Diary of a Heretic

Holidays Already

*

Maybe every day isn’t Christmas, but it whirls past me, along with the rest of the year, faster all the time. Maybe Einstein could explain what’s going on, but the formulas make me sleepy. And nobody’s suggesting that there’s anything I can do to change the pace, even if I paid attention to the thorniest theories.

No tree this year or presents to speak of—except: This year my in-laws are taking us to Rome! Endless travelers, they arranged the trip before financial Armageddon, and haven’t backed out.

During this whirlwind, I’ll post a few more super-short stories, which I originally wrote for Mike French’s The View from Here.

His online magazine is now printed monthly and these stories also appeared in issues 3 through 5. So it’ possible, albeit unlikely, that you already know them.  Look for one every other day or so.

Best wishes to everyone; joy to you and those you love.

P.S. Drive safely. Sober, of course, but you can’t depend on everyone else. Then, too, some people are terrible drivers, sober or not. Personally, I can hardly wait until automobiles are obsolete and we go wherever we want by bullet trains. Two hours from NYC to Malibu.

Coming in from the Cold

*

Hearing the women rip into each other, the students, teachers, and carpenters ate breakfast as if nothing were unusual. They talked about their upcoming tests and plans for when the session ended next week.

Afterwards, they passed their empty dishes to the tables’ end. And without hesitation—even as Polly keened and clawed her pale, thin arms (they’d all seen glimmers of her behaving like that)—Crescent, who with Trevor’s guidance was now a conscientious student, and Peter, who excelled at everything theoretical, carted plates into the kitchen.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Only Brian lingered, anxious as always about Trevor overstepping his supposed supernatural bounds. And even more anxious about Hailey, simply because she was out of touch, shielded from his sight.

He had never suffered such love before. Brian had loved Carla as well as he could, which meant he had accepted her wishes, hid his impatience, and recognized without jealousy her attempts, great and small, to attract other men. Having grown up with no adult affection, but besieged by his younger brother’s constant, mischievous love, Brian had managed mild satisfaction with women. They enjoyed his steadiness and common decency. And they knocked themselves out, mounting ever greater displays of affection. 

And if any of them demanded more, Brian would ask: more what? We get along without tears or insults or long, grudging silences. They were lucky, Brian had thought.

Now, however, Brian couldn’t think. Hailey had beset him with unquenchable desire. She had filled his heart with desperation and exaltation. So that now—it was the strangest thing—he felt bereft without Hailey close to him. Even a few hours hurt.

Go with it; revel in it, because extremes exist briefly. Even the wildest passions pass. Wasn’t that the conventional wisdom?

Brian wished he could block out Trevor’s role—the whole thing being so irrational. Except no way around it, Trevor had planned this. He had chosen and tested Hailey to be Brian’s “one love.”

The idea might infuriate him—such brazen presumption—except here Brian was, waiting by the picnic table for Hailey to finish cleaning the kitchen. After breakfast, Hailey attended a painting class and then worked at the café. Meanwhile Brian should be designing final exams.

And then—wait: something bad. Hailey was running from the backdoor, holding an ice mitt to her cheek. She was silent, her eyes lit not with glee but pain. In his arms she shuddered and cried. He pulled the envelope of packed ice from her cheek.

Not far from her ear, a cabinet handle had gouged a deep cut. That part of her face was swelling and bruising.

Brian could scarcely believe it. Carla did that? Carla doesn’t care that much. Not about Brian; he knew that.

“Either you’re wrong about that,” Hailey said, “or there’s some other problem that she’s decided to call ‘Hailey stole Brian from me.’”

“I’ll talk to her. Physical violence? It’s insane.”

Hailey leaned into Brian as they approached his cabin. “Don’t talk to her, Brian. Everything’s settled. Angelina and Trevor mediated.”

They sat on the back porch and as Brian dabbed arnica oil on her wound, she explained the new agreement:

Hailey, Carla, Trevor and Angelina had convened in the main office. Trevor sat beside Carla. Without saying anything explicit, though Hailey suspected he mumbled chants, Trevor convinced Carla to work in the café from now on. 

Angelina had pointed out that Carla owned a share of the café now. Didn’t she want to look after it personally?

“All right,” Carla had said. “Where am I supposed to live? Asheville?”

Trevor stroked her arm. He laid his head on her shoulder. Angelina said, “You can live here, Carla, providing you keep your distance from Brian and Hailey.”

