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LOVE CHASE Early the evening before Mr. Shaws next session found me studying my notes at home. The last session cleared the air as far as the characters were concerned. I believed the alter egos were exactly the same in both stories. Cicero and Karut, Meka was Terentia, Sheba undoubtedly Elena, and Tanu had to be Catiline. Their differences from each tale were just subtle. Cicero was born to the lower half of the new middle class; Karut came into the world as the son of a herder. Both ended up as chieftains. Both were entrusted the care of a childless woman Sheba and Elena. Meka came easy to spot. Terentias methodical mind along with the obvious connection to Cicero revealed this character. I had no trouble with either woman's interest in the occult though some, especially today, would think the study a disturbing one. On the contrary, such sciences of those days were the cradles for our factual ones today. I would have never identified Elena or Catiline without deduction from the other two, however. Sheba came across only as a loving, loyal wife. Apart from this she had a burning notion that she and Tanu were one person in two separate bodies. Yet they belonged as one. This clenched the point when Elena requested Catiline's love making during their conversation in the hallway. Basically in Mr. Shaw's tales she came across as a flat character until the character of Tanu supported hers. As Elena she became more rounded and evolved. She also fitted in more with Cicero and his household than with her lover Catiline. Alone I never would have spotted Catiline as Tanu in a million years. Where lay the comparison? Or perhaps I listened more to history as I read it in college than Mr. Shaw's interpretation? Historical Catiline was a scoundrel, a rebel so eager for a riotous army that he recruited the mobs of Rome. An army comprised of, we call today, welfare trash, reprobates, hippies and scum. History recounts and discounts Catiline as a man too impatient to gain his own delusion of destiny and fast to anger when the pace slowed. The beast moved forever hungry for power, consuming everything and everybody in his path. I saw no comparison with Tanu. In fact I saw the opposite. Historically speaking, of course. And we all know history is loaded with lies. For instance, if Catiline was such a villain why did the people bring flowers to his grave for four years after his death, as history itself recalls? Therefore, believing the first three identified, Catiline must have been Tanu and finally Martin Shaw's alter ego. But who were all these people? Was Karut Martin's father or his brother, perhaps a close friend? In 1985 was Meka really mom? Sister? Could Sheba be none other than Martin himself? Stranger things have happened. And so, as Dennie called me to supper, I put down my many notes convinced Mr. Shaw truly had a split personality at least before the face of his problems. He saw the world as a battlefield, longed for only his lover's embrace and, one must admit, saw himself as quit a formidable fellow indeed. Now, if I could get him to finish his story, I could begin to steer Martin back into our friendlier world where hundreds of Shebas would give their left arm to be married to his wealth. Dennie rushed me into our modern dinning room with promises of an early spring meal of soup, salad and herbs. The very same junk I've always recommended to my patients but hated myself. I grew from the school that believed health food only made one weak, all those veggies! Often I argued with Dennie that even during the famines of Ireland, we Irish would rather starve than eat grass. I conceded potatoes, however. Taking a seat, I was glad to see my soup to be chicken and rice. Dennie pointed out a cloth-covered article atop our dinette. "A special dinner for a special unveiling," she mused. "Oh, what is under the veil?" I smiled more eager for the soup. Surely it had to be another one of her multi-colored, creations in paint, string, wicker or what-have-you. I forever said Dennie needed a psychiatrist and she often agreed. Thus she married me. But psychiatrists never analyze their wives. If they treasure their wits, that is. Dennie first made certain I was firmly in place with spoon in my grip then she moved to the dinette singing an introduction. Oh! That's her to the tee! She loved the spectacular and had such a fine sense of drama; she should have given up her paintbrush for the pen. Pulling away the cloth, she announced, "My lover comes!" And beamed proudly as she then sought my approval. Speaking non-professionally, I always hated that sort of under toned sniveling every artist presents along with his or her works. All artists whether that is writer, sculptor, painter or a Mexican