"Must you have battle in your heart forever?
The bloody toil of combat? Old contender,
Will you not yield to the immortal gods?
That nightmare cannot die, being eternal
Evil itself-horror, and pain, and chaos;
There is no fighting her, no power can fight her..."

"The Odyssey," Fitzgerald Translation. Book 12, Lines 135-141.
Used without permission.
 

MELVIN'S BRAIN, ALMOST TOTALLY FRIED:

Jesus Christ.

I am too old for this shit.

Too something, at any rate.

What a day. And it's only Monday, and it's not over.

I spent the day investigating claims by a group of employees in an unnamed company who wanted to know why their project was cancelled. I'll tell you why.

The government cancelled their funding.

They want to know why the funding was cancelled.

Now that's the trick, isn't it?

And they didn't even know they were relying on government funding.

You learn early that all research is politically motivated.

And several hacks into their corporate system, to try to put together a paper trail, was frustratingly unsuccessful.

I should be better than this, for Christ's sake.

At four o'clock, I gave up. I have other tricks I can do, but doing them on-site is far too risky. I'll have to tackle this offsite tomorrow.

As if the day weren't bad enough, the trip to Jo's did not bring the news I had hoped for. I could feel the acid pooling in my guts as she told me, in her matter-of-fact voice, that she did not have clear tissue margins. We drank beer, ate pizza-my stomach will crucify me for this tonight-and she urged me not to be upset, as she was not aware of the extent of the damage.

And she told me that Michael had come by for a visit. I don't know whether to be happy or sad about this. Or angry. I confess to a touch of resentment, knowing he found out first.

He wasn't there with her when she was undergoing surgery. He won't be the one to take her to chemotherapy or radiation treatments, should that be on the menu for her.

He did, however, bring the photos to her, and I can't be angry about that. The photos of us at the ball made her day.

We were about to put on "The Big Sleep" when the phone rang. Who should it be but my dear son?

Having an asthma attack. Talk about feeling like your guts are going to explode.

I remember the asthma attacks from his childhood. They were terrifying for all of us. I remember praying, please don't let my little boy die.

I did it again on the way over to the school tonight.

I was fortunate in that parking is a limited property on the campus, and off-it only took me fifteen minutes to locate him. I'm grateful I remembered that he has Allison's car. He really needs to get his own working again, but he thinks it more important that Kelly's remain functional, and he makes that a priority.

He'd better get that in order, because Allison is about to start graduate school, in DC, and I don't see her as warming to the idea of taking the Metro. Not when she has children to worry about.

Worrying about children. It doesn't matter how old they get. You still worry about them, night and day. No holidays or weekends off for good behavior.

Mine certainly gives me enough to worry about these days.

He and his young lady are talking about getting married. This in itself would be enough to give me an ulcer.

He is nowhere near ready for such a commitment, and neither is she. They're so damn young, and he is so unsure of what he will do to make a living, I don't see how he can even be contemplating it.

They claim they will wait until their undergraduate degrees are complete. I wish I felt as confident. I can see them succumbing to hormonal temptation, marrying before their educational lives are in order, having children before they are ready for them...

I need a drink. Badly.

How can they even be considering this? They're but children themselves!

I express this sentiment to Jo. She, regrettably, does not concur with me, not one hundred percent, at any rate. While she certainly agrees that they should complete their degrees, she feels that they are not so childlike as they really are. At least in my mind's eye.

That scares me even more.

Michael seems to be breathing more normally. I'm relieved. A trip to the emergency room was not on my list of things I wanted to accomplish today.

What could have kicked this in on him again? In all the time he's lived with me, the times he's had what could be considered an attack were relatively mild, and he would be over them in a few minutes. Yes, he's breathing more normally now, but it's still liquid and audible.

I can pretty much count on a night of no sleep. I know I'll end up wandering into his room every few minutes, if not spending the night sitting next to him, waiting for him to take his next breath.

How many times did I do this when he was a baby? I can't even count.

How did I do it? Did I feel as if I was losing my mind each time it would happen?

I don't think so. I would be worried, of course, and frightened. But I didn't have the sensation of falling off a cliff each time something like this would happen.

What the hell happened? Was it the heat? A truck blasting out exhaust? Aggravation?

I ask him again what happened to trigger this, and he simply shrugs his shoulders and says, don't know.

He's lying, and I know it. But further attempts to pry it out of him will only upset him, and possibly cause another attack. I can do without that tonight.

I pour myself a tumbler of J&B, neat, all the way to the rim. No sense in only pouring two fingers; I'll repeat that two fingers many times tonight.

Without even the benefit of being able to get drunk without an audience. Kelly will be here soon to dote upon my son.

Don't get me wrong. I like the girl. I think she is very intelligent and adorable. She obviously loves my son. Very much.