She scoffed at that. “Don’t worry.”

“And,” Hailey said, “I’m in charge of all Consortium meals from now on.”
Brian started to object, but Hailey preferred it. The money was easier.

Carla had continued sulking until Trevor picked up her hand and stroked each finger. Hailey had seen an almost invisible white light run like a current between their hands.

“Fine,” Carla said, “I’ll find a place in town.”

Trevor reminded her that “Awake” was playing tonight and tomorrow. He wanted her there, both shows. “Made her promise.”

“But that’s only one step,” Hailey told Brian. “There’s still the trouble with Polly. And Chief Clay’s daughter. About that, Angelina’s really mad at Trevor; she told him not to get involved. The Chief and Lauren got away fast, but not before Trevor talked ‘da big boss one’ into letting Trevor take him to dinner at the café tonight. Before the new Monday night Avalon gig.”

(To Be Continued)

Run for Cover

By Monday morning Kaya had moved into Angelina’s cabin. She’d arranged her wardrobe in the master bedroom’s closet and filled a spacious, mirrored medicine cabinet with personal items.

Alec Olsen, the literature professor Kaya was leaving, had already rearranged the Asheville condo, half of which he would slowly buy from Kaya without interest. The two women and Alec remained friendly, adjusting to the rearrangement without rancor. No one accused the other. In fact, Alec arrived at the Consortium same as always before breakfast to discuss poetry and rhythm and symbolism with Earle.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Not so between Carla and Hailey, who cooked most Consortium meals together. Arguing over Brian, they turned vicious. Carla had not realized how much she loved Brian until Hailey had “stolen” him from her. Her fling with Marc Swift was just that. If she had balked at Swift’s public exploits with Irene, it meant nothing. Carla had loved Brian for years. Everybody saw that. So why was Hailey stealing Carla’s man?

“Since the Consortium started, Hailey, you’ve played Trevor’s backup singer and always agreeable ex. But now, after one weekend, you act like you belong to Brian?” Because Carla had belonged to Brian for two full years. What difference did one weekend make?

Hailey raged right back in Carla’s face. Hadn’t Carla run off with Marc without so much as good-bye to decent, big-hearted Brian? And when Marc had dragged in Irene, well, be honest, Carla. “Didn’t you run to Trevor, begging him to heal your hurt pride?”

That did it. Hailey was blaming Carla for all this trashy stuff and spooning pancake batter into two spitting hot pans. It was just too much—Carla shoved Hailey, her best waitress and the Consortium’s second cook, into the stove. Hailey turned around and slapped Carla. And Carla slammed Hailey’s head into the cabinet. Angelina, hearing them, ran into the kitchen and yanked them apart. Then Trevor appeared, Lauren Clay beside him. “Just a minute,” he told Lauren, and led Carla upstairs, saying, “Don’t worry.”

Angelina checked Hailey’s face. “You might bruise,” she said. “Do you want to ice it?” She handed Hailey an ice pack and told her to find Brian and relax. “Kaya and I will fix breakfast today.”  The carpenters, students, and teachers were lined up on the porch, picking up their plates. Kaya was setting out bowls of cut fruit.

An engine revved as if in overdrive. Polly in her sister’s jeep bucked up beside Angelina’s cabin. Polly leaped out, screaming, “Kaya, the rat!” She grabbed Kaya’s arm and pulled her hair. Kaya pushed Polly away and they stumbled, falling to the floor. With hungry people waiting, Angelina said, “Take it outside.”

But Polly’s fury had already flipped into shaking and sobbing. So that Kaya, Polly’s dread rival, carried pale and fragile little Polly outside. Deposited on a bench, Polly threatened to kill herself. Kaya called a doctor.

After Angelina set six bottles of syrup on the picnic tables, she tried to hold Polly and explain. But Polly scratched Angelina’s face with both hands.

Inside, putting Neosporin on the deep scratches, Angelina wondered if Trevor had ever soothed Polly. Of course, it had been some time since Polly was this angry. She hadn’t spent weeks secluded in her angry cabin since Trevor’s arrival, but he could cast only the thinnest peace her way. His sexual persona didn’t move her. Besides, when she sank this low, even Angelina vanished from sight.

Waiting near the parking lot, Kaya told Angelina, “All along, I’ve thought Dr. Babson might be best for her.”