pottery maker, should show more confidence in themselves. After all, they made the thing! Speaking professionally now, if someone showed disapproval just say Let's see you do better! Audacity should be the artist's only critic. But then again, Dennie had tons of that. This time she out did herself! Whatever it was comprised of paint, string, wicker and things I'm sure she pulled out of the trash compactor. But I sat beside myself for the meaning to its title. Forcing an approving smile I cheered, "You've outdone yourself, Darling." She dashed to my side and popped a kiss into my poor ear. "I have, haven't I?" "Yes you have, dear." I headed straight for the soup while Dennie marveled a moment more over her coming lover before joining me. "What does it mean?" I asked between sips. "It's not a sexual manifestation, is it?" Unlike my wife who could fill an hour with interpretations to her colors, shades and surfaces, Dennie's face only grew dim. She seemed to run away from her lover and came to sit close at the side of her chair closest to mine. "I don't know." She gazed at the thing as, I suppose, artists do at forgotten works. A bit of a disclaimer forced her brow down then all at once flew away. "Really!" I took notice and sat up smiling wildly. "Gee, maybe there's hope for you yet!" "Silly," she pouted. "You haven't any imagination. You are contrary to all the gods!" Almost choking I sprang erect, my eyes popped and my voice shrieked, "What? Where did you hear that phrase?" All at once the nightmare returned. Shaw's words were on my wife's lips! "My word!" Dennie nervously smiled up at me. "Sit down, Bob. What are you getting so upset about?" I tried to compose myself by sitting. But all appetite left me as I sat speechless and looking miserable upon Dennie. ***** Back at my office, I summoned Yvonne in before Mr. Shaw arrived. "There is no coincidence," I opened up telling her about Dennie use of Elena's words. Yvonne moved slowly to my side. I sat at the desk while she half sat atop it and ran gentle fingers up and down my shoulder. Perhaps unintentionally, her touch came very comforting yet I remained troubled. Mr. Shaw brought something into my life I had no precedent to deal with. "But how does one connect Mr. Shaw to Denise? Have they ever met?" Yvonne logically asked. I merely sat shaking my head. "He's putting things into your head, Bob, not hers. You are only seeing them elsewhere and thinking you never heard or saw them before now." Softly she remarked, "He's putting these things into your head." "Like Tanu put things into Sheba's head." I made the comparison. "There you go!" Yvonne shoved at me. "You are much too wrapped up in our patient!" I grimaced. "You think I should refer him to another doctor?" Yvonne shifted away from the desk and me. Quietly she moved to the office door while thoughtfully regarding me. "You're not the type to leave riddles unsolved. Once something is entrusted to you, you will see it through." And with a sad pout of her lips she opened the door to announce Martin Shaw who wasted no time getting back into his tale. This session he put me inside the house of Cicero, and things were not going too well on that home front either. It's out of the question, Cicero roared as he turned from Elena's blushing face. Terentia ran to Elena's side. She embraced the saddened and worried creature. You are unkind, she bawled at her husband. The girl has a right to purchase her freedom! Cicero, though head administrator of Rome, was no battle for Terentia. Yet he fought gallantly. She is too valuable to let go! He pleaded and demanded at the same time. She is also too young for marriage. Marcus, she is seventeen. Let her go. "I will not! "Then I will. Terentia turned and headed straight for her desk. I purchased her, I will sell her. Cicero's face corded and angry fire burned within his skull. He rushed to his wife's side. Taking her arm from the desk draw he pulled her away. How dare you! She slapped him square on the jaw while Elena turned from the scene. Consider her sold, Terentia panted, hesitated then rattled on as she withdrew the family inventory book, Touch me, will you! Perhaps you do not want her to go because you... She held her words for a moment but only out of respect for Elena. Then suddenly she didn't care as her voice fell into a harsh whisper. You lust for this maiden and you shall pay dearly for this weakness, my husband. Your love belongs to me. I will take what is mine. If not now, when you set her free! You may be a great lawyer and politician but I have resources more powerful than those of a mere man! She was thumbing through her inventory book seeking out Elena's name. Still she raged with tears the likeness of gossamer webbing across her eyes, You have always wanted that that is