I used to worry that she didn't love my boy enough. Now I worry that hormones have taken her over, just as they have Michael. Watching them in action is as if seeing a large estrogen-testosterone cocktail pour down from the sky and right onto the both of them. They're drenched in their own desires and impulses. I worry that those impulses and desires are larger than they are, and could bring them to where they do foolish-and permanent-damage.

I know this, because lately, I have been nothing but a walking mass of hormones myself. Whoever said your testosterone levels diminish as you get older had to have been a goddamn eunuch.

I think about her only once a day, and that's constantly.

Martha.

I've been through two serious relationships and a few very brief ones in my life. (Very few-for some reason, even though I am a product of the 60s, you'd never know it from my seeming inability to be casual in my relationships to women). I didn't seek this. Didn't want it. I was coming to a place in my life where I was involved in my children, my friends, and my work, and it seemed sufficient. While the lives of those surrounding me are constantly fraught with new and mind-blowing difficulties, mine was moving towards a calmness, a routine, that I could get comfortable with.

That all got blown to hell in one night.

Being male, I do have urges, and on this one night, I decided to succumb to those urges by calling my favorite phone-sex line. I had only spoken to this particular operator one time before, but after our last encounter, I felt strangely warm and peaceful. I asked for her again, and to my delight, she was working.

I was in the midst of listening to her purring into my ear when that soft Carolina drawl was punctuated by a sharp shriek. In our age of new morality (don't get me started there, by the way), the communications company was raided, and the operators-who, as I discovered, are mostly women with other jobs, trying to feed themselves and the people they love-were carted off to jail.

I ended up driving to East Baltimore and posting bail for the lady. As her client when the raid took place, I managed to feel sufficiently guilty that I felt it the only proper thing to do.

And we talked. Over coffee, we talked, and got to know a little about the other.

Just enough to be dangerous. By the time we left the diner, my glands were in overdrive. And have been ever since.

I have the most horrible thoughts these days. Not about her, per se, but about the circumstances in her life.

She is married to a veteran. A veteran who came home from the Gulf War mysteriously-and terminally-ailing.

I sit and wait for this man to die so that I may encroach upon his territory.
 
I hate myself for thinking this. I'm a product of parochial schools, and the words 'mortal sin' are permanently etched into my brain. I think this qualifies.

Of course, if anything they told me is true, I'm going straight to hell anyway. They also told me that self-abuse was a mortal sin.

And I say to myself: What makes you think that just because her husband will pass on that that will open the gates for you to just saunter into her life?

She does not reject me on the few occasions I've chanced to meet up with her since that time. I brought her pussywillows while she was at work, and she appeared to be pleased with the small token of my esteem. Of course, I have no idea how she really felt, or what she did after I left to pick up my two charges being stitched up in the emergency room. For all I know, the  sturdy stems with their silky-soft buds could have been tossed into the trash. Or given to an anonymous patient.

And for some God-unknown reason, when Kelly's mother and sister were killed, I called to tell her. She was of course on the floor, with patients, and I didn't have the opportunity to speak to her. But she did show up at the funeral.

Mostly I hear about her through Jo. Jo has been helping her with support for her husband, who, from what I hear, is in terrible shape at this point. Death would be a mercy for him.

And for me. Or would it?

Why do I assume she has feelings for me? Feelings that parallel my own? This is so terribly presumptuous of me. To think that simply because I am so smitten with this woman that I can barely function, that she would return my feelings...how could I be so arrogant?

I think it was Genie's words to me that sealed it. Genie tells me that she does have feelings for me.

Genie's track record is so good it's scary. I pray she's not losing her touch.

But that's not much to go on, is it?

Apparently, it's enough to keep driving me.

I think about what it would be like to explore the hollows in the back of her neck and near her collarbone. What the skin on her shoulders would feel like. How would she taste in my mouth? My hands ache to learn the curves of her belly and her spine and her hips. I dream about what it would be like to be covered in her warmth, what the sensation of joining with her
would be like...

Jesus Christ on a bike. I'm as bad as my son!

Worse. I'm old enough to know better.

I'm acting like a hypercharged, fumbling 16-year-old. And I haven't seen 16 in about four decades.

"Dad?" Michael's voice breaks my reverie. "You okay?"

I'm startled back to reality by the rasp of his damp vocals. "I'm fine." My voice is gruff, and I hope he can't see what's going on inside of me.

He knows nothing of this. The only person with any sort of awareness is Jo. And Jo will die before she breaks a confidence. I hinted at it to Byers, but the subject was rapidly dropped. And we were drunk, anyway. He and Juliet spent a few days in our home, and we made a habit of getting drunk at night. I think this motivated the young lady to spur him to move on.

Which I was grateful for. I love them dearly. But I've come to a point where I find it hard to give up my routines. I've grown accustomed to my son being around, and I fear the day when he announces that it's time for him to step fully into the world of adults and live on his own. But to have anyone else in my life feels like an intrusion.

Except Martha, the ultimate intruder into my heart.