A car approached as Polly broadcast that she had made her arms bleed. Thank the Lord, help was at hand.

Except it wasn’t—yet. Chief Everett Clay stormed from his car, shouting: “What have you done with Lauren?”  Angelina almost laughed, but caught the scent of indignation just in time.

“We haven’t ‘done’ anything with her, Everett. She’s inside, helping with breakfast. I’ll go get her.”

Wait. First he wanted a word with Angelina. And Kaya. And then words--and then some--with that demon Trevor.

“That’s fine,” Angelina said. She held his hand and led him away from the breakfast scene, toward the open field. “Lauren rearranged her schedule, Ev, that’s all. She did it without consulting Kaya or me but then we weren’t available at the time.” Was he? Had he discussed it with her?

Everett yanked his hand free from Angelina’s. “None of your wiles, baby.” 

Lauren had told Everett she was switching to the Arts Consortium. And he had told her, no, she wasn’t. For the first time in her life, his daughter had defied him, thanks, Everett was convinced, to Trevor’s influence.

(Click here to read the next post)

Faith Like Desire

[This is the last entry in Malcolm's diary. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.]

We are, thanks to my parents, well represented legally.  But bankruptcy, as Carlos has so adamantly insisted, is not an end but a beginning.  He has big plans to start over, while I do not.  Carlos and I are married in debt but divorced for life.  We’ll still stage events in auditoriums for a while.  I’ll still hold forth, putting in appearances at the surviving bakeries.  But eventually we’ll strike a deal.  Carlos will get money, property, even some kind of trademark if he wants.  And I’ll find another baker.  How hard can that be?  I’ll run a single, simple shop and sometimes, if the spirit moves me, I will sway and speak.  I will offer people my prayers, press their temples, kiss the tops of their heads.  Telling them each not to give up, to look deeper within for the immutable truth.

*
It’s not exactly business as usual.  Take-out is brisk, considering, but the main room is quiet and the offices are empty.  I intend to give the acolytes, novitiates, clerks, cashiers, et al. some kind of severance.  This contradicts Carlos’s reality.  He’s incensed.

“All we have to do,” he says, “is cut back and restructure.  Adopt a new name, devise a new game plan.”

“Not you and me, Carlos.”

When my little business grown huge, then folded, is finally sold in parcels and closed;  and my debts and credits and Carlos’s are finally divvied in two, I will come away with this much:  I will have faith like desire.  Faith ever changing, taking strange, threatening shapes.  Or forms so tiny and faint you have to know what to look for.  But I do—I know how to find it now.  And when this outlandish venture is finally over, I’m going to gather as much faith of as many kinds as I can.  I’m going to nurture and cherish them always, and once they’re ready, I’m going to let them loose all over the globe.

The End

Time Will Tell

With Angelina and Kaya holed up Asheville, and Brian and Hailey, to Trevor’s happy satisfaction “inna-inna-cumma-cumma-uyi-caddda,” Trevor voluntarily managed the administrative rigmarole.

Lauren Clay, the police chief’s daughter, planned to begin UNC in twelve days. Her freshman classes included nothing she wanted to study. And Trevor had gotten her excited about learning how to experiment, how to make art, and see her true self by attending the Consortium.

Although Brian had accepted all the fall students weeks ago, Trevor saw eighteen-year old Lauren Clay contributing so much insight and spiritual good will that the community would suffer without it. The opportunity was crucial.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

A few day ago, after Chief Babble-a-Babylon paid his sixth visit in two weeks, Angelina had engaged Trevor in a “little chat.” Lauren was five, almost six years younger than Trevor. And it wasn’t ordinary arithmetic: the age difference with someone so young amounted to more than five actual years.

“Compare your life experience with Lauren’s,” Angelina had said. Lauren had never lived in Jamaica. She attended the local high school, played the flute, and starred on B-team volley ball.

“She plays the flute?”

“Trevor—don’t. Lauren is simply too young for you. She’s too young to hang around here with all the ganja. She’s an innocent.”

But with Angelina gone, Trevor discovered Lauren wasn’t innocent. She had smoked weed for years. And, she was sexually adept. Very. 

By Friday afternoon, Trevor decided Lauren’s transfer to Black Mountain required immediate attention. He wanted the deal done before the bosses returned.