not yours! Always pressured the innocent into submission to your undeserving appetites! But not forever, Marcus! My day will come! Finding Elena's name in her book she looked angrily up at Cicero who cowered from her sharp gaze. How much? You decide. Cicero meekly waved the question off. Then making a quick turn around he added, No. It depends on the wealth of her new master. They turned to have Elena draw nearer. Who are we losing the best maiden we ever had to, dear, Terentia asked sweetly, victoriously. Elena did not know how to answer. Lowering her head she mumbled his name. Cicero swore he heard it correctly but would not believe it as Terentia asked for her to speak up. The uncertainty wrapped comforting arms around him and he refused to believe his ears. He ordered the fire of his fury to lodge itself in his skin and not erupt. It thickened his exterior against such an insult but he heard her say again, Lucius Sergius Catiline. Cicero stood stricken and dismayed. Terentia mentally hurried secret schemes weaved to protect Elena from a wrath sure to engulf her. Cicero's face cringed and began to explode when Terentia grabbed Elena and pulled her into an adjoining room. Looking back at her husband, she drew up her hand to keep him away and assured him, I will find out what this is all about. His eyes fired back at her, his fists balled. "Do as you say, woman!" he warned. Anger marked his eyes red. He bared his teeth. "You who have touched the dark robe of magic had better tug at it now, woman! For I will not tolerate treason under my roof!" In the privacy of Elena's bedroom she told Terentia everything. How she first saw Catiline then met him twice. How she felt and how his image filled her every thought and dream. Terentia was no fool. She had a loving heart which understood, but which also understood the deceiving lies of a villain. Without saying so she wondered if Catiline was using Elena to gain information about his deadly enemyCicero. We must give this matter time, Elena. Terentia tried to console the girl. Your master can not allow you to go to a man who may shortly be a criminal of the state. That man will do away with you after he uses you. I know nothing of politics. I only know that I love the man. Granted. Terentia proposed, For now, sit it out. I'm sure something will happen. The gods are on the side of true love. I pretty sure of that. In her bedroom that same evening Elena discounted Terentia's advice and came to grips with her dilemma. She had done enough weeping into the cool, stale Roman night and decided on a course of action for herself. Dressed in woolen nightclothes she leaned close to the only window in her room. A night patrol marched by under the window as a cat cried stirring a young centurion. It jumped away from the house of Cicero. Down a dirty brick street she could hear the exciting and musical sounds of an orgy, people having fun in the distance. A tan colored dog ran out from the narrow street. It tossed its head about then looked surprisingly up at her. Swiftly the critter dashed away into the night. As if the solution to her problem needed no formulation in her mind, she casually dressed into street clothes and left the house of Cicero forever. Orcus stepped into the tent in order to wake Catiline from a deep sleep. Without candlelight Catiline's tent seemed like an endless pit covered over with a shroud. Lucius, I need to speak with you. Orcus roused his general and friend. Orcus? Catiline asked into the dark face before him. It is I. Would your night guard allow anyone besides Titus or me? What is it, my friend? Catiline wrung the sleep from his eyes as he gathered up a lantern. You have a visitor. Whom? From Rome? He was half hopeful it would be a messenger with good news. A messenger he prayed for since first he took up his stand in Etruria. One who would come in the night and bring news of compromise or understanding from a misunderstanding Senate. A slave girl, Orcus replied drawing interest from Catiline. She calls herself Elena. She claims you know her. That is true. Catiline instantly fell into remorse. He refused the lantern of its light. Send her away, Orcus. He dashed the lantern and returned to his bunk with no other comment. Orcus thought this odd. Is she a whore? But Catiline did not reply. He could not bear to perceive Elena as a whore. It struck him beyond reason to discover her to be a spy. Orcus mused a second, May I give her to the men? Instantly Catiline was upon his friend. He balled his large fist within the younger man's clothing. Heaving Orcus across the tent he stammered, No! She is no whore! Send her away in peace! Orcus did as he was told. Orcus thought over the situation carefully before notifying Catiline that his orders were carried out. Elena did not