The Volunteer's Tale: Witches, Wizards, the Tortoise and the Bear

PART ONE

Sometime after midnight the howling winds finally began to calm, their eventual cessation bringing a welcome end to those bone dissolving vibrations the waves had created slamming incessantly into the port side of the ship. With that came a soothing release from those ear-splitting echoes which had reverberated throughout the dank and cavernous hold where the refugees had been trying to sleep.

It was quiet now (if one could disregard the muffled sounds made by over six hundred sleeping people), but Jim Stone was still awake. Ironically, the main reason for his continued restlessness was actually the sultry silence which had replaced all those storm sounds - a silence which had allowed a smothering sense of panic to creep back into his mind.

Desperately he tried to concentrate on the subtle shifting motions of the ship now silently slipping through the calming seas of the Bight of Biafra, but that didn't help him sleep. He had to get up, to get out, to escape one more time.

He stood up, almost stumbling over Dorothy McKay who was tossing and turning beside him in a fitful sleep. Straightening the crotch of his Levi's, he stretched his aching legs then began briskly rubbing his arms in the hope that some movement, any movement, would calm his nerves, but that didn't help either. Cautiously he began to pick a pathway through, around and sometimes over the bodies of the sleeping people and their piles of personal belongings strewn helter-skelter around the steel paneled decking of the ship's hold.

He moved quietly toward the bulkhead on his right where the two makeshift cardboard signs swung slowly back and forth now like pendulums beneath the naked red light bulb that constituted the only source of illumination for the tomb-like interior of the old freighter. Jim himself had hung up those two shabby signs earlier in the day, hastily scrawling the words EXIT and ENTRANCE along with arrows pointing in opposite directions toward the two sets of staircases which jutted from the starboard side of the hold. It had been a valiant but vain effort to bring some kind of order to the aimless meanderings of the hundreds of refugees who had wandered all afternoon from the smelly cow stalls below, up to the forward deck where the volunteers had established the food distribution center or aft where they had managed to erect the four jerry-rigged johns which hung somewhat dangerously out over the stern of the ship.

For Jim, this Friday had been filled with excitement. So much so, in fact, he'd been able to temporarily misplace the all-consuming panic which recently seemed to rule his every move. It had been a day of hustle and bustle and doing whatever was necessary to herd over six hundred men, women and children, including the 105 remaining Peace Corps volunteers, down to the docks, past the army patrols and aboard the rusting old Italian freighter that was now transporting them from the eastern zone of the war torn African nation of Nigeria.

He and three other Peace Corps volunteers had spent most of the morning bumping around in an old army jeep. In the process of racing back and forth between the dockyards and the dusty shopping section of Port Harcourt, they had somehow managed to beg or bargain for one hundred superior quality blankets, four hundred eighty hard boiled eggs, two hundred jars of Jiffy peanut butter, twenty cases of Fanta soda and forty pounds of American cheese. They had even secured three hundred almost fresh loaves of bread from an old Igbo baker who was delighted the Peace Corps was having such a big party and was remaining in Biafra even during its time of troubles.

By 3:00 in the afternoon, the last of the refugees had finally gotten past the soldiers at the dock; had finally unfolded, displayed and then repacked their ragged belongings for the inspection center; and had finally been pushed, prodded and sometimes even insulted up those two rickety rope ladders slung over the railings from the hot, sticky deck of the freighter.

Climbing the stairs to the fore deck, Jim pushed open the heavy steel door of the hatchway that led from the hold. As he crossed the deck, now dark and deserted, the damp night air helped to calm his nerves. When he reached the steel railing at the bow, he turned and glanced around. All that remained now of the day's confusion, however, were a few empty Fanta soda cans noisily racing each other back and forth in the shadowy darkness with each gentle rise and fall of the ship. Of course he could smell the rather rancid odor of cheese emanating from those cardboard cartons of supplies the volunteers had secured with ropes against the starboard railing. Before him, neatly stacked and tied against the bulkhead beneath the steel staircase that led to the bridge above, he could make out the seventy-three battered but prized guitar cases of the volunteers.