Uneasy, he asked Lloyd to pick the college’s locked doors for him. Luckily, Lauren didn’t see Lloyd box Trevor to the ground. “Playing criminal, boy? Ya idiot.”

“Righted, Lloyd.”

Meeting Lauren in the parking area, he kissed her, cradling the back of her and pressing her against her rusty brown car. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll fix everything.”

She handed Trevor the car keys. No man rode shot gun with a woman.
Not daring to say anything, Lauren gripped the dashboard and pumped a phantom brake pedal. Miraculously, they sped into a parking lot with one car parked at the far end.

Trevor prayed someone would be in Kaya’s building. How could he have been so stupid, asking Lloyd to break into the office? After all, Trevor could talk a person into opening a locked door easier than jimmying it. He entered the hallway calling, “Hi, Hail, I-ney.”

Lauren called out, “Anybody home?”

Melissa Dorgan, an assistant professor in history—medieval history popped in Trevor’s mind; Kaya had introduced them once—stood barefoot in her doorway. “I’m here. If you count me.”

Trevor counted her. He counted on her absolutely, and when she showed him why she was barefoot, a big, new blister on her heel, he sat down and lifted her foot gently. His index finger circled the blister several times as Lauren and Melissa giggled. He tapped on the clear bubble a few times, explaining that he needed to use Kaya’s computer but she had forgotten to give him her keys. “Just some forms everyone has to fill out.”

Without tearing the skin or allowing Melissa or Lauren notice any fluid seeping out, Trevor flattened the blister. He tapped it, a light rat-a-tat-tat, and both women stared: it looked as if the blister was gone.

“It’s not gone,” Trevor said. “And, it’s bound to hurt if you put those shoes back on.”

Melissa Dorgan found a key that opened a lounge where most teachers kept spare keys. She couldn’t find the light switch, but Trevor could. Kaya’s key hung labeled in a cupboard.

Trevor worked computers using trial and error. He knew a few strategies, but enrolling Lauren at Black Mountain proved far from simple. After an hour, briefcase in hand, barefoot Melissa Dorgan knocked, asking if she could help.

“Thanks,” Trevor said. “But we’re almost done.” Deciding to clear his head, he walked Melissa to her car, saying she must soak her foot for at least an hour. He also asked if she was a dancer. 

“Why? Is my foot all calloused?”

“The opposite,” Trevor said. “I wondered if you danced because your foot looks as if it touches the ground lightly, if at all.”

He chatted with her a while, even though she kept saying she was late for something. Together, they wondered about déjà vu and similar ephemeral impressions. Melissa waved when she finally said good-bye.

Trevor returned to Kaya’s office. Lauren was waiting in the hall, having finished with the computer and put the key back. Never fear: she had removed herself from all classes in Asheville and added her name to the Black Mountain roster.

 

(Click here to read the next episode)

Do It Twice

Late Thursday afternoon, Brian returned to his cabin. Hailey had said she would “come soon,” not—soon come—like the Jamaicans, which might mean minutes, hours or even days. Hailey wasn’t Jamaican, although she spoke the patois well.

Her parents had moved from Haiti to Florida before she was born, when her brothers were babies. Leon had started UNC with a basketball scholarship, and Marvin and Hailey joined him in Asheville.

Ever since the day Trevor had brought Hailey home, Brian had longed for her, secretly or not. Her mouth and eyes and tiny, unpierced ears played all through his system. He drank in how her short cropped hair—no braids for Hailey—accentuated her stem-like neck. And, how the same dark short curls crowned her regal forehead, cheekbones, and forehead.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

For all his usual caution, in his mind, Brian never even tired to resist Hailey. It couldn’t be done. For example, when Trevor introduced them: Hailey’s two fingers had passed across Brian’s palm, a sensation that haunted him whenever he wasn’t actively remembering it.

Even more disorienting was the memory of Trevor throwing his arm around Brian while they simultaneously watched Hailey walk to the small cabin, leaving them to discuss Trevor’s nonexistent driver’s license. Hailey’s tread resounded with Brian’s heartbeat. 

By now he had shaved and showered. “I’ll come soon,” she had said. Should he change the sheets? Well, certainly. He should have done that first. And why not vacuum, except that she still wasn’t here and Brian worried: what if she didn’t come? What if she had said, “let’s meet at your place,” as an excuse to get away. Instead of vacuuming, Brian switched on a stream of ambient music, and smoked Jacob’s newest offering in one of Trevor’s little pipes.