leave without force. The slave wept, struggled and needed an escort to return to Rome. Orcus desired to know more about the beautiful slave and her connection with his general. But he wondered just how tender the subject was. Entering Catiline's tent, he discovered the fierce and mighty rebel sobbing upon his bunk. Catiline did not see Orcus at first. His hands covered his toiled face as tears ran through his fingers. Lucius, Orcus softly alerted him. Catiline looked up. Full of disappointment and embarrassment, the bigger man waved Orcus off. Yet the young man came to his friend's side. What pains you, my dearest friend? Catiline merely shook his head but Orcus pried further with no results. Changing his attack, Orcus slide down to the floor beside Catiline. Purposely he leaned against Catiline's leg. The elections are but eight days off, he whispered. I've often wondered if these will be my last days. Nonsense! Catiline peered down at him. Orcus went on as if Catiline made no comment. I think mostly of my father. If I die without honor would he cherish the honor I believe I carry in my heart. Or will he unearth my body and leave it for vultures to feast upon? I think of Rome also. He glanced to see that he had Catiline's undivided attention. I wonder if we fail will another come to her rescue. Cauis Julius Caesar perhaps. Catiline appeared to agree with the thought. I wonder sometimes why you are the people's champion now and not Caesar. I conclude that you must be more the man. The one the gods appointed for this dreadful task. You are not alone in this struggle. You are simply the only man big enough to wrestle with this demon. Orcus again checked his general's reaction. He saw none and decided to be coy. Mostly though I think I will miss not having a wife. Of dying before I can contribute children to the most glorious city mankind ever created. Dying before I could realize the intimate and profound beauty of being in love. For I've heard it said that life has no meaning without love, and death can not rob it from a man's heart. She is a spy, Catiline flatly stated. Yes, Orcus, I love her with a love that tears at my very being. It reaches in and rips out my heart. The emotion attacks me. I fear it could defeat me; the only enemy which could. Still, she is a spy. Four guards and two slaves dragged Elena from the encampment. They needed to tie her to an ox cart to prevent her return. Only after she passed out in a pool of tears did the party gain any peace. For several miles and long after day break only the whinny of the horses, the breathing of an ox and the struggle of wooden wheels along muddy roads disturbed the peace. She awoke from the wobble of the cart. Before her, lying asleep in a bed of straw were the two slaves. Bundled within woolen garments, they seemed unaffected by the jarring of the cart over a rocky path. There rode a formal looking guard atop gray horses on either side of the cart and one ahead, one to their rear. It all came back to her as she recognized their uniform as that of Catiline's army. Without pause or warning she began to bellow again. It woke the slaves in a fit and turned all heads. The guard to her left, who had been dozing just a bit cried out for her to be silent. One of the slaves also barked at her. "Take me back to Catiline, I beg of you. Please." She pleaded but only to the thin autumn air. Her hands were numb from the ropes, still she begged. Endlessly she cried and the cart toiled over the countryside into the evening. Finally, they unloaded their cargo before a house made of wood and round stone. Rome lied only an hour away along the road where they dropped her. "Here?" one of the guards questioned the choice of their leader. "Yes," he instructed. "None of us desires to show our faces in Rome until we do battle with the city." The two slaves undid her bondage. They needed to wrestle her from the cart as she fought and pleaded with them. The slaves remained on top of the cart while a guard placed himself and his horse between Elena and the cart. "Be gone with you, slave girl." He hollered and drove his steed into her. She fell hard. "Rome is just ahead. Go back home." They left her there in the muddy road toward Rome. She cried with what strength remained. She did not even notice the hands that gathered her up and escorted her into the house. Still sobbing, filled with utter despair, she was placed before a fire. A girl about her age in colorful grab began to bandage and oil her wrists. "You have a name, slave girl?" The girl investigated both her and the damage to her wrists. "You're very cold, slave girl." "Elena." The girl tossed blankets around Elena's shoulders then returned to fixing the bandages. "Good name, Elena. That's Grecian, you know, slave girl, very ancient and