Rapidly recrossing the deck, he climbed the stairs to the bridge. He and Dorothy had been up there earlier that evening shortly before six o'clock. They had laughed at first watching two hunky Italian sailors on the fore deck below them arguing over who would have the right to raise the green-and-white striped Nigerian flag which would signal the departure of the ship. Then they had cried a little as the freighter slowly slid past those rows of rickety wooden docks, the little band of soldiers who excitedly waved to them from the shore, and those long lines of tin roofed mud huts stretching from the muddy banks of the Bonny River up into the hills. For as the town faded into jungle, they suddenly realized they were actually leaving behind them almost two years of their lives.

A soft blend of spray and salty air soothed Jim as he leaned over the bridge railing and looked back in the direction of Nigeria. All was blackness out there now and below him, bathed in ribbons of red and green light, the fore deck of the freighter resembled a heap of twisted scrap metal bobbing up and down above the dark sea.

Suddenly beyond the fore deck he glimpsed a giant ghost-like mountain of red and green foam rushing toward the ship. Exploding against the bow a second later, the wall of water then slid silently back into the dark ocean. A shower of foam hit his face, fogging his glasses, and once again he felt cold and small and alone. Drawing in a deep breath, he was surprised to find the air still smelled of palm thatch and goats. "The smell of Nigeria," he thought.

Nigeria, hell, he said aloud, it's the smell of my little mud house in Afikpo.

Talking at the wind, Whitey?

Turning around, he was surprised to find Dorothy McKay leaning against the railing beside him. The cool breeze caught at the white scarf around her hair, whipping it against the ebony sheen of her angular face and long slender neck.

Don't tell me I have to buy ya another beer before you'll talk to me, she said.

He smiled, perhaps for the first time since the shooting. Only if a peanut butter sandwich doesn't go with it this time.

No, sir. I hopes I nevah sees another peanut butter sandwich as long as I lives. Peanut butter and bananas and . . .

And Hausa soldiers? he interrupted.

He watched Dorothy for a moment, her slender body stiffening at his remark. The front of her long, hibiscus-patterned skirt was pressed tightly against the railing, and the long golden slivers of metal that hung from her ears were swaying slowly back and forth in time to the gentle motion of the ship.

Shorter than him, about five-foot-seven, and two years younger, this black woman from Atlanta had certainly become much more to him than just the silly Peace Corps teacher whom he'd met almost two years ago in California. Only twenty then, she'd been a total embarrassment to almost everyone at U.C.L.A with her clever but demeaning Miss Prissy and step-n-fetchit impressions.

I thought you were asleep, he said a second later.

I was trying ta, but da heat down in dem slave quartahs and da stink of dem cows just won't let me rest, she replied, coyly winding her fingers into her long flowered print wrapper.

You haven't done that in a long time, he commented.

Done what?

Oh, your black act.

Without responding, she turned away from him and, gazing towards the sea, began dragging her long scarlet painted fingernails over the rusting railing of the bridge. Hundreds of tiny bits of white pain began to rise up in the mist around her.

I don't suppose we can see any stars, she whispered, looking up at the night sky.

His gaze followed hers upward till he noticed the Nigerian flag was still fluttering on the mast high above the green and red running lights of the ship. He shivered.

Are you cold, James?

What? Oh, no. Just fighting off a weird desire to shout 'wonderful'. I guess that damned flag is going to follow us all the way home.

Well, I don't see anything so wonderful about that particular flag.

I really don't either. It just reminded me of Aakpara again, and the way he would always be saying 'wonderful'.

If I were you, James, I wouldn't think so much about it. Not now anyway, she commented, turning her attention back to the process of peeling the paint from the bridge railing. Jim, when we get back to Lagos tomorrow, what will you do?

He didn't answer.

Turning towards him again, she found he was still staring up at the flag. She moved closer to him and gently pressed her hand against his bare arm.

Hey, Onya Ocha, I asked you a question. Have you decided what you'll do now?

Me? I don't know. I guess I'll tell Mr. McCormick I'm going home.

But why? Why not accept another assignment here in Africa?

Because - well - because I don't really want another assignment. It's not like choosing a sandwich, you know.