Hailey wouldn’t lie. Brian smoked a little more, convinced she would arrive soon. She would not say she was coming otherwise.

He was making lemonade, fresh, when his cell rang.

“Were you starting to worry?” Hailey asked. “I’m bringing dinner for us.”

Two minutes or two years later—and there Hailey was, resplendent in the doorway, carrying two big shopping bags of prepared food. He held still and kept quiet as she put the shopping bags in the kitchen. He felt stretched and unstable, the entire organ of his skin enlarged at the sight of her. Without looking, he experienced an awareness of her bending over to set the bags on the floor. And then, finally, all luster and promise, she approached with that second kiss she had promised, the one he had expected an hour ago in the sun-flooded field.

The kiss was enough for them to undress each other. Brian marveled over Hailey as if he’d never seen her or any woman naked before. Hailey radiated an almost metallic brilliance that was warm and sweet and wonderfully pliable. She was firm and soft, long and round, yielding and unyielding. He sank to his knees and drank her in until she begged to lie down.

They moved together under the clean, white sheet. And just as he had imagined only hours ago—that touching her bare shoulder offered him all he would ever want until he blinked and felt certain he would die if he could not right then and there hold her bare breasts—he relished every moment as if forever. And every hesitation as immanent glory. She caressed and cupped and kissed him, filling him with more pleasure than a hundred lives might hold.

When they finally lay exhausted in bed, he laughed out loud. She studied every bit of his stretched skin, and his eyes and mouth. She rolled into his chest. He stroked her neck and upper back and soon lifted her on top of him again for more.

When they rested, they shared a distinct dream where they talked on phones in the dark. Hailey in the dream said, “What if…” And Brian answered, “Well, then…” Hailey wondered, “What next?” and Brian said, “Whatever you want—just tell me.”

When they rinsed off in the shower, Brian discovered he could easily lift her. And keep his balance if he wedged into the shower’s corner.

After midnight, Hailey heated the soup and corn bread. They drank milk, noticing that the ambient music still streamed from the speakers. Neither could say if the song had changed. Neither saw a reason to turn it off. 

For dessert Hailey had brought two little chocolates, one caramel, one mocha. They fed each other tiny bites and finished their milk. They smoked two little bowls of Jacob’s weed and made love past dawn. Past the sound of people in the main yard eating breakfast, past everyone busy with Friday’s work.

Hailey phoned the café. Luckily Lauren answered, not Carla, who rarely showed up until closing. Lauren agreed to take Hailey’s shift, glad for the chance at managing. Lauren, Hailey told Brian, was Trevor’s newest girlfriend. The police chief’s daughter. Wasn’t that the Trevor “to the fullness?”

Brian phoned Kaya; ordinarily he would have met with her already and be working on his dissertation’s final details. But Kaya’s phone sent him straight to voice mail, where he said, if she didn’t mind, he was taking the day off.

Not until Sunday night’s bonfire did Brian and Hailey emerge from the cabin. During dinner, apparently, Kaya and Angelina had declared their renewed love for each other. Polly had run off and Alec had shaken his head.

Shouting to the sky, Alec improvised an angry new poem while Earle supplied a chorus and played his drums.

(Click here to read the next episode)

Plan B

White flecks cake the corners of Carlos’s lips. We’re standing in the hall, and his voice is hoarse with fervor.  It cracks with misery. “Please!  Malcolm.  Listen.” 

Wanting one more try, Carlos pins me to the wall and runs his hands over me.
I tap his shoulder.  “You don’t have to do this.” But he grinds into me, kissing my neck.

You’d think I’d relish a chance to laugh in his face, but all I feel is sorry.  Stopping his efforts, I can’t believe the emptiness. “Carlos, Carlos! Come on—on to Plan B.”

And you know Carlos.  He shrugs. “Fine. Plan B.”

[This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.]

But of course I hope it’s just me making stuff up and there is no Plan B.  “Carlos, we’re only in business till Monday. Then we’re in bankruptcy court.”

I’m talking to his back. For, there the boy is, sprawled in an armchair, listening to headphones, reading a magazine.  He smiles when he sees me. He jumps up, pulls the headphones down to his neck, and says, “Hi.”  All sweetness and soul, all concern, pure light, peace, joy, hope, and more! More than anyone can fathom.