honorable name for a slave girl. Who is your master? She tried to distract her patient from her wounds, from her fatigue. But Elena did not want to answer that question. She only wanted to absorb the heat and then figure a way back to Catiline. "Madam Oracle is Grecian too. Perhaps you know her? She once lived in Delphi. High on a mountain top over looking a blue sea." "I never heard of her." Elena replied weakly and with very little interest. The girl began rubbing Elena's hands to get back circulation. "You are a Lomgypsy?" Elena asked but their conversation ended there. "Amorette, go fetch warm milk for her," another, older woman's voice entered the room. The girl moved so quickly she seemed to have vanished from Elena's side. The older woman came right upon Elena. She embraced her, studied her bandages, adjusted them and tucked her blanket. "You are from Athens, are you not?" Elena had only the strength to nod. "Hm," the woman who dressed much like Amorette appeared to approve. "Athenians have such lovely faces and a tone of skin not seen anywhere else." "Where am I?" Elena finally said. She leaned into the woman and started again to weep. "I am Clehorrah," the woman stated flatly. "This is my home. You are outside Roma along the northern passage. You are safe, for a time, here." "Gypsy?" Elena again suspected their race from their clothing. "I am a Sibylline oracle," Clehorrah made it clear. "My kin descend from a lost tribe of Israel. I am a priestess." She turned Elena so the fire's heat reached her right side. "You are here for a reason, child; maybe several reasons. And the first is to gain back your strength." With these words Elena fell asleep in Chehorrah's arms. Elena awoke to the sound of snoring. Her body felt strong. She sat right up and remembered she had been in the house of a Sibylline Oracle. It was night, perhaps very early morning. She rose from a straw bed and looked around. Right off she realized she was in a wildly colored and short, but sprouting dress. She felt her garments and a hair scarf as well. She must have looked like a gypsy! With only the light from a few glowing embers, she stepped about the fireplace to look at herself. Yes, she looked like Amorette. They were probably the girl's clothes. Beyond herself, she found she stood in a different room of the wooden and stone house, Clehorrah's house. A room made just for a bed, a cabinet and a chair, like a servant's quarters. Then she heard Amorette snore from under the bed. She peered into the dark shadows and made out the girl's outline. Elena smiled then left the room. Her intention was plain: to return to Catiline. By now it would be likely that Catiline had already marched south. That would make her journey shorter. Elena stumbled, though quietly, through the house until she came to the room that led to a foyer of sorts and to the night pitched outside. Then she heard a voice. It was Chehorrah's coming from a room off to her right. Elena cocked an ear and spied in the direction of the oracle's voice. She could not understand what was being said and moved toward the doorway. Inside the room Clehorrah sat before a crystal perched atop a tripod. Close to that was a small flame. The oracle appeared captured by the reflections the flame spun within the glass. Elena peered into the glass as well from where she hid at the doorway. She had heard of these things before. Romans were very superstitious. The rich and powerful would appoint and make appointments with seers, oracles, magicians and priests with ancient talents to foretell the future and resolve the problems of the present. The poor had their bone and palm readers. Very popular were those who observed the movements of birds to divine the future paths of humans. Some people even looked to the night sky for answers. Cicero and Terentia also consulted such people and Elena sometimes accompanied them. But she had never seen this form of magic. Cards, stars, bones, hand holding, leaves, but never a glass sparkling like mad and floating like a sunburst in the middle of a table. Clehorrah whispered a term or two in a language Elena did not understand. Then the oracle leaned close to the glass. She stared into it, as did Elena. Suddenly Elena gasped, which alerted Clehorrah and made her sit up and take notice of her spy. "I see myself!" Elena jolted back but kept her eyes glued to the glass. She froze awe stricken then moved right up to the images she saw in the glass. Clehorrah placed her hand over the glass, blocking the view. Elena gently removed the woman's hand. "Please, let me see." "You should not, Elena." The oracle also did not return her hand. She paused to observe the girl who knelt aside the table and watched her own image on the glass. She watched the amazement in Elena's face; she