Without a Net: Stories of Our Risky Flights Towards Love, Loss, and Home

By Jack Beach

Willing to take a risk? These are
risky tales that celebrate the fragile, stubborn human animal: no matter what
shape he takes, relationships he forms--the color of his mind. He is on
contradictory flights towards love (wherever he may find it), confrontations
with loss, and his search for home. He must also be packed for sudden stopovers
in North Africa or "Big Easy" to check out the
scenes there.

Don't expect consistency. These
stories leap like fleas from slapstick-farce in "The Five Dancing
Brothers" through horror in "Neighboring" and "The
Rats," past a Saroyanesque caper ("No
Sabbaticals in Tinseltown") and gay-world hustle
("Close Shave.") to end in the dream-reality of "House of
Children." You will meet some unusual folks: Big Tex from Peoria,
Branka the Gypsy, the Brainert
Boys, the Can Man, and Azzi's Wife. Maybe they will
remind you of someone--maybe you.

Two volumes of Jack Beach's
poetry have been published by 1 at Books Library: THE THREE MILE BRIDGE: Across
Pensacola Bay on a Span of Poems, and THE GRAND TOUR: A Steamer Trunk of Travel
Poems. WITHOUT A NET is his first prose work in print.style='mso-spacerun:yes'>

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 16, 2004
• ISBN: 9781418474522

Jack Beach

JACK BEACH (pen name) is a bona fide Yankee. Born in Galesburg, Illinois, he studied at Chicago’s Goodman Theatre, U; of Iowa, and Western Reserve U. (Ph.D.). After two decades on the Theatre Faculty at the University of Kansas, Beach pulled up stakes and headed to Atlanta, where his love of Southern Drama and Literature beckoned. Retiring from Agnes Scott College in 1985, he built a home in Pensacola, Florida, and leased a pad in New Orleans. For years he has been hobnobbing around the lower (decadent) end of the French Quarter, collecting the story gems and oddities revealed as poems and “prose snapshots” in MARDI GRAS: Beads, Belles, and Balls. Beach has published three previous books with Author House: The Three-Mile Bridge (poems) The Grand Tour (travel poems), and Without a Net (short stories).

Book preview

I. FLIGHTS TOWARDS

LOVE:

SEPTEMBER SONG

Patricia June (P.J.) Meyers finally stopped sobbing, stemming the gullywash of tears that had burst the dam at precisely 7:55 a.m. on September 22, 1990, just as the Today Show was doing its wrap, as they say in the business.

Oh, P.J. had shed an occasional tear these past two weeks—sixteen days to be exact—when she thought about his dying. She had bravely choked back sobs forming deep in her chest when surprised by some sudden and especially vivid image of Fred. These bouts could be triggered by an article of clothing, photograph, some personal effect (a Naval memento, or a piece of his smoking paraphernalia staring down from its familiar shelf space or up from a family-photo-crowded coffee table, through glass). Even more likely to challenge the tear ducts would be a song suddenly wafting across the sun room of their Monaco Grande Condo, ten floors above the Gulf of Mexico, courtesy of WXBL. WXBL was the local golden oldie FM station of which P.J. was both financially a Lifetime Patron and culturally a devotee. The abrasive options of Country Western, Disco, Southern Gospel, Acid Rock, and Rap were foreign countries which she had not the slightest intention of exploring. Then again, with her rich musical background, she felt Classical demanded (and deserved) one’s undivided attention. To relegate the Masters to the status of high-brow Muzak would be to commit some ultimate breach of taste. And, God knows, there had been little hope for ages now of sitting quietly and indulging in the luxury of fine music—the sickness segueing into funeral as it had; the funeral into … all that followed.

And then, last Thursday, WXBI had unexpectedly played the old Walter Huston rendition (which one seldom hears anymore) of September Song, her and Fred’s very favorite. Probably because we are heading into fall, she thought. Well, it had taken sheer willpower to keep tight rein on her emotions then. But she had, just as her dear Victorian mother had instructed a lady must always endeavor to do. Mother would have been proud, she thought, of the impenetrable facade she had so carefully erected to confront a curious and intrusive world. Brave, all her bridge club chums were saying.P.J. is so unbelievably brave. Poor dear!

But inside, Patricia June was a mess. She strove to keep herself nerve-rackingly, heartachingly busy around the clock—at least, until she would collapse, headachy and exhausted, into bed—too pooped to pop, as Fred used to say. But, whenever the body and mind consorted to demand rest, she only drove herself harder; lodged somewhere in her mind, was an old Readers Digest article which cited a survey that proved keeping busy was the one true antidote to grief.

