Sputterpub's Blog

They blew out his sinuses with saline. They X-rayed his face and did a coronal CT of his head. They prescribed Vicodin and he enjoyed the sleepy powerful feeling it gave him, the way it made even Monica’s TV shows interesting and actually led to a gratifying romp with her on the hall runner one night when she came home glowing from an evening with some business colleagues. He remembers her looking almost as beautiful that night as the first day he met her. But the Vicodin didn’t dent the headache.

He returned home breathless with exertion and epiphany. He wanted to talk it over with Debra, but he had to get past Monica first. She was on the deck. With Max, the realtor she’d used for the two houses they’d bought so far. Monica had been talking about another trade-up for some time and at first Simon figured that was why Max was sipping gin & tonic at the railing. Then he relaxed his eye muscles and let himself see. He wondered how long Monica and Max had been an item. He said “Hey” to them both and turned back into the house for the phone, for Debra, for the night.

The second half of the revelation came when he took Debra in his arms. He put his mouth against the top of her head, on her curls still warm from sitting on her porch watching the sun set, and he concentrated on the sensation of her torso in his hands, the curve of her breasts against his thumbs. She pulled her head away from him to look in his face before kissing him deeply, and then she told him she wanted his baby.

Simon almost melted with happiness. He became excited about his life. He went to Monica the next morning and announced the obvious. She acted angry. Said she’d take him for all he was worth. That made Simon chuckle. He was thinking then that with a bit more time and a lot of grace, he might be worth something.

He’s giving it all to Monica. The house and the cabin and every little framed window. Simon got away with his future. He now works three days a week and spends the rest of his time looking around.

They were into computer analysis then anyway. They were accustomed to the proprietary systems of their big corporate employers, and they also had separate little systems in their home offices. Most evenings they shifted between watching TV and working in their separate offices. They tended to different rooms, because Simon liked watching the cop shows and Monica was drawn more to the ones about lawyers or doctors. Soon it seemed that they only talked when they had to make a decision about an investment, and they only had sex when they traveled.

Monica went for momentary gratification and excitement. She was quite content to be married to Simon. But she was addicted to the feeling of power she had when she met a new man and attracted him. She loved the bestowing of herself on an appreciative male. She was drawn to sexual adventure, to under-the-table fondling, to car sex. She liked to go panty-less to bars.

They didn’t have an open marriage, but each was on the road enough that it was easy to arrange time apart. The only time Monica had a real problem was when she turned up pregnant. She and Simon had done it one time in that cycle; she remembered coming home from an incredible erotic session with Max and she must have exuded something, because Simon kind of jumped her in the upstairs hall, on the oriental runner, and she really enjoyed his raw spontaneity. She had to hide the abortion from him; that took more planning than any liaison.

She was a sales representative for a payroll service, and the meeting ahead was likely to be the biggest deal of her six month career. She turned to say goodbye as they neared her stop, and she noticed the monogram on his briefcase. “Like the president,” she observed.

They continued closer as they approached Simon’s place. When he drove into his carport she released her seat belt and curled over him. He pulled her face to his and her skirt to her waist and they might have done it right there except another tenant entered the parking area. They went up to his apartment instead, and in the course of the next seven hours inaugurated their relationship in his living room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. The utility porch was simply too small and too cold.

They were 22, unattached, and employed. Together they had a nest and plenty of money. The sex the first year was very nice; the promise from that first night hovered around their romance. They soon married.

There was some talk of graduate school for him but nothing came of it. There was some talk of camping and biking but nothing came of that either. They continued to advance in their marketing jobs. Simon sold the Camry and leased a Saab convertible. Monica traded in the Civic for an Acura.

As the campfire alters its state, from curlicues of red-glowing coals to licks of blue and gold, Daphne alters hers from outgoing to in-turning. She becomes very quiet, and she begins to sense the pathways of her nerves, the connections of her muscles, bones, ligaments, tendons, the coordination of her immune system. She visualizes the patterns of her own ankles and feet.

Gail isn’t touching her. But she’s reaching with her heart toward Daphne and at the same time trying to pull Reese’s spirit along with her. Reese jolts slightly, as if something struck her at the base of her neck. All three of them become very still and silent. For about four minutes, the only movement is the dance of the fire, and the only sounds are the cracks of oxidizing wood.

Daphne closes their trance when she stirs the fire with a crooked stick. “I think you got it, Reese,” she says. “Can you keep it up?”

Reese nods as she examines her ankle. Gail leans closer to see. “It feels much better,” Reese murmurs as she circles the flesh with her hands. “And the swelling seems already less. I’m sure I’ll be able to hike tomorrow.”

They’re all tired enough to sleep well. Gail is the only one who wakes because of the faint gunshot at 3 a.m. She wonders what roused her, as she falls back to sleep.