saw the drama reflected off her eyes. Finally, Clehorrah spoke, "Who is that man?" she asked. "My love," Elena stated without looking away. "He is so hurt. I must go to him." The oracle knew better. She had been at the glass much longer. She had seen the riders approaching. They were only minutes away now. "Touch the glass," the oracle finally instructed. Elena went for it as if it would magically send her to her man. It did not, yet it did change the scene. They watched as Catiline, who was just standing within the flap of a tent now turned and looked up and out from the glass. His eyes blinked and his body shifted as if he could actually see Elena. She moved closer and called to him. He turned as if he heard. "Call to him again, Elena," she did as told. "Again." She cried out to him. Then the house rattled with the forced entry of guards with torches, swords drawn and shields high. Amorette had dashed upon the scene with a weapon of her own. She was quickly disarmed and one of the men ordered, "Remove these two." They were carried deeper into the house. Amorette struggling and screaming; Clehorrah knew exactly what took place. "Elena was held upright against the door jamb where she first looked into the room with the magical glass. Two men braced her against the wall as others entered followed by none other than Cicero himself. Elena was shocked, dismayed and terrified. Then without any fanfare, without indication, Cicero drew a blade and repeatedly struck at Elena. He bellowed over and over about the insult she had leveled upon him. Then, as she fell dead, he threw the knife into her torn carcass and hung his head. He stated bluntly, "If I can not have you, you can not be had." "So, doctor," Mr. Shaw drew me from Catiline's tent. "Do you recall how this story ends?" "Catiline lost the election," I replied. "Soon after Cicero arrested Cethegus. He had them put to death for treason, as I remember my history, and eventually defeated Catiline's army. Killing Catiline in battle." Shaw moved to the edge of his chair, his eyes locked on mine. "And not one of the 20,000 rebels deserted," Mr. Shaw remarked as he stood to leave. "No one deserted Catiline's cause. Not Cethegus or Caesar, and Elena went to her grave loving him totally." He flavored his departing remark with no friendly tone. I dont know if his comment carried spit or regret or warning, but there lived plenty of passion in his speech. Again the mysterious Mr. Shaw revealed something of himself to me. But there lay so many variables that I needed much more information and more time. Time to deal exclusively with him. I began to fear a sexual dysfunction hovered very real over his personality. His last remark; almost like a 'I told you so', made me wonder if Martin Shaw wasn't merely whittling away at a campfire tale or trying to explain an involved plot, a scheme wherein he was chasing after something or someone. If so, that someone had to be a woman personified as Sheba and Elena. And the something was a relationship, probably extremely sexual, lost somewhere during his early lifetime. What annoyed me about my guesses were his references to sex. As crude it could be, it was also free and pure, a form of sex where total integration appeared to be its goal. Since such sexual activity is only an ideal, I would have to think him very frustrated or perverted. Lost in the desert of sexuality or in its overly lush and abundant jungles. People in such situations can be walking time bombs eager to unburden themselves in dangerous ways. If Shaw struggled with his inability to perform or obtain his goal, he would eventually turn on himself. Great depression and even suicide may follow. If, on the other hand, he was lost in the myriad of sexual confusion, societyoften a particular individualwas in terrible danger. Time was an important aspect with this patient. And who was Sheba? Dennie again rushed me through dinner, for a different reason this evening. "We've been invited to Cathy's tonight!" She threw dishes in front of me, tossed food upon them, then just about spoon fed me. "All of a sudden?" I mumbled over a tough piece of steak. "I forgot to tell you," she gulped down her own share. "And don't eat too much; you know Cathy's parties." I went through the motions of dinner and cleaning up for Cathy's. It was not unusual for things to slip Dennie's mind. So we rushed off to the party like we headed out to a thousand other dates before thenfrantically! A hammering rain belted the windshield and made folly of the wipers as I tried to maintain a decent speed that would get us there by eight. I entered the car complaining as mildly as I could about her too often absent-mindedness in such matters. "It's just not fair to me to learn of commitments at the last minute," I argued. Dennie