But this morning, as she tended to her poached egg and poured her third cup of Columbia Gold Decaf from the Mr. Coffee pot, and handsome Bryan Gumbel (even though he was nearly black) and darling Jane Pauley (both of whom had been simply wonderful in helping her through these awful mornings) were just signing off, the flood-gates burst and all hell broke loose. She clicked off the microwave and barely managed to get the cup to the table without scalding her hand, falling into a chair. Sobbing uncontrollably, Bless me, Father. Bless me … she simultaneously made the sign of the cross and reached for the Kleenex box kept in readiness wedged between the Rooster and Hen salt and peppers. Clutching it like the baby she had lost, she rocked back and forth in a keening rhythm as old as time itself … At long last, she surrendered to the smooth top of her mother’s table and gave herself up to a deluge of sorrow which swept her down and down into a vortex of grief.

It was nearly noon by the time she had managed to pull herself together. Actually, she felt a lot better. A hell of a lot better, allowing herself the rare zing of profanity. She actually felt like getting up and trying to get on with things.

The shower perked P.J. up considerably. She even took some pleasure in slipping into a fresh blouse and favorite pair of slacks, realizing with a sudden shock that she had not cared enough to change out of her old housedress for two… three days now. At her dressing table, she unearthed rouge, lipstick, pancake, and eye shadow from the drawer. It was almost fun putting on a new face—noting, Mother of God, how sad and awful the old one looked. Then and there she resolved to go ahead with the tuck Bobbie Bagley had been urging, ever since the Bridge Club had pronounced hers an unqualified success, one which pared at least fifteen years off her real age and delivered her up a vibrantly younger mental and emotional self. Well, why the hell not? P.J. surprised herself by addressing aloud the retouched portrait in the mirror. "And remind me to ring up Franklin about redecorating the study," she charged Madam Gemini of the Magic Mirror—which actually was her Sun Sign (Virgo rising). Ah, blessed liberation from centuries of battleship blue-gray walls!—the one and only hue in the color chart of Fred Meyer’s mind. We’ll go pastel, she whispered breathlessly: "peach, spring green, lavender—’California colors’ they called it in House Beautiful. And she began humming, For it’s a long long time/from May to December …

On her way back to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of Mr. Coffee decaf, she paused and opened the door to the master bedroom, which had been for so many years the Planet Sun about which their universe had revolved. She smiled as she remembered how she had dutifully donned Mrs. Slinky, the peach satin wedding-night ensemble her mother had picked out. And how, from then on, she had reverted to the oversized men’s pajamas she had worn through college,

during grad school studies of Voice at the Conservatory, and on through the brief and disappointing pavement pounding sojourn in New York. It had stunned Fred at first; My God, he wailed that second night, it’s like crawling into bed with Huckleberry Finn! But the Devil was in his eye, and how the old (new then) bedsprings squealed, echoing the athletic whoops and joys of their maiden voyage together. Well, Fred had fallen in love all over again with the sexy little gamin he must have known was lurking there all along. So he had rechristened her P.J. her nickname from then on—but with a very special meaning known only to them. To add exotic variety to their love life, she had only to retrieve Mrs. Slinky from the back of the closet, which she did for anniversaries, Fred’s Birthday, Christmas (occasionally), and Easter (once). Otherwise it was PJs—tops only, of course!

Of course, it hadn’t been all smooth sledding. There were problems along the way. For starters, Fred refused to convert; also balked at signing those papers about raising the kids Catholic. But that was mandatory for a Catholic Church wedding, of course, even outside the altar rail, and after some stubborn bickering, he had finally agreed. Funny, in the long run it wouldn’t have made that much difference anyhow, would it?

Oh, well, she thought, all marriages have their shadow-side, like the sun and the moon and almost everything else in life. They had vowed, for better or for worse, hadn’t they? Only, she had been naively ill-prepared for just how awful that worse could be. The last three years: Fred lingering on, in and out of consciousness, in and out of pain; drapes pulled, air close with astringent smells hanging in the dusky space—and then, finally, the smell of the thing itself. And, even worse in those last months, the constant wheeze of the machine that became Fred’s lungs, foreshadowing that day his life finally surrendered, sucked out through the Black Hole of the cancer.

One thing for certain: she had been a good wife. She had dedicated her life to Fred’s welfare, his comfort in the confrontation with that grimmest of all Reapers—pain. These reflections flickered across her surprisingly calm mind like sparks from falling fireplace logs up at the cabin when everyone else was in bed; and they lingered on the sofa wrapped up in the Afghan she had knitted. Silent. Happy. Reading auguries in the dying fire.