Reese’s ankle is only slightly swollen in the morning. She says it really doesn’t hurt. They bandage it for support, feed her aspirin, and break camp. They hadn’t intended to hike back out for another four days, so their packs are heavier than they’d planned; Gail and Daphne take on extra weight to lighten Reese’s.

Their trail out takes them past their original campsite. They pause in disbelief. Apparently the hunters were disappointed to find the camp abandoned. The area has been trashed. There’s broken glass, paper and foil litter, big gashes in nearby trees. Even gentle Gail is stirred to hatred.

As they hike, they discuss alternative plans. Reese’s ankle is doing well, but backpacking is out for this vacation. By the time they get to Reese’s car, they’ve decided to head for the coast. Daphne’s family frequents the area, and she knows where they can get a good room that they can afford.

Gail takes the wheel. Daphne hates driving and Reese should rest her ankle. They decide to have a real meal before they leave the area. They park at the local restaurant/saloon. There’s a banner hanging off its porch: EARTH FIRST – THEN WE’LL LOG THE OTHER PLANETS. They enter the dimly lit room anyway. They find a table, order chili and fries, and then take turns using the bathroom. They each appreciate the plumbing.

Gail is the last to use the bathroom, and she’s coming back to their table when a man walks into the place excited with news. Daphne and Reese stop their own conversation to listen to the guy report to the bartender/owner. He says the rescue squad had to go in this afternoon and fetch two hunters. There had been four in the party, two were injured last night, and the other two came out to get help. Reese and Daphne goggle at each other as Gail sits.

The man says one of the hunters turned his ankle while peeing in a rock pile last night. He fell exposed and lacerated his penis, but it was his ankle that required the squad. The other hunter actually shot himself in the foot. Apparently, he was trying to shoot a snake with a handgun. No one knows why he wouldn’t leave the snake alone, if there really was a snake, but he’d been drinking, so maybe reason is irrelevant. He may have been hit by his own ricochet, but the paramedics thought the wound looked too close for that; they hypothesized that he tripped on the same rocks as his buddy, and shot himself while trying to regain his balance. They had to use the county helicopter to get the injured men out of there.

Incidentally, the man reports, the two who went for help were such morons that they took a short cut through an area of thriving poison oak. They didn’t realize it yet, but they’d be erupting in an agonizing rash in three more days. “I know. I know. Our local economy depends on the hunters,” the man acknowledges to the bartender. “But these guys were obvious idiots. I gotta believe they deserved it.”

Daphne grins at Reese and Gail. She makes a fist with her thumb up. “I feel like a goddess,” she says. Reese and Gail return the gesture with happy faces, as the waitress arrives with their hot food.

“Teresa!” Daphne sang out.

Of course they hadn’t heard her, but now she made noise. “Don’t call me Teresa. Please. Not Tracy or Terry, either. I implore.” She limped into the clearing and began to dress.

“What’s the story? And why are you limping?”

“I think I did something to my ankle. I don’t know. I didn’t notice anything, but I was paying more attention to the hunters than to me. It gave me some trouble in the last quarter mile or so. I’m sure I just need to rest it.

“It was a good plan for us to move. Those guys could be dangerous. They were talking about partying with us. Remember the tall one, with the red shirt and the two guns? They called him Buck. Just as I got there, he was advising his buddies that with four of them to three of us, and with their weapons, sex was a sure thing tonight. It looked to me like he’d have no trouble convincing them to come after us. Especially after they’d had a few drinks.”

“I thought I heard gunshots.” Daphne stood and added wood to the fire.

“You did. Idiot Buck thinks he saw a snake in the rocks and fired his handgun. He shot twice and didn’t hit any snake, but the bullets ricocheted around in the rocks for awhile.”

They savored their escape as the campfire burned down. They agreed to hike far away from the hunters tomorrow.

Now Reese stands to look down on the dying fire. “Ouch,” she expels as she tries to walk. “I’m sorry to say this ankle may be a problem.”

Gail and Daphne speak at the same time. “Oh shit,” Daphne blurts through Gail’s “Sit down, Reese. Let me see.”

They remove her boot. The ankle is swelling. They figure Reese couldn’t have broken it; though in her a break wouldn’t have announced itself with a snap, it also wouldn’t have allowed her to walk. But it starts to look like a disabling injury. They can’t ice it, and the nearby creek is too steep and rocky for a night soaking.

Gail sits by Reese while Daphne unpacks their first aid kit. The only aid it offers is aspirin and an ace bandage. Daphne looks at her friends, blonde heads close together, and laments, “If this had to happen, I wish it had happened to me.”

She isn’t speaking some sort of charity. Daphne has the sturdiest ankles of the group. She also has the sturdiest ego.

She’s always had a strong sense of herself. She can recall clearly back to the age of two. She says she can remember discovering language. No matter what her experiences have been, she has remained unshakably her; even at five and a half years of age, when parents, doctors and hospital staff grossly mishandled her stay for a tonsillectomy, she knew they were incorrect in behavior, and that their errors were not her responsibility.

She can’t act. That would involve being someone else. She can’t lie. She’s incapable of having an identity crisis. She’s dense, in that she’s a concentrated personality. If she had sprained her ankle, she would have turned her focus inward, marshaled her powers of integration, and bullied the injury enough to hike out of there.

Gail speaks. “Daphne, do you suppose…do you think we could work together on this? Maybe it’s possible for me to translate healing from you to Reese.”

Daphne understands where Gail’s going before Gail finishes speaking. She grins as she pulls her bushy dark hair away from her face. “It can’t hurt to try,” she says to Gail. She feeds the fire to burn another half hour.

Gail says. “This fire’s wonderful. I’m glad we’re here.”

“I’m real glad we came away from the first campsite. Now that we know. For which we thank you,” Daphne bows toward Reese as she finishes. Gail seconds the gesture.

Reese is an inaudible woman. Her body makes no noise. Her skin doesn’t whisk when it’s rubbed, her stomach never rumbles, her joints don’t crack, and she never involuntarily belches or farts. As a result of her condition, she is intensely aware of the sounds her clothing makes. Even those who are often near her start to notice the swish of her silk blouse or the rasp of her corduroy trousers.

Reese can make noises. She can talk and snap her fingers and engage in all the voluntary body functions. She’s 18 years old and has certainly learned how to make sounds. But if it’s dark, and if Reese leaves clothes behind, she is an extraordinary spy.

She returned an hour ago from a sort of sortie, and her report made them glad they moved from their original choice of campsite. When they first arrived at that clearing in the late afternoon, they declared it perfect. They eased out of their backpacks with relief, set the frames against the furniture-sized boulders that dotted the area, and loosened the laces on their hiking boots. They noted the fast-running creek nearby; it was probably clear enough to drink from without filtering. They appreciated the absence of mosquitoes; they had expected the pests would find them at dusk, but since they’d been attacked even at noon in most of the pasture-like areas through which they’d passed, they thought the place a keeper.

They had already set up their tents when the dog came through. He was a friendly retriever, but he was followed by four hunters. They looked young enough to be okay but they acted like assholes. They couldn’t have been more than 25 years old, and they weren’t bad-looking, but they called the young women girls, they offered booze in the most offensive (hey, honey) way, and they seemed to think their rifles were remote penises, they handled them with such boyish pride. Two of them had handguns in holsters, too. One had a bumper sticker plastered diagonally across his pack; “Gun control means hitting your target,” it asserted.

The men moved on, threat-promising to return for a party after they set up their camp. It didn’t take long for the young women to agree that they’d better shift their campsite. Of course they resented the move, but it seemed necessary. They collapsed the tents, repacked their heavy frames, and slogged another mile. Their second campsite was farther off the trail than the first had been, past two water crossings, and upwind of where the men were; even the dog would have trouble finding them.

They ate their dinner after establishing that second camp. By the time they had finished their pasta and dirt-scoured the pot, it was full dark. Reese announced her intention to scout the men’s camp.

“Oh, let’s leave well enough alone,” Gail protested gently. But Reese was older than Gail, and her personality was more stubborn. “Come on,” she argued. “I’ve been doing this all my life. It’s one of my pleasures and one of my skills. I want to know what those assholes are up to.”

Reese began disrobing as she spoke. She’d spent so many evening hours naked and successfully eavesdropping, she was accustomed to being unclothed. Her willowy body emerged from her T-shirt and shorts, pale like the moon in the morning. She’d wear her boots until she got within range of the hunters. She said “later,” to her friends and disappeared into the surrounding foliage.

Daphne built a campfire while Reese was away. Gail foraged for fallen wood. Neither worried about Reese until an hour had passed. Then Daphne got antsy. She thought she heard faint gunshots. She fretted aloud. Gail was serene as usual. “She’s not that far away,” Gail reassured.  “I’m sure I’d sense something if Reese were in trouble.”

“Do you really think so? I mean, their camp’s at least a mile off.” Daphne knew that her friend could read people’s feelings, but Gail wasn’t telepathic. She wasn’t even an empath, as she described herself. They’d examined and discussed Gail’s special skill for years, and they used “sympath” to name it. Gail was able to feel “with” another, to the degree that she could even act as emotional translator between individuals. She did her best with people she loved, but they’d never tested her range.

“If a friend is close by, I can get feelings without attempting anything,” Gail said. “But I’m reaching for Reese right now, and I’m sure I’d know if I needed to know.”

“Know what?” came the voice from the surrounding bush.