And I—I’m glowing and humming, elated. He’s shaking my hand.  It’s the most natural thing in the world. “Hi, I’m Tyler. We met before. Do you remember?”

“Yes. But—” A band of heat develops behind my eyes, and I forget to breathe. 

Tyler is all grace and cascading hair.  Dark supple eyebrows and clear, deep, radiant irises.  He’s so much me when I was nineteen, almost twenty. And so not at all like Colin!

“We’re going into bankruptcy. I’m sorry if we misled you. If you ever need references, here’s my card. The phone number won’t change.”

He tilts his head. Really?

I nod and he shrugs. As he saunters out, I watch his back. Such a nice kid. He’ll do fine. He throws me a rueful smirk good-bye, and I don’t know this, but the gesture is a straight guy’s minimal disappointment; Tyler’s so what and who cares registers a few notes lower than the way I had always imagined. Of course, that’s my subjective impression, but so what? Why the fuck didn’t I even wonder if Tyler Dineen likes girls? One’s waiting for him at home wherever he happens to live.

Was I afraid the boy might afflict me the same as Carlos’s maneuvers? How stupid. No, I couldn’t have supposed that. Carlos is Carlos and no one else could possibly do to me what I let him do: manipulate me until I softened into his personal mound of modeling clay. Had Colin lived would he have affected me as much? Would I have manipulated him? Tyler reminded me of how eager and energetic we once were. I saw him as the soul of concern, of sweetness, light, peace, joy and hope. When, of course, that’s in everyone. There to be tapped or shining out right. We waste and exhaust it, and sometimes, even manage to replenish it.

If Colin miraculously appeared, unchanged from the moment we headed for the roof, would I know him? I miss him and mourn him. But there was nothing I could do. I didn’t know where that fatal moment came from or why. Nobody could have known.

A chill courses through me, a rippling, feathery effect. There’s no voice or vision.  Nothing certain, just an idea of who Colin might be and what he’d look like at thirty-two.  More solid, less hair, an architect whose partner is a gay rights’ lawyer. They live in a loft with a sleek black dog they’ve trained well.  I’m standing here, dreaming. They listen to jazz and run marathons and when he thinks of me or I think of him, there’s a sharp gap, a jagged loss. It didn’t happen like that.  But Colin and I in our shared euphoria could never have lasted.  We wouldn’t have forgotten each other, or ever recovered.  But in life or death, through time or out of it, neither one of us could have held on.

(The next episode is the end)

Good-byes Are Tough

We’re standing across from each other as I spell this out in my head. So he has the message. I’m not fooling, Carlos. Either you contact the boy or I will turn him away the day he arrives. And if I seem cruel, all right. I’ll seem cruel. A liar, a fake—no one can think worse of me than I’ve already felt.

And Carlos inching closer to me gathers all of the above. His eyes betray his alarm. Those hang-dog big brown old-man’s eyes shine with something like shock and quickly close, glance elsewhere as utter disbelief suffuses his face.  Carlos clears his throat as if to try again, like pumping the gas pedal.  I’m watching his mouth twist. Gently, I shake my head, like, way past time to give it up, honey, baby, muffin.  Can’t you see, how immeasurably far I am beyond you?

[This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.]

“Excuse me.”  I return my attention to Agnes McKinney.  “Before we were so rudely interrupted, I was about to say, try not to worry, but if you do. . . ”

“I know!  I know what you’re going to say:  ‘Don’t worry about worrying.’ ”

Agnes and I smile and Carlos dances around me, rubbing his hands.  “Well, well, well.  Lo and behold!”  Determined to claim me, he drops a heavy arm upon my neck.

“The better to steer me with,” I say.

“What?”

“No need to carry me off, Carlos. You honor my conditions and I’ll honor yours.”

“Okay, fine.”  He releases my shoulder, and holding up his wrongly accused hands, ushers me into the office.  From here, it’s like looking at a series of stills, pose after pose of Carlos in sympathy and regret.  I see the one where his head dips.  The one where his eyes turn up.  The one where he clasps his hands.  Now we’re at the one where he leans in to me.  I notice he’s speaking and his words are at such odds with what’s actually going on, I have to laugh.  It’s a loud sputter, and Carlos decides to indulge me.

“I realize, Malcolm, that Maggie’s defection—um,” he continues solemnly, “must seem like a terrible set-back.  But given time, I’m sure it will turn out for the best.”