I want her to intrude on my life. I want to walk down the shoreline with her, feel the warmth of her hand tucked into mine. She has life-giving hands. As a nurse, she's cultivated that quality into a finely-honed skill. I have to believe she has a tender, healing touch.

I want some of that therapy.

I want to eat meals with her. To talk about everything and nothing that happened during the day. I'd like to have her taste some of my better dishes. And maybe she cooks as well. Maybe she'd return the favor and fuss over me one night. And we could do the dishes together. The idea of the two of us working over tubs of warm, soapy water, cleaning china and silver...

Frohike, you are really losing your mind. When was the last time anyone thought of washing dishes as a sensual experience? For that matter, when was the first time?

I'm probably the only bastard on the planet who ever had this thought.

The idea of popping in an old, romantic movie, and sitting next to her, cuddled up in her arms, is enough to make my heart nearly stop. And maybe she even cries over the sappy parts. I do.

She'd probably be totally turned off by that. Wouldn't she?

I want her in my bed. I want her to remove my clothing, piece by piece, and become acquainted with the skin underneath. It's old skin, but it still knows a soft, caring touch. I want to feel my own sweat surface as she runs her hands over each section of skin as it becomes naked in front of her. I crave for her to explore every plane and angle that I have on me, to know it like she knows her own body.

I want that tenderness to give way to an unleashing of passion, to make her cry out as we join together as one. To make her feel like the most loved woman on earth.

Which she would be.

I imagine her gripping my shouders as I wrap my arms around hers, driving myself into her, losing myself in her moisture and her heart. Her breath on mine as lips join and dampen the other's.

Frohike, just remember, whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad...

And I am drifting, most assuredly, into madness.

There is a rapping on the door. I recognize it as Kelly's. Michael and she have a code of sorts. This to me says that they are lovers now in every sense of the word; it's these small things that drive intimacy to the next level.

He embraces her as she comes in. He does this as if I am not even in the room. I am tempted to shout to him, take it easy, you'll have another attack.

I can be such a spoilsport.

The kiss they share is tender, intimate. Plenty of hormones there, to be sure, but I am forced to admit that it's gone well beyond the physical attraction. I grudgingly confess that there is an enormous amount of caring between them. They do look out for one another. They are learning to lean on one another, to figure out what it's like to work as a couple, as a single entity. They have a terribly long way to go. But Jo is correct. The groundwork is in place.

I am terrified, and more than a little jealous.

My son looks very much like I did at his age. He has better eyelashes-a legacy from Jan-and he received the blessings of Accutane, so that he is not riddled with the plethora of scars that cover my face. I am still embarrassed by these. I think this is one of the reasons I don't shave as often as I should. What's the point?

He may have gotten Jan's lashes, but he has inherited my intensity. And I consider this to be the most frightening aspect of all. To imagine that he can live at this level of emotion, and not be daunted by it...no wonder I have an ulcer.

And watching the two of them in action isn't making it any better. And, to be honest, there is the J&B. A friend I will visit many times tonight. You do whatever gets you through the night.

Kelly smiles over at me. "Hi, Mr. Frohike." She still calls me that.

She is a darling girl. Dressed in jeans, a tight T-shirt and with her hair in a ponytail, she looks about fourteen. Her face is still innocent, despite some of the experiences she has had. She seems so young and so vulnerable.

I don't want my son to hurt her. This is the first time I have ever considered that it could work this way. I am, naturally, intensely protective of Michael, and my interests have always been on his behalf.

Not to diminish that, but I suddenly see the other side of the equation.

He does anything to wrong her, I will kill him.

Right now that looks like the farthest thing from his mind. He smiles at her gently, his eyes focused on her. Even his voice takes on a different quality when he talks to her.

When he first came down here, I could not imagine this kind of sweetness in him. I thought that due to the actions of Jan and myself, that was gone for good. That our son was damaged goods.

But he has healed. He has a softer expression these days, and he smiles more. The green eyes are open, curious, probing, instead of hooded and hard.

"Dad, we're gonna go in my room," Michael announces, giving me a stare, daring me to challenge him.

I've never been happy about this. I don't think they should be left alone in such a situation.

On the other hand, I could use the privacy.

"Fine," I mumble as I sip my drink.

He looks at me a bit disbelieving, but not wanting to see if I change my mind, he and Kelly, arms around each other, disappear down the hallway. I hear the snick of the door lock behind them. It's a small apartment, and I can hear muffled voices and giggling. I'd like to think that they wouldn't be so bold as to perform the act right under my nose...but there was the
shore. Where they consummated their relationship. And that was about as under my nose as you can get.

I don't think they're ready for this kind of relationship. I really don't. And I really am a fool for letting them be alone in his room...

Come on, admit it, Frohike. Give us the real reason.

Which is: You're jealous as hell. You want to be the one in your room with the woman you love.

I finish my tumbler of golden liquor, and reach for the bottle to refill it.

Empty.

It's going to be a very long night.

END OF PART 7