Stepping away from her, he bowed deeply in the direction of the sea.

I guess I'll take a California sandwich now if you don't mind, Mr. McCormick. At least it won't be peanut butter. God, if you only knew how much I've always hated peanut butter sandwiches.

CALIFORNIA PICTURES IN BLACK AND WHITE

Chapter I

The setting sun seemed to sit motionless for a second before continuing its plunge toward the crest of the Sierra Madre Mountains. It was evening - always the best time in the little foothill community of Altadena nestled to the west of Los Angeles. Best because a breeze could soon be counted on to sweep yet another day's collection of smog from the sky.

As he drove up Fair Oaks Avenue toward those hills, Jim Stone felt a seldom experienced sense of satisfaction. It was Thanksgiving eve, which of course meant he would be free from both school and work for a couple of days at least. But more importantly, on this particular Thanksgiving eve he had in the pocket of his red plaid flannel shirt the final car payment to the Cressview Savings and Loan Company. At last he would be the sole owner of his olive green, two door, mint condition 1956 Chevy.

True, twenty-two was a bit old for a person to be owning his first car, but until last year he hadn't really needed one (an opinion his father had often expressed whenever the subject had come up).

Last fall, however, when Jim had transferred from Pasadena City College to Cal State College in Los Angeles in order to continue his major in political science, his father had finally acquiesced. Almost malevolently, though, and despite Henry Stone's adamant objections, Jim had chosen the old Chevy, further irritating his father by refusing any financial help either in buying the car or in paying for the extensive repairs it had required.

Tonight my little victory will be complete, he sighed. Only one semester before graduation, though. God, maybe only one more semester of freedom.

These thoughts made him feel uneasy and as he drove up the hill, he noticed his novel sense of satisfaction evaporating. For last week Jim Stone had taken his U.S. Army physical and with his luck that was one exam he would surely have no problem passing.

His exuberant mood moderated even more when he slowed the car then turned left onto Loma Alta Drive, the tree shaded lane at the base of the Altadena hills. He began to keep an eye on the rear view mirror, watching out for the traffic patrol car that had stopped him for speeding twice in the past week.

That damned Robbie Rent-a-Cop and his magic ticket book, he muttered.

Robbie Rent-a-Cop was the name Jim's younger brother, Mark, had given to the private police patrols protecting the lily white but integration threatened hilltop community of Altadena. Mark always did seem to have a name for things. Indeed it was he who first called Jim's car Nellie Belle.

Jim really had been driving too fast along Loma Alta lately - especially last week when his mind had been so preoccupied with the possibility of actually being drafted and with the depressing discovery he was going to get an A-over-F in his African Studies class.

That damned Davornick, he mumbled, just because I didn't check the spelling on my term paper - and after all the time I put into doing his research for him so he'd have time to teach his dumb seminar.

Jim's usual practice had been to ask his mother to type all his papers for school. With only a high school education, not only could his mom spell circles around anybody else he knew, but she had always corrected his spelling for him whenever she typed his work. This fall, however, she had refused to help him anymore, giving him no particular reason.

Slipped past the gestapo again, he quipped, turning the car off of Loma Alta and driving up the steep driveway leading behind the rambling redwood Stone family residence. He drove slowly into the back yard and parked to the right of the garage, the only place his father had decreed Nellie Belle could be kept.

"What is it Dad really calls the car? What does he call all the family cars? he thought. Can't seem to keep my mind on top of anything these days." He sighed.

The ignition off, he sat for a moment looking over the well-manicured lawn he was expected to mow every Saturday morning. He could hear the mockingbirds setting up their evening chorus in the big mulberry tree standing at the rear edge of the yard, right next to the wooden gate opening out onto the dirt road winding its way further up into the foothills. All along the white picket fence designating the back perimeter of the Stone family property he could see, bobbing gently back and forth in the evening breeze, those delicate yellow blossoms on the rose bushes his mother had recently planted.

He glanced for a second into the right corner of the yard at the kidney-shaped swimming pool his father had given the family last Christmas. Then his attention shifted up to the Sierra Mountains rising high and massive above the familiar and safe enclosure. The November sun, dipping close to the cliffs now, was sending orange shafts of light high into the still hazy sky.