merely glanced at me side wise and shrugged. She appeared more surprised than apologetic, saying, "Sorry, I'll have Cathy arrange it with you next time." "All I ask is to be informed," I quibbled. "Any sort of fair warning will do." "By the gods! You're touchy lately!" She rallied back at me, her tone a trifle more biting. "And stop using that expression. I hate it!" "Case in point." She crossed her arms, stared forward and smirked as if just winning a courtroom dual against Perry Mason. I wished the entire matter would have dropped then and there, however, she introduced further concern into it by adding, "You're making life so difficult lately, Bob. You make me feel secondary to your work." I put aside the attention required to drive against the intense rain to throw a questioning look at her. "You think I am ignoring you?" "Yes, somewhat." I asked the stupidest question possible, "How do you feel about that?" But before I could change my reply, she jumped all over me. "I'm not one of your patients! Don't go asking about my inner feelings. I'm your god damn wife and I'll give you my feelings when I think you deserve them!" Without any further conversation we continued on to Cathy's. I sat tight and cursing myself for my foolishness. Dennie disguised any emotions but I felt certain a heavy mixture of anger and hurt kept her posture frozen. Using my fashionable overcoat as an umbrella, I portrayed the perfect and happy husband as I ran Dennie to Cathy's door. My wife hated artificial attitudes. She conveyed, with utter focus, her disfavor for me with a kind hello to Cathy then rushing directly past us. Cathy placed her questioning gaze upon me. I constructed a wry smile that comes easy before the likes of our long time friend. If Phyllis Diller had a daughter, whom she very well may haveI just never cared to find outCathy would pass for her in all ways. Parties at her luxurious home were not to be missed. Besides her command imitations of Diller, she always accommodated every taste in foods and entertainment. She was the long stemmed-cigarette-holder-and-tight-flowing-gown type. Aloft in her mannerisms but noisy and crafty as a devil, and she demanded her questions answered. Above her practiced smile, her eyes demanded the dirt. "Your typical happily married couple at a party," I shrugged. "She goes her way and I go mine!" "Every little thing's all right, Bob?" Golden Blossom Honey poured from her bright red lips. "Never better, Cathy," I kissed the air an inch from her cheek; she'd kill me had I dare muss her makeup! "Are any congratulations in order?" I checked her ring finger. "I'm still available, Bobby." She suggestively giggled. I would never even hint to her that I knew what it meant. I avoided my wife for a solid two hours. I believed my action a good one at the time. We both needed some distraction, she from me and I from bringing Mr. Shaw's case home to our private lives. I grouped up with three other doctors and one lady. She was Doctor Agostino's wife, a little frail thing that rarely left his side. As a doctor, I often tried to analyze her clinging behavior. Such women fall into several categories but sometimes an intense study is needed to know which. Clingers can be insecure, possessive, publicly shy, and domestically dominant and on and on it goes. However, as a casual friend, I left the figuring out to her doctor-husband and accepted her as an extra growth of flesh hanging off of him. On the other hand, Agostino came across as the confident, dominant type. A vociferous Tom Seleck with Sissy Spacek to hand him his cigarettes and drinks; to tuck him in and fall willingly into his passionate arms. Tim Motta and Aaron Rosenbergthe other two doctorsrivaled Cathy as entertainment. Tim, merry to the death, overweight and reckless with his hands as any Italian speaks contrasted Aaron like sugar and salt. Aaron delighted in highbrow conversation, gourmet foods and fine manners. Yet they remained close as friends could be. I believed it some strange sadist-masochist relationship. Without delay the four of us fell into shoptalk. And for every profound revelation Aaron rose, Tim would split our sides with his opinion. Disarmed and insulted Aaron, hiding his frustration, carried on as if Tim's remark flew over from other groups in the large dining hall. After awhile, bouncing between sympathy and annoyance, such conversation wears extraordinarily thin. Was then I rambled around the huge house in search of Denise. People filled each room upstairs and down. Most I knew and the others I knew of. It was a ritzy crowd formed by doctors, lawyers and important people from all walks of life. Cathy naturally levitated to such an element. Often I mused if any of the VIP's ever drifted to her on naturally their own? Too many