But what were you thinking about in terms of when and where?"

It all seemed a bit unreal. After practically inviting him to ask, Gwen had said, yes, and now wanted to know when and where.

"As soon as possible, of course," he said, rushing his words. He paused, smiled at his own nervousness, then continued in a more normal voice. "But as I may have mentioned, I'm a stranger here myself. I've got no idea about the where part."

For just a moment, she seemed to analyze the situation. "Next weekend should be okay. Johnny's going out of town with his mother, so there’ll only be my parents to worry about. And I think my friend Sue once stayed in a hotel around here with one of her boyfriends."

"I’ll try to check on the hotel with her tonight. But for now, the Fundamentals of Medical-Surgical Nursing calls. If I don't get back to the dorm and hit the books, I'll be an ex-nursing student."

Mark took the hint, stood, and then watched as Gwen collected her purse and slid out of the booth, the movement revealing most of her long, shapely legs. It might still be a beautiful, early fall day in New York, but in his considered opinion, things had somehow just gotten a helluva lot better.

A SPECIAL PHOTO - short story

I wrote this, along with another story, A Special Christmas Present, which can be found in the December archives, during the first months of the deployment of our soldiers to Afghanistan and Iraq. That now seems a long time ago. The easy, early victories are no more. Much of the initial enthusiasm has waned. But for those who serve and the ones who love them, the pain of separation continues.

This is for them.

Bayou Bill

==

A Special Photo
by Bill Fullerton

Sensual and seductive, she lay amid the rumpled sheets of the bed where we'd just made love, relaxed and at ease within the golden skin of her petite, perfect body. Not posing, not looking into the camera so much as through it, into the photographer, into me. Waiting with an expression of amused tolerance for me to finish and rejoin her. It was a special photo of a special lady.

I'm in the military doing the type of work that's supposed to be hush-hush. When people ask, I tell them I'm a security consultant specializing in on-site training. And, in a way, that is what I do. But that's about to be past tense. This is my last overseas tour of duty. In two weeks I'll be getting some time off, a promotion, and then become a headquarters man, a desk jockey, advising more than supervising the other, younger, guys who'll still be doing this type of work. After spending eleven months on this bitch of an assignment, most of it in the bush, that's starting to sound real good.

It's against regulations to get personal mail in the field. That's supposed to be collected when you go in for the monthly debriefing, delousing, and debauchery. Out here, it's just job related shit. That's the official line, anyway. But there are ways.

I was sitting alone in an early afternoon patch of shade outside my hut unable to take my eyes off the photo I'd just pulled from the envelope. It was almost a year since I'd last seen Holly Hightower, and maybe an hour or so since I last thought about her and about how we'd tried to cram a lifetime into one month. All that because my brother's girlfriend had an idea.

"Hey Logan, you remember Holly Hightower, don't you?" My kid brother, a high school senior, had just come in from football practice. He was leaning against the doorsill to the guest room in my parents' house. I'd just finished unpacking and was sitting on the side of the bed, lacing on my running shoes.

"Sure. She was behind me in school. Cute as hell, but there wasn't much of her. Dated this college guy, can't remember his name, all through high school. They looked so much alike it was spooky. Both were short, trim, good-looking. I think they got married right after she graduated. Why?"

"Well, she and that guy, his name's Bruce Dengler, they had a kid about a year ago. A few months later he split. And before you ask how I know all that, it's 'cause I'm dating her sister, Heather. Well, when I mentioned you were coming home for a month, she decided it'd do Holly a lot of good to get out of the house. So she wondered if you'd be willing to go on a double-date, you know, me and Heather, you and Holly."

I almost laughed. I'm a little old for double-dating. But Craig and I had always been close. So I decided it might be fun to tag along and check out his dating style, not to mention his girlfriend. And, okay, the idea of spending an evening with Holly Hightower had its appeal. That's why I agreed. Which proves, I guess, that sometimes it's better to be lucky than good.

On Saturday, Craig said Heather was spending the night with her big sister so we'd pick them both up at Holly's place. Heather turned out to be a younger, slightly taller version of her "big" sister. It was obvious why Craig was nuts about her and even I could tell she felt the same way about him.

As for Holly, she looked even better than I remembered. In part, because her face and figure had filled out a little. Unlike back in high school, she had boobs. Not big, but in perfect proportion to the rest of her slim body. When I said she looked great and mentioned her improved figure, she seemed pleased. "That's what having one of these will do for you," she said, jiggling the laughing baby she held in her arms.

But there was more to her improved looks than just a few extra pounds and inches. The Holly I'd known was a girl, a cute, quiet, super-nice cheerleader type. The Holly I'd just been re-introduced to was a woman, someone who'd been hurt but knew she could endure. I liked this new Holly more, a lot more.

The baby was named Hope, a tiny, blue-eyed, heart breaker with an uncanny resemblance to her mother and aunt. When I mentioned this, Heather said all the women in their family were runts and had names starting with the letter "H". The babysitter arrived and Holly gave her a quick orientation while I watched Craig and Heather playing with the baby.

Over supper at an Italian restaurant they all tried to catch me up on the local gossip at the same time. During a pause, I heard myself asking Holly about her separation. I started to apologize, but she smiled, laid her fingertips on the back of my hand, and said it was okay. At least I think she said it was okay. That gentle touch overloaded my circuits.

It seems she and her husband struggled for years to have a kid. Then when they hit the jackpot he started going weird. A few months later she learned he was having an affair with his fitness instructor. When Holly confronted him, he confessed, and then moved out.

There was no way we could all agree on the same music, so going dancing after dinner was out. Instead, we caught a movie and then, at Holly's suggestion, went back to her house. "That way I can send the babysitter home early and these children," she gestured at my brother and her sister sitting in the front seat, "can have some time alone."

We talked all the way back. She'd gotten a degree in education after putting her husband through law school. Now she was an elementary school teacher. "What can I tell you? I love kids."

At her place, Craig and Heather did as ordered and took the babysitter home. A few minutes later they came back but stayed out in the car to do their thing in private.

Inside, we old folks talked over coffee until the baby started fussing. I followed Holly into the dim blue light of the baby's room and watched as she checked out the situation. "Houston, we have a problem. The diaper must not have been on right 'cause we've got major leakage. And this nasty-nice baby hates messy."

After Hope had a new nightgown and diaper, Holly looked over at me. "Would you mind holding her while I change the bed? It's pretty soppy." I've handled my fair share of babies, even helped in a delivery, but this was different. The moment this baby looked up at me and grinned, I was hooked. By the time her momma had replaced the sheet and blanket, Hope was nestled on my chest and nodding off.

At first Holly just looked at the two of us with this odd smile. Then she leaned down and took Hope who stretched and yawned. No longer having a baby to comfort, I slipped outside to wait, and think. This feeling I had was unreal. It'd been years since I'd last seen Holly Hightower. There'd been many women in many places since then. But now I was falling for this one, hard.

Before I could get my tangled thoughts even semi-organized, the source of my confusion came out. Motioning for me to be quiet, she took my hand and led me away from the door. What she did next still amazes me. Just before we reached the living room, she stopped, turned around, and looked up at me. "Logan McClain, if you don't kiss me I'm going to slug you."

The funny thing is, I believed her. There wasn't the faintest hint of humor in her eyes or voice, just determination. Sure I was over a foot taller and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. But I had no doubt she'd hit me if I didn't follow orders. Besides, it was one helluva a tempting assignment.

The kiss was more than just two pairs of lips pressing together. Our two bodies seemed to mold into one. Arms, legs, fingers, lips, tongues all became hopelessly, marvelously, intertwined. She made no attempt to pull away. That was fine with me. I didn't want us to ever stop. But then came the point where the sexual energy that kiss was generating became more than I could ignore.

With an effort, I forced myself to pull my lips away from hers and look down into those incredible blue eyes. "Holly, either let's go to the living room and let me calm down, or to your bedroom and make love. 'Cause you're just about to blow…."

My plea was cut short by her lips pressing against mine. This time, she was the one who pulled back. Taking my hand in hers, she looked into my eyes as if searching my soul. Then she smiled and began leading me back down the hall, away from the living room.

I don't recall much about that first time. Oh, I'll never forget undressing her. My fingers were trembling like some high school guy about to get laid for the first time. The sight of those small, enticing breasts coming into view, then the image of slim hips and the perfect contours of legs being revealed as her jeans slid to the floor, those memories will be etched on my mind forever.

The same goes for how right it felt when I picked her up and the way she molded into my arms as I carried her over to the bed. The moment we first lay together, that's also a strong memory, for when our nude bodies came together, all my fumbling nervousness ended. And later, when I entered her and heard her moan and felt her warmth surrounding me, I knew it was the most natural, the most perfect, thing I'd ever done.

But after that, I don't remember much. All I have is a blurred image of bodies meshing, generating a passion, an ecstasy so intense all sense of time and place was lost. Everything seemed to fuse into a new emotion, one that for me at least, felt a lot like love. So while it's a blurry memory, it's a great one.

We went into the thing, I guess you'd call it an affair, maybe a relationship, knowing it couldn't last. I'd be leaving soon for a year, going someplace I couldn't mention to do something I couldn't talk about. As for Holly, she and her husband were going to counseling, trying to work out some sort of reconciliation. The two of us were the proverbial ships passing in the night.

Maybe it was knowing we had no future together that made our lovemaking so uninhibited, passionate, and constant. Thanks to Holly having her own house, and with Craig and Heather running interference and babysitting, we made love on an almost daily, sometimes hourly, basis. But all the sexual activity, all the knowledge that our time together was running out, couldn't mask a growing attraction that was much more than just physical.

A week before I had to leave, we both knew it was time for "that" talk. After a late supper at the same Italian restaurant we'd gone to on our first night together, Holly began. "At the counseling session today, Bruce asked to come home. I hadn't figured on that. In my mind, it was all over and we were just going through the motions. But now," her voice trailed off.

Something told me she wasn't finished and to keep my mouth shut. "Logan, I don't think it'll work, Bruce and me, not now, not after, not after meeting you. There, I said it, okay? No pride at all. I love you, not Bruce—not like I did anyway. That's why it's not going to work. But damn it, Logan." Tears interrupted her.

We were sitting together in a back booth. I put an arm around her shoulders and felt her wilt against my chest. It was my turn to talk. "But you've got to give it a try, for the baby's sake and your own peace of mind."

She nodded and cried even harder. When the tears subsided, she apologized and went to the ladies room. I ordered two cups of espresso and tried to be grateful for the brief time I'd had with her and not bitter at what I was about to lose.

Holly came back and sat across the table from me. "Remember how I told you to kiss me or I was going to hit you?"

"I'll never forget."

"Well, this is going to be our last weekend together. If you don't spend every minute of it with me, I really will slug you."

"I believed you then, and do now. So how can I say no?"

She smiled. "But I want something to remember you by. So bring a camera, take all the pictures you want, you know, of me. Just let me take a few of you, for a keepsake."

"That's one heck of an offer coming from a shy, modest school marm."

"I am shy. And I'm modest. Just not around you. From the moment you first walked into the house with Craig I wanted you to take me to bed. And now, I want you to love me all weekend and do so I'll be able to feel what we did for days afterward. And when the ache is gone, I’ll look at the pictures and remember you and this last month, like I hope you'll do, when you look at the ones of me."

"I don't need pictures to remember you. But I'll take plenty. The thing is, where I'm going, what I'll be doing, it's not a good idea to have personal photos. So you keep 'em for me. I'll be back and, who knows, maybe take a few more."

That was the right thing to do. But for the last fifty weeks, I've wished I'd risked keeping one or two of the photos I took during that weekend.

Just before leaving, I gave her the address where she could send regular, censored mail. But I also handed her a special envelope to be used if she needed to send a personal message. I explained that delivery was chancy and unauthorized but that with luck I'd get it within a week, even in the bush.

And today, less than two weeks before heading home, that envelope arrived. Inside, were two photos and a letter. The reconciliation didn't work. Her husband had gone back to his jock girlfriend. This would be mailed, Holly wrote in a PS, while coming home from the lawyer's office after filing for divorce.

The two pictures were in protective lamination. One was the special photo, the nude I'd taken of Holly lying on the bed where, moments before, we'd just made love. On the back she'd written, "If you still want me, I'm waiting." The other was a close-up of her and the baby. Judging from Hope's size, it was a very recent shot. Both of them were blowing kisses at the camera. There was no ring on the third finger of Holly's left hand.

I went into the hut and scribbled a quick note. "I do want you, forever. So hold that pose. You won't be waiting long." Then I wrapped it around the two photos, stuck it all in a waterproof envelope, and gave the native who smuggled our mail a little something extra to make sure it was on the next plane out.

For the second time in less than a year, I'd given up that special photo of Holly. But this time, I didn't mind. In a few more days, I'd be reclaiming it—along with the special model.