He felt tired - tired of school and tired of the advertising office at Caruso's Department Store where he worked part time. If it hadn't been for his friend Gregg, he probably wouldn't have kept the job, not when school had started this fall anyway. Without Gregg, their boss Mr. Silvers would certainly have found out by now that Jim was often late for work and hadn't been there at all several times in the past couple of weeks.

Discovering they both loved movies and shared the secret hope of some day having careers as actors, Jim and Gregg Madison had become friends a short time after Henry Stone landed his son the job of ad copy printer at Caruso's two years ago. Lately Gregg, who was foreman of the shipping department, often managed to punch Jim's time card for him - whenever he was able to call in and warn his friend he would be late, that is. In fact, twice in the past week Gregg had even lied to Mr. Silvers by saying Jim was in some other part of the store when actually he'd stayed home in order to study for midterm exams. Yes, Gregg Madison had become a very special friend, and a very special problem.

I hope to God nobody ever finds out about that, Jim muttered.

Hey, Jimmy, Mark Stone hollered after slamming the kitchen door and bounding down the four short steps that led to the side of the garage. Mommy wants to know if you plan to sit in the car all night, the little boy yelled as he began pounding at the the passenger door of the Chevy. Unable to get his older brother's attention, though, the child decided to scramble up onto the hood, and when he did, Jim leaped out of the car in an instant. Grabbing Mark up in his arms, he began to swing the giggling boy around and around in a wide circle.

Mark had turned eight in May. Though the short cropped hair was blond and his eyes blue just like Jim's, his ears looked like those of an Irish elf and his round freckled face was centered by the type of small, upturned nose one might find on a pixie.

Jim, of course, loved all the members of his family, but for him Mark was extra special. In fact, when people saw them together they would often remark about how close the two brothers seemed to be. Perhaps this special attachment for each other had stemmed from the first three years of Mark's life. In those years their mother had been in the hospital so often, first with woman troubles and then with complications after an appendectomy, for all practical purposes it had been Jim who raised the baby.

And who gave you permission to climb all over my beautiful car? he teased, out of breath and dizzy as he set the squirming boy down.

Nobody! Mark giggled, straightening his navy blue shorts and white T-shirt. You all done with your tests at school now?

Yes, sir, I'm free at last! He whirled around and looked up into the evening sky.

Oh, hey, Mom said for you to hurry up and get ready for dinner, the boy scolded, tugging at the sleeve of his brother's shirt in an attempt to recapture his attention from the orange-hued horizon.

Okay. Okay. I'm coming, Jim said calming down. Just let me get my things. Did you get to go in the pool today?

No. Mommy says it's too dirty and you're supposed to clean it up tomorrow.

Oh? She did, did she? Jim called over his shoulder as he leaned into the front seat in order to gather up his books and the sack lunch he hadn't eaten.

Hey, give me a horsey ride! the boy yelped, instantly climbing onto his brother's back, scattering the books to the ground and almost knocking off Jim's gold rimmed glasses.

Watch out, will ya kid? he scolded, staggering from the car and almost joining the books on the ground. Okay, then, hang on tight now and away we'll go!

As the ragtag horse and jockey team tumbled noisily into the kitchen, Mrs. Stone turned from the row of Tudor windows behind the sink where she'd been peeling onions.

"Oops! She's doing her Mount Rushmore impression again," Jim thought.

You two ruffians cut out that horse and buggy act right now! she barked. And you, young man, let go of your brother this instant and get back outside to pick up those books you scattered all over the ground.

Oh, all right, Mark said immediately as he slid down from Jim's back, then scampered back towards the open door.

And don't you slam that door either, she called out too late as the door made the loud crashing sound which always announced Mark's entrances and exits to the spotlessly kept bright blue kitchen.

And you, James, you should know better. Why do you have to be rough housing around all the time? And you didn't even eat your lunch! she scolded, recognizing the brown paper sack dangling from his right hand.

He didn't respond, though. He rarely responded - not out loud at any rate. He never knew how to respond to admonishments.