hellos and slaps to my poor back routed me to Cathy's expansive terrace. The rain had vanished leaving behind a delicious scent in the mid-spring air and the moon rolled over the tops of narrow clouds. It lured me out to the terraces embrace with its three granite foot vases over flowing with silk and vinyl flowers. Others had already taken refuge along the carefully placed walks coursing through a cultured estate beyond the terrace. I decided it a pleasant walk myself and began to cross the terrace to follow a grand stairway down to the lawn. Dennie's voice halted me as its familiar nuance captured my ear. I looked back toward the house to discover her at the far end of the terrace. She stood behind a potted spruce speaking with a man I did not recognize. From my vantage point I watched but could not hear their words. A heated pang surged at my heart and tightened my chest. A fever boiled in my blood. I studied the man carefully and worse, found him faultless! His chiseled features resembled those of a Grecian god. With wide, sensuous eyes he stroked every part of Denise. So this is what jealousy is like, part of me, an unfeeling and coldly intellectual part of me, mused. It was actually a newer plateau to jealousy for often in the past I had resented men who came on to my wife. Gazes and casual admirers never bothered me. But those who confidently approached her as a possible conquest stirred bitter emotions from within me. I stepped closer to their shadowy figures. My thoughts and eyes fell to Dennie. How was she responding? In what light did she see the man? Her eyes were adrift within his. She appeared captivated by his very voice. I tried to see deeper into her; to challenge my very guess against guesses that she was falling for this god. However, the newly found moonlight caressing her white gown colored it a soft powdery blue, her charms made me pause to admire her alone. I could not distrust the innocent beauty and depth of her blue eyes, even though they rested upon such a man as this one. Her tender skin glowed revealing a wondrous shimmer in her lovely face. For the first time ever I discovered the power of love. It drove me to the primitive beast, possessive and torn with jealousy. Then it instantly shot me right up to lofty heights where simple innocence can inspire only feelings of love. But jealousy returned. I strolled over to them with a sly gait. My hands folded behind my back, I poked my head into their conversation. "I haven't had the pleasure." I leered at the man. "Oh, Darling!" Dennie perked with a tone reminiscent of how she greeted me on my arrival home from work for the first six months of our marriage. She embraced my arm with the warmth she also retained from our younger years. "This is my husband…" she said to the man. "Yes, I do remember you." He reached out his right hand. I shook it but did not recognize him. "Im Nickie Montalbano." I couldn't help thinking that would inevitably be his name. "I saw you speak at Harvard last year." Oh, was he slick! "Are you a doctor?" I took back my hand. It dove directly into my jacket pocket wishing there was a handkerchief hiding somewheresoaked with alcohol. He chuckled for no apparent reason and answered, "No, wish I had such an easy go at life." He never met Mrs. Ziegler. He'd be a basket case after Mr. Shaw! "I'm an art renovator and restorer. My hands never remain idle." I couldn't get over how this tall, dark stranger managed to smile so handsomely as he jabbed at me. He, in an odd manner, reminded me of Mr. Shaw. "He has worked on some remarkable paintings, Bob." Dennie reminded me just how naive she could be at times. Later, as we drove home from Cathys I passed judgment on this man. "He's a god damn gigolo!" I started the argument. "He doesn't need women to support him. He's probably richer than you!" Dennie sneered back. "You know what I mean. This guy is trying to get into your pants, sweetie!" "All we did was talk, for God's sake! He didn't even compliment my appearances." "Oh, he's a smart one!" I sounded like Ralph Kramden. "He figured you out in a heart beat. He knew you were the artsy-craftsy type. He complimented your mind. Admit it, didn't he, Dennie?" "Are you jealous?" She appeared dismayed and amused all at once. "You are! How nice." Unfortunately, I'm a head shrinker. Any other husband would pull back and into her clutches by the remark. Nothing makes a man feel better than having his wife acknowledge his love for her. I would love to fall into such ignorant bliss every now and again. Not since I've learned to question every word and movement a person makes have such delightful spells over taken me. Knowledge carries with it a burden. Ironically enough, that burden is wisdom. |
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