“Why thank you, Carlos.  Your concern touches me.”  Not to be unfair, I try mentally rotating his head, to see if from some other point of view I might possibly be wrong.  Was there a catch in his voice just now, a telltale quiver?

Under my prolonged (and I imagine unnerving) scrutiny, Carlos says, “You know, you have a really nice profile, Malcolm.”

“Flattery?  You’re trying flattery, Carlos?”

“I’m not ‘trying’ anything, Malcolm.  You turn on tiptoe and stick your nose in the air.  What am I supposed to say?”

“You want to know the last thing Maggie said to me?  Just before she bailed?  She yelled, ‘Carlos’s new assistant was not my idea!  It’s not my fault!’ ”

“Good-byes are tough, ” Carlos says.  “But,” he sighs, eyelids aflutter.  “Life. Must. Go. On.  Our new assistant is bright and very capable convert.”

“We’re not hiring a replacement for Maggie or in any way enlisting one. I’m a big boy now. Haven’t you noticed? The idea of a baby-sitter simply won’t work anymore.”

 “What are you talking about?”

“No new assistant. If you misspoke when you mentioned a bright and capable convert or were predicting the future, forget I said anything. But if you’ve actually arranged for someone to play Maggie’s role, the play’s changed. Fewer characters.”

Carlos clears his throat, a belabored, hawking action. “However you want.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Satisfy My Soul

Brian stood up and Hailey followed him, dusting dry grass off her short skirt and thighs and knees. She and Brian and Marc Swift walked into the shade of a towering pine tree. Marc owed Brian an explanation. “I’m really sorry I totally forgot about Carla that day. It was a terrible misunderstanding.”

Marc had videotaped Irene rolling a spliff, wondering if some chemical in Jacob’s ganja, like whatever gave the resin that indigo hue, also produced that mild euphoria at such a steady, long-lasting level. Irene smoked and Marc smoked and he had his recorders running on two tripods. He held a third video camera and came in close when Irene grinned. “No dry mouth or irritated eyes. Just a calm rallying of yourself inside.”

“That’s what she said,” Marc said, shaking his head. “She did a perfect testimonial.”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Hailey had slipped under Brian’s arm or maybe he had unconsciously drawn her in for support. He had dreaded this conversation, because his job required him to take Carla’s side, but his remaining affection for her riled his indignation. He was afraid of losing his cool with Marc. After all, by now, midway through the summer, practically everyone was hopping from bed to bed.

Just not in front of each other. That’s what Brian expected Marc to realize. That he should have talked to Carla first, and not set her up like that.

But Brian wasn’t saying anything, because he was so absorbed with Hailey standing beside him. So aware of her smooth body, its form and heat and flowery, buttery scent. He could spend all day holding her like this, his fingers reading her bare and wonderful shoulder like Braille, learning more than he would have thought possible to know.

Marc’s sandal kicked the grass. “So Irene and I got really high. I shut off the cameras and we, you know, got interested. I had forgotten about Carla. Irene didn’t know anything about it. Not really. And of course, nothing like this will happen again. I promise. But should I talk to Carla? When she moved out of your place and into mine so fast, I got the idea everything  was casual.”

Brian wished Hailey hadn’t heard about Carla moving in and out. No one was innocent; stings attached everywhere.

“Try talking to her,” Brian said, increasingly less content simply touching Hailey’s shoulder. “See what she says.”

“You think she’ll want to stay with me, anyway? Irene was one time only.”

“There’s two weeks left,” Brian said.

“Well, I want to show you the work the students and I have done. Because I was hoping to stay on another semester, at least.”

Brian said, “Angelina and Kaya will review your situation, too. That’s not today’s business.”

Marc turned and disappeared onto the narrow path. Brian scooped Hailey up and brushed his lips over hers. Like a test: the second kiss would be for real. She took his hand and let that second kiss go for now. Soon, though, she squeezed his hand, meaning—soon. So Brian wasn’t fully disappointed as she led him back to where they had been lying in the grass.

She sat with her legs crossed and tugged him to sit beside her. “So strange how different lovers are. Some satisfy you once and for all. And others, you never get enough of.”

Brian said nothing. He figured that was Trevor’s secret. He satisfied his girlfriends, maybe not once and for all, but thoroughly enough so that they never begged him for more. They never clung to him.