No, Blanche, I didn't eat my din-din, he muttered under his breath, thinking about how much he hated peanut butter sandwiches as he crossed the room then slouched down in a chair next to the maple breakfast table nestled along the west wall.

Shrugging her shoulders at him in exasperation, his mother turned and walked back to the center of her modern kitchen. As she busied herself again with the preparation of the evening's meal - another meatloaf - Jim just sat there watching her.

Emma Stone was in her late forties and though her short bobbed hair was graying, she displayed few other signs of her age. Her slender, five-foot-two frame was still strong and straight, her complexion still shiny and smooth befitting her Bavarian heritage. Only the finest web of lines could be seen around her large green eyes. As usual she wore no makeup and was dressed in one of those dowdy muted-print gray house dresses Jim despised.

So how did your tests go? she asked him without looking up from her task of kneading the ball of ground meat, bread, egg and onions.

Fine, I hope. At least it's all over now, he sighed.

Well, I hope they went well after all the effort and money we've put into your education. It does seem wasted now, though, with this silly intention of yours.

Aw, Mom, we've been all through this, he mumbled, glancing behind him at the shiny blue wall cluttered with an odd assortment of religious pictures and Hawaiian photographs.

What did you say?

Oh, nothing.

And what were you doing outside so long? she asked after she'd placed the meatloaf into the preheated oven.

I don't know. Just watching the sunset, I guess.

His mother was about to say something else but the crashing of the kitchen door caused her to jump and drop the cutting knife she'd intended to use as a pointer to punctuate her opinions.

Here's your books, Mark announced.

Thanks, Mark, Jim said, tousling the child's hair then taking the texts and piling them onto the table. He was relieved the discussion with his mother had been interrupted.

Now you get down to the bathroom and clean up, Mrs. Stone ordered the child.

Yes, ma'am, okay, okay, Mark sang out over and over as he raced out of the kitchen down the long hallway to the bathroom.

I'd better get these things put away and change for dinner too, Jim sais, standing up and gathering the school books into his arms.

Oh, by the way, you got a letter today, she called out to him as he started for the hallway.

Who from?

From the Peace Corps.

His mother's words were like an explosion in his ears. Excitedly he tossed his books back onto the table and looked around the room.

Well, where did you put it?

What?

The letter, he said, exasperated by her preoccupation with dinner preparations.

Oh, that. It's on my writing desk where the mail usually is.

He practically broke his right shoulder smashing against the door frame as he raced up the hall to the living room. Pushing around the neat piles of correspondence and other papers that lay on his mother's maple writing desk, he finally located the letter and ripped open the envelope. It was what he'd been waiting to receive for so long, an invitation to join a Peace Corps training program.

Hurrying back into the kitchen, he sat again at the table and read the letter more carefully, paying no attention when his mother asked him if he would be working at the store during the weekend or if he was planning to date Bonnie Logan.

James, I've been talking to you, she finally scolded, plunking a stack of Haviland china plates on the table in front of him.

What? Oh, I'm sorry. I - yeah, I'm supposed to be working on Saturday.

And what about Bonnie?

What about her? he snapped. I told you weeks ago I wasn't dating her anymore.

Well, I don't see why not. She's a very nice girl, if one were to ask my opinion.

He glared up at her for a second but he didn't respond.

Well, excuse me, she apologized artificially. So what does this all-important letter say?

It's an invitation to train for an English teaching project in Nigeria, he answered hesitantly.

Oh, well, I see. And where is this Nigeria?

Though his mother was making a deliberate attempt to sound disinterested and casual, Jim thought he could recognize, perhaps for the first time in his life, a strange and rather distressed quality in her voice.

It says it's in West Africa, but the training program will be here at U.C.L.A. in January.

Oh, that's too bad. Since you don't graduate until June, I guess that leaves you out, doesn't it?

Well, maybe I could take some tests or something and graduate early, he replied, jumping up from his chair.

And where are you going now? You know, James, I would appreciate just a little help around here with dinner. And you haven't even washed up yet.

I'm just going to get the encyclopedia and see exactly where Nigeria is. I'll be right back.