P.J. crossed from the bed to the sliding balcony doors, flinging open the drapes in one sweeping gesture. The click of the latch was followed by the rasp of accumulated grit as she forced open the heavy glass door. She stepped out, absorbing the early autumn sun into her face and body, arms lifting, palms stretching out in a movement totally unfamiliar to her. The tangy air cleared her nostrils as a sharp cheese cleans the wine-taster’s palate. The long view down, which transported her glance out and up across aqua-green Gulf all the way to Mexico and the remembered Yucatan holiday together. It took her breath away. In that instant, she prayed to retrieve back that breath and, by some miracle, will it to Fred and bring him home again.

As rejuvenating as this autumn assault on the senses was, she couldn’t help wishing that it were first spring—that soul-stirring time which, back in Illinois, blew warm and healing up the Mississippi to lay to rest the hard reign of winter. That would have been perfect. But, she told herself, be thankful for the rescue from the doldrums this September morning’s sun had brought her.

By mid-afternoon P.J. felt (albeit shakily) a substantial likeness to her old self again. She sat at the restored Early American kitchen table (inherited from her Mother’s estate) where she had taken her meals as a child. She embraced her #1 WIFE mug of coffee with both hands, palms soaking up the second source of warmth from the morning’s bounty. Breath flowed unhampered for the first time in months.

She enjoyed a light lunch, which included two English muffins with the raspberry jam they had bought at a roadside stand once and never opened and a bowl of Broccoli Cheese Soup (the remainder of which she poured into a snap-lid container and relegated to the freezer compartment.) Then, P.J. decided that she should not let the rest of the day slip away without accomplishing something. Well, she could start by tackling Fred’s study closet, the area she had, up to now, feared to enter because of memory, mostly, but also because of the privacy they had always granted each other. Without privacy, Fred used to say, marriage becomes a ‘life sentence’ in the brig. She was never entirely clear about that, but Fred was wiser than her in many ways, so she always respected this belief of his. Well, for the moment she felt she could at least begin the digging-out process, taking it in easy doses. And, what the hell, she was no longer a slave to time. She would cope when she felt like it, cop out when she didn’t. Amazingly, considering the trauma of the day, she felt very much like closet coping.

P.J. was not at all sure what was stashed in there. She was sure it probably resembled Fibber McGee’s closet and would come crashing down on her head when she opened the door. The first object to greet her was Fred’s Beta Max video camera, propped just inside on its folded tripod like a wounded crane. As she lifted it out and stood it up in the middle of the room, she recalled a blurred phone conversation of a week or so before with Helen Gabler, one of her Bridge Club cronies. Helen was ever-so-slightly hearing impaired and taught Public Speaking at Jefferson Davis Middle School down the road. Helen had mentioned, in passing, that her classes were saving up for a Beta Max Camcorder to tape students’ presentations so they could see their mistakes. This idea had spooked P.J. who detested speaking in public, let alone the thought of watching an instant replay of her awkward self in living color. But, anyhow, why not give this stuff to Helen? … if she could find all the pieces and figure out what went where. It would also, she thought practically, be a tax write-off, and every little bit helps!

So she burrowed in and hauled out all the items that seemed, even vaguely, to be component parts of the system and separated them out neatly around the study, like a paleontologist sorting some prehistoric creature’s bones. How many times had she watched Fred do the same thing (puffing a bit more each year) as he assembled and then lugged the equipment down to the car for his Naval Information Lecture/Slide recruitment week-ends. It was a policy of the new Navy to interview prospective recruits on tape, to be replayed back at Base, thus bypassing reams of paper work. There was a certain irony in this, since Fred, himself, remained decidedly old Navy, God love him—always on the conservative side and sometimes, she thought with a smile, downright stodgy.

Fred had been called upon to do this sort of thing from time to time during his active service years. After retirement, it seemed he was out on the road a lot, especially over long week-ends. She had tried to persuade him to cut down on those lonely periods when he was away, but she might as well have been talking to a sump. He always muttered something about contributing to society while I’ve still got two good sea legs left. She always suffered a tinge of jealousy when she saw how he looked forward to these trips. But, in the long run, she admired him for it and suffered the loneliness in silence. And this lucky equipment, she thought, looking around with a small smile, had been his constant companion. She was smugly pleased to have found such a perfect foster home for it all.

She reached for the pad and pencil on the desk. Might need an inventory for the tax man: camera, monitor, amplifier, and miles of black umbilical cord with silver plugs on the ends (for bringing life from one unit to another, she presumed); a 12-pack box of ten clean cassette tapes and a squarish-looking recruitment kit, which reminded her of the satchel she had carried on the European Tour, her parents’ surprise gift to her upon graduation from the Conservatory. It was larger than a tote, smaller than a valise. It was genuine leather and black.

The kit, once unclasped, was laden with the accessories of this strange system: more cords (shorter and thicker), mikes, small mike stands, odds and ends of mysterious plastic pieces, a much-thumbed instruction booklet and a wrinkled basic-assembly sheet with scribblings and phone numbers jotted on it. On each side of the kit was an inner pocket which held a single cassette each. On one, a masking tape label in Fred’s handwriting said TONIGHT’S LEC. TAPE (Gerry and the Men) while the other read OVERSEAS POSTS TAPE. (Around-the-World). These she chucked in the trash basket, as of no use to anybody now. Besides she had found a box of clean tapes, which would get Helen started. A bit later, when she carried the kit out to place it with the rest of the stuff stacked in the hall for easy pick-up, she noticed a small outside pocket, which she had overlooked. Because she was a Virgo rising, she couldn’t resist investigating. Pressing the little metal release, she raised the stiff flap and reached inside. At first she thought it was empty. Then her fingers touched several small loose objects in the bottom. She picked one up, which felt round and hard and slick. She drew it out …

Ambivalent for only a moment, Patricia June Meyers found herself struggling to tear open the tough wrinkled blue foil, finally resorting to ripping it with her teeth and stripping off the casing. A dry, yellowed circlet emerged, looking like the membranous eye of some dead sea-creature. It resembled a little rolled-up balloon, and when she started to unroll it, a kind of thick tail dangled disgustingly. She stared at it like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Then, she would swear to you later, the floor gave way, and walls, oscillating, gave way too and crumbled with a roar and clouds of chalky dust, as the roof came crashing in, falling all the way down through darkness …

* * *

A month later, P.J.’s Bridge Club was gathered in their fall suits and smart knitted dresses at a sea of card tables set up in the Yacht Club Lounge for its weekly gathering. It had turned chilly now that September was behind them, and a slanting rain pelted the expanse of window overlooking the marina. Seated in great anticipation at P.J.’s table were her three best friends: Bobbie Bagley (in high spirits and smiling as broadly as the tuck would allow); Helen Gabler, who could hardly wait to thank P.J. in person for the marvelous gift of the Beta Max, and who had turned her hearing aid down so low upon arrival she didn’t hear them when they told her to turn it up; and third-player Beryl Aston-Jones from England, who had actually lived on the Gulf these twenty years but labored overtime to preserve her Britishness. P.J.’s chair was momentarily empty, awaiting the promised appearance of their old friend.

The ladies were all atwitter over P.J.’s impending arrival. They had missed her sorely, and had quickly wearied of substitute Alice Glick’s inane chatter. Ah, their old friend would be back with them again any minute now.

They had talked of little else this past month. Of how brave she had been all through the funeral and its aftermath, until the sudden relapse, when she had tactfully informed them that she needed time to herself and would be in touch when she felt better. So, there was high elation when she rang up Helen yesterday to inquire how the Beta Max was working out for her class and cheerily announced that she would be joining them for bridge today. She had even responded with interest when Helen brought up the Club’s planned Carnival Cruise to the Carribbean next month; said to be sure to count her in! Well, Helen kept her phone hot for some time spreading the news.

They had agreed not to bring up unpleasant things, since P.J. was bound to be a little tender. But they needn’t have worried. For here she came through the archway from the lounge. B.J. walked toward them in a new bright blue suit-dress, sporting a new auburn pixi-cut hairdo and pleased smile. There was a round of scattered applause throughout the room, and when she reached her table, embraces from well-wishers and old friends.

Chattering like morning birds, they settled back into their places. Beryl Aston-Jones, competitive and wanting to get going, stripped the cellophane from a new deck and tapped the cards smartly to get everybody’s attention. Then she shuffled with all the vigor and expertise of a Las Vegas pro and dealt out the opening hand.

. Oh, P.J, Helen all but shouted, as they picked up their hands, I must tell you again how crazy the kids are over the Beta Max. They want to photograph everything in sight! She elicited titters and tolerant smiles from even relatively distant tables.

And I must tell you, P.J. began nonchalantly as she arranged her hand with the old assurance, what I found in a pocket of that square black accessory kit before you had the stuff picked up? There was a pause.

Well, my deah, said Beryl Aston-Jones, leaping into the breach, what?

Leaning over, P.J. spoke loudly into Helen’s ear: Rubbers!

But, P.J., Helen brayed, we’ve only just begun the first rubber.

Rubber bands? Bobby Bagley wanted to know.

Nothing awfully odd about a chap having extra erasers along on a business jaunt, is there? Ms. Aston-Jones wondered testily, because of the grim hand she had just dealt herself.

Not an eraser, girls, P.J. replied, studying her hand to decide on how to bid, but not missing a beat, either: rubbers, Trojans, condoms … two no-trump. P.J. led and took the trick. I’m wondering, she added, tapping the little packet of cards briskly and placing it neatly before her, why there’s so many of them left?

She began humming a snatch from an old tune about the month just past. It was her turn now to lead. And when she did, P.J. Meyers led from strength.

THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOW

Been a long long day. I’ve driven ten hours nonstop (nearly). And now, late in the afternoon, with eyes crossed, kidneys sprung, and butt numb, I’m stuck heading south on a hilly winding Tennessee road behind this vintage once-silver camper doing thirty and acting like it owned the narrow-gage highway. With luck, I figure, I’ll be able to get around him around midnight—maybe.

This allows ample time to observe the details of the tacky camper’s backsides. It is a STRIDER by genus and Big Cat by species. The spare hangs dead low-center in the back, its gaudy cover becoming as riveted on my retina as the cross hairs of Lee Harvey Oswald’s gunsight. Emblazoned there is a rabid purple lion in full attack, with BIG DAVE spelled out in electrician’s tape along the upper curve. Flanking the tire on the left, rampant on a sea of rust, is a glow-in-the-dark sticker proclaiming FREE MEN TOTE GUNS! SLAVES DON’T! Above this central tire motif and to the right of it, is a window framed by ruffled white curtains daintily caught back on either side.

Around New Augusta, a young woman with a baby appears at the window. She sits smiling down at the infant and then warmly out at me. When she gracefully slips off a strap of her lavender tank top to feed the baby, my hands tremble on the wheel. Then, as we are ironically nearing the town of Daylight, she lowers the baby to her lap and, leaning forward, squirts a stream of milk against the window pane. Her breast is beautiful. She mouths something I cannot understand.

For some time the woman just sits smiling this backwoods Mona Lisa smile of hers, the child barely visible across her lap. She seems detached and pensive up until Smartsville, when she rises with a small wave (as if we’re old friends and she’ll not be long) and disappears, infant and all.

Nearing Baxley, there she is again, without a stitch on. The small window cannot accommodate her standing figure, so she appears headless and calfless. But there she stands, her hand slowly caressing the soft flat belly, just the finger tips grazing the surface. Then kneeling down, she cups her beautiful breasts in her hands and offers them to me as we pass the Baxley no facilities Rest Stop. Closing her eyes and pursing her lips into a moist half-kiss she slowly mouths something again. It looks like, Wow!

Just outside Summit, Tennessee, after a hard climb, Big Dave makes a sudden left around a sharp curve and the woman disappears sideways like the final swipe of a windshield wiper and is gone for good.

At last a straight stretch of road. As I finally swerve out to pass, I lean down and crank around to get a look up at Big Dave. He is obviously a tough Red Neck: Ace Hardware cap pulled low over mean eyes; head propped back caressing his gun rack.

I hit the window button and lean over, looking up with a big grin, a thumbs up, and a friendly, Hi there, Big Buddy!

He glares down through shades with macho scorn and flicks a mean bird with his thick middle finger. I’m laughing like hell as I gun the motor and leave him in my dust. Big Dave is rough all right; rough, rude, crude—and oh so damned cocksure.

THE GYPSY

So I’ll go there again For I want to believe the Gypsy: That my lover is true And will come back to me some day. (Popular song of the ‘40’s)

PART I; 1960

Iowa City was jammed with parents, families, and friends in town for the big Iowa U. Graduation Weekend. Signs everywhere: We LOVE the Class of Sixty! 60s’ are Nifties! Hail the Sexy Sixties! Not a motel room to be had this side of Coralville Over at the Sigma Nu house, the brothers were all well-primed for their long-anticipated and agonized-over Graduation Ball. Sam Anderson had just fastened his cummerbund, making a mental note that the yellow rose corsage (love-of-his-life, Carol Calano’s favorite color and flower) was stashed with twenty-five others in the first floor fridge, momentarily emptied of its stash of catsup, peanut butter, processed cheese slices, beer and other frat-house late-night staples. What a striking contrast the corsage will make with her hunter-green gown, her Camay complexion—so cool and tender to the touch—and shockingly short black hair.

He checked himself in the mirror as he slipped into the white rented dinner jacket and awkwardly attached a yellow rosebud boutonniere to the lapel. Sam and Carol had been seriously pinned now since January but had somehow avoided setting the date. Recently, whenever he brought it up, Carol managed to shift the subject. Oh well, all women are little unpredictable, he mused, quoting his favorite literary hero Don Marquis’ Archie, the cockroach. But, he grinningly allowed, feeling frisky, that the fairer sex was indispensable in the sexual and procreative scheme of things Then again, his folks would arrive tomorrow, having picked up Aunt Reena in Rock Island on the way. How proud they were all going to be, watching him march with his class through Baccalaureate and Commencement exercises and humbly accept the citation for Honors in Modern Lit from his English Department.

Sam’s blonde Nordic mirror-image was reassuring, bright eyes dancing back (his baby blues Carol would purr, touching his lids with cool fingers).Why, old Buddy, he addressed the dashing image before him, it’s Jay Gatsby, born again! The jacket broadened his upper latitudes, and the cummerbund streamlined the Equator. God, he felt good. A tiger! Go, get ‘em, Sammy! he challenged, left jab following right cross. He was tiptoe on top of the world.

It was two-steps-at-a-time downstairs for a last minute check on details for the ball. Even though he’d just joined Sigma Nu as a transfer, they’d made him Social Chair. Knowing Carol’s passion for yellow, he had been the one who had initiated and then campaigned for the evening’s Yellow Fever theme—and the guys had bought it hook line and sinker. Then, when the Ball Committee had met to brainstorm the event, ideas frolicked like frisky ferrets: a Sunny Side Up Dance Revue as late-evening entertainment, someone suggested; a Jack Lemon salute with film clips running throughout evening; The Lemon (an old Edsel car) would be the bar with the Lemon Drop Kid bartending; Golden Oldies by the band, and the topper—a Gilt Trip door prize (one-way ticket to the Canary Isles, natch).

The place looked fantastic! This evening was, after all, a not-too-subtle toast to Carol, which, he predicted, would blow her mind. Maybe tonight they would set the wedding date. He checked his new Rolex, a graduation gift from the folks. Just time to pick her up.

Carol, from the beginning, was noticeably unimpressed. She complained that he was late, for starts, and once they arrived, she became distracted—kept wandering away off to chat with girlfriends. Early in the evening, before guys started cutting in at what seemed to Sam a disturbing rate, they were dancing close to the strains of The Gypsy. Carol was oddly stiff in his arms, and the conversation was strained.

The Gypsy was his all-time favorite, and Carol interrupted his humming with, "Do you think there are actually real Gypsies over here?"

Over where? he quipped, launching into a little Jimmy Cagney song-and dance bit to Over There. Sammy loved the old-old Oldies …

Stop that! she demanded, embarrassed as couples paused to watch and applaud. In the USA, dummy, Carol hissed, flustered.

Ahhh, he cooed, pulling her close and whispering, Suuure there are. Swarthy, sensuous, sexy old ladies with rings in their noses and bells on their toeses … and he swung her wide to a swell in the music. But, Huh! was all he could get out of Carol before Ronnie Sparks cut in, and, without a backward glance, she sailed away, her yellow rose corsage fading into the swaying crowd.

Sam also noted, with a swelling wave of jealousy as the evening wore on, that she was spending entirely too much time schmoozing with the popular new Art instructor, whom he himself had suggested as Honored Faculty Guest.

In the process of trying to get a grip on his terrible disappointment, Sam wandered out onto the patio for a smoke. Just beginning to relax and to feel a little better, he was jolted by an overheard conversation between two co-eds just on the far side of a cluster of potted palms. Carol’s name caught him completely off guard.

"Can you believe Carol Calano tonight?" one was saying, her voice already slurred by the laced punch.

No. Can you? It’s like she’s trying to …

Rub his nose in it!

Yessss! squealed the second girl, and they both went into a spasm of giggles.

Shhhhhh. When their voices lowered, he had to push in closer to hear.

How long they been at it now, Bets?

Oh, since las’ January at very least.

I’d say more like Christmas … early December. Christmas break! Ruthie told me she saw them together at the Art Barn. Back room.

Hey! Think maybe they …?