Whereas, with Hailey, Brian knew, satisfied, satiated over the top, he would always want more. Already he felt he could never get enough of her.

She dropped her head in his lap and looked up at him. “And then there’s the lover you want forever.” She looked embarrassed and leaped up. Brian did as she did and held his breath, expecting that second kiss. She even leaned into him but pulled back. “With you,” she said, “I would want it forever, whether it worked out that way or not.”

“We’ll never know unless we try. Come with me.”

“Soon,” Hailey smiled. “Go to your cabin and I’ll meet you there.”

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Cry to Me

Days after Marc Swift stumbled into his cabin, going at it with Irene Nedwick, both of them falling to the floor, tearing off each other’s clothes while Carla waited naked in Marc’s bed as she did routinely, Brian still hadn't decided how to approach the video maker or what exactly he should say.

What were the rules here? Only decency—the set boundaries even a group of free-wheeling artists assumed. Except Brian wasn’t about to call out Marc as indecent. Unfair, then? Brian, who grew up in an acutely unfair atmosphere, found requests for “fairness” laughable. Yet as the Art Consortium’s director, he needed to tell Marc to stop.

The situation wasn’t shocking. Brian had heard of Marc’s reputation when he invited him to teach. He had not anticipated, however, that Marc would whisk away Carla, Brian’s girlfriend. Or that three weeks later he would inflict on her a scenario (Brian wondered how many video cameras were on) that humiliated her so much that Carla had dashed naked and crying to Angelina’s.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

That afternoon, Trevor had knocked on the second-floor bedroom where Polly had tucked Carla in to recoup. She was sipping green tea, the bedcovers at her waist.

Trevor stood still while she put down the tea and pulled the quilt over her breasts. Then he sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed and listened.

Carla had been vain and selfish and wished she could go back to Brian. Trevor told her no. Carla and Brian had already changed directions before Marc Swift arrived.

While sobbing, she managed to say, “You always know what’s going to happen ahead of time. Maybe you have a sense, Trevor. But that’s all. The rest is guessing.” She pressed a tissue against her eyes. “Important stuff? Nobody knows.”

Trevor asked if she wanted to cry on him. He scooted up and held her so that her tears wet his t-shirt. “You want me here, nuh true? Just until you’re through the heartache.” He kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose.

“Yes, of course.” Carla turned away to blow her nose. “And then what will Brian think of me?”

“If I make love to you? Brian saw how you felt the first night I arrived.”

“I don’t think so.” Carla said, tears still dropping as her usual rightfulness returned.

“If not the first night, then later. I could see him see it. Andrew saw it, too.”

Carla sobbed and trembled. “So embarrassing.”

“No reason to feel that,” Trevor said, shedding his clothes.

Afterward, Carla wept free from sorrow. She wept ecstatic tears. And Trevor studied every part of her, his eyes wide and appreciative. She tasted like the desserts at the Eden Café, he said. Her fingers like key lime pie. Her breasts reminded him of caramel. And between her legs? Wait, it was on the tip of his tongue, and so clear in his mind—berries and sugar.

The same hot afternoon, Brian showed Hailey where they would build the geodesic dome for the next session. “Next semester. Kaya’s certain the UNC will designate us the separate but official arts college.”

They lay on their stomachs facing each other. How exactly this alignment developed between them Brian couldn’t say. Yet face to face in the bright sun, Brian stared at Hailey unabashed. For once he didn’t feel shy. They talked and squeezed each other’s fingertips.

“Does it feel strange being with me when you were Trevor’s girlfriend, longer than almost anyone?”

Hailey fluttered her fingers away from his. “Trevor loves you so much. He doesn’t talk about you at all; it’s one of those things he mysteriously communicates. Brian the lion.” She laughed and looked up. “So naturally, I was interested in you.”

A shadow crossed Brian’s face. He saw it reflected in Hailey’s eyes. “Trevor must have known that. Remember when the two of you disappeared for five days? He must have wanted you for himself.”

“Trevor?” Hailey laughed. “You know he doesn’t compete that way. He wanted me to introduce him to my brothers. He’d heard about Marvin and Leon at the café and spent all that time convincing them he could front a band if they backed him.”

A bigger, unmoving shadow fell over Brian, and over Hailey, too, causing Brian to turn his head.

Marc Swift buried his fists in his oversize shorts. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m sorry about what happened.”

(Click here to read the next episode)