The living room, located in the west wing of the L-shaped house, was decorated in Colonial American gray-green and brown. It was a long narrow room with real redwood beams running along the ceiling, a large sofa with maple arms and two brown leather Queen Anne chairs that bordered the oval braided rug covering the center of the distressed oak floor. Along the north wall the large writing desk stood between a double set of French doors. At the south end next to the front doorway and beneath a large picture window framed by white Priscilla curtains, stood the maple console color TV his father had bought for the family two Christmases ago.

The west wall of the room was almost filled by a large flagstone fireplace framed on both sides with head-high maple bookcases. Even though he was almost six-foot-two, Jim still had to stretch in order to reach the top shelf where he selected the correct volume of the well worn (and ten years out of date) New World Encyclopedia. Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the gray slate hearth, he rapidly flipped through the book until he found a map of West Africa.

You're not really planning to accept this - this invitation, as you call it, are you?

Glancing up from the book, he was surprised to see his mother leaning against the hall doorway. She was frowning at him as she dried her hands on a kitchen towel. He got up slowly, returned the book to its proper place on the shelf then crossed the room to where she stood.

I guess I'll wash up now, he said, trying to slip past her. But as he did she reached out and took a firm hold of his arm.

You won't really go, will you? she whispered, that unmistakable sound of distress still in her voice, and now there were tears in her eyes.

I don't know, he replied, feeling suddenly confused.

They looked at each other for a moment. Then reaching up, he gently took her hand from his arm and hurried down the hallway.

Painted light gray, his room was comfortably furnished with a double bed and walnut headboard centered against the south wall between the two narrow, floor-to-ceiling slot windows. At the foot of the bed against the north wall stood the matching walnut desk-and-chair set his father had built for him three Christmases ago. Along the west wall was a long walnut dresser and the elaborate stereo console Jim had bought with his first three pay checks. The wall above the stereo was plastered with his collection of old movie posters.

Locking the door behind him, he tossed the letter from the Peace Corps onto his desk, walked across the room then flopped down on top of the olive green quilt covering the bed. His mother's unexpected reaction to the Peace Corps invitation had left him feeling completely bewildered. Absentmindedly, he kicked off his brown loafers, reached down to remove his white socks and then pulled his flannel shirt off over his head.

Leaning back on his elbow, he focused his attention on his own image being reflected in the full length mirror hanging before him inside his open closet door. Sensuously he let the fingers of his right hand slide over the fine growth of blond hair on his chest, then ran them downward along his well-muscled stomach to the point where the line of hair thickened and matted above his groin. Closing his eyes, he imagined himself in the arms of the beautiful dream person he often fantisized about. He wasn't sure if his fantasy lover was a man or a woman but seemed like a mixture of both sexes. The pressure of his touch increased with its recognition of the enlarging organ inside his Levi's. Slowly he unfastened each button of his pants and slid them down over his knees, letting them fall off from his ankles.

Leaning back again, he spread his legs and nervously gave his will completely over to the desire the sight of his well-developed arms and chest always seemed to stir in his body as he imagined they were being touched by some lovely movie personage that his mind had created. His heart rate quickened and every muscle in his body tensed with the increasing strokes of his arms. As he tightened both his hands around his now fully engorged and demanding penis, he came.

• • • • •

After he'd showered away the day's grime, and those well-drilled-in Mormon feelings of guilt which always followed any activity that even temporarily satisfied the flank of flesh between his legs, he selected a Kelly green cashmere pullover and a pair of tan cords from his closet. He dressed quickly then sat down at his desk to read the Peace Corps invitation one more time.

"Too bad the training will be at U.C.L.A.," he thought. He'd hoped for Hawaii, the Virgin Islands or some place - any place else.

Hell, U.C.L.A. is only thirty miles from here. I'll still be home for all practical purposes. I wonder if I'll ever get free from the clutches of this family. The only reason Mom's so upset is 'cause she's afraid of losing her free babysitter. Well at least if I do accept, it'll postpone getting drafted. He sighed as he reached across the desk for the phone, picked up the receiver and dialed.

Gregg Madison speaking, the deep theatrical voice on the other end of the line announced.

Hi, it's Jim.

Oh, I was expecting you would call, Gregg continued. You plan to be in to work on Saturday, don't you?

Yeah, I guess so. I don't have too much homework this weekend. Probably can get it done tonight or tomorrow before Thanksgiving dinner.

Good. Perhaps we could go into Hollywood and see a film after work.

Sure, that sounds okay to me. But hey, listen. I called to tell you I got accepted by the Peace Corps. Well, not really accepted but invited to train for an English teaching program.

You're not planning to go, I hope.

Well, I was thinking about it. It would be a good opportunity, don't you think?

Well, congratulations, Gregg said coldly. If that's what you want, that is. I've always told you that you'd be accepted if you applied. And where is this training to be held?

At U.C.L.A. in January.

Oh, well then, that's marvelous. 'A horse of a different color', as they say. You'll still be in the area and we'll be able to see each other on weekends and things. And to what God-forsaken place will they be sending you?

Nigeria.

And where the hell might that be?

Well, if you look on a map, it's on the lower western side of the - you know where the hump is . . . ? Jim started to explain, but he was interrupted by a sudden racket at his bedroom door.

Daddy's home and Mommy says it's time to eat, Mark yelled, pounding even louder on the locked door.

Hey, look Gregg, I have to get off the horn now. Supper's ready. I'll see you Saturday at work, okay?

Well, have a good turkey day, James.

Okay. You too, he replied.

He placed the receiver back on the phone, pulled himself slowly up from his desk chair and walked to the door. Opening it, he tousled Mark's hair before following the boy down the long hallway.

Henry Stone was already seated at the end of the long narrow maple table as the brothers quietly entered the dining room. Now forty-seven, Jim's father had begun his career as an insurance salesman in Holyoke, Massachusetts, after World War II. From insurance he'd managed to work his way into the advertising department of the Boston Globe. Then after moving his family to California in 1957, he'd started his own advertising firm in Pasadena.

Though his face was full and heavily lined, Henry did sport a deep tan maintained with twice weekly jaunts on the golf course. Both this healthy complexion and the snowy whiteness of his thick, wavy hair perfectly complimented his large water-blue bedroom eyes.

In Jim's mind, however, his father's life totally revolved around the success of his business, his house, his position in the priesthood of the Mormon Church and his place as head of the Stone family.

Henry barely acknowledged Jim when he helped little Mark onto his chair at his father's left then slid quietly into his own place at the opposite end of the table. Eileen, Jim's younger sister, was seated at their father's right and didn't venture to look up from the book she was reading as they all sat quietly waiting for their mother to bring in the first course of food.

Eileen had inherited her father's dark complexion, as well as the waviness and rich color of his formerly auburn hair. From her mother she'd received a straight and slender frame, the sharp finely-boned countenance and those gorgeous sparkling green eyes. Barely twelve, Eileen was usually quiet and always seemed intimidated whenever she was around the male members of the family.

Jimmy got a letter from the Peace Corps today, Mark blurted out after Mrs. Stone seated herself at Jim's right and Mr. Stone had offered the perfunctory evening blessing.

Oh, what about? his father asked, his bushy gray eyebrows raising slightly as he handed his wife the bowl of mashed potatoes.

Jim hesitated before answering. Oh, it's - it's just an invitation to train for a Peace Corps project in Nigeria, he finally mumbled.

And when would this training take place?

In January, at U.C.L.A.

I thought you'd given up this Peace Corps nonsense months ago.

Well, evidently they hadn't given up on me, Jim replied, shrugging his shoulders as he served himself a large portion of potatoes.

Of that, I'm sure. But what could they want you for in Africa? God only knows there's enough for you to do right here in America. If you feel some need of service, I could still recommend you for a church mission project.

I don't want - I mean, I think it would be more exciting to go to Africa and - and a good experience, Jim muttered, anxiously trying to keep his voice calm and mask those familiar feelings of defiance welling up in his chest.

It's your life, I'm sure, his father sarcastically remarked, beginning to fill his own and then Mark's plate with string beans and meatloaf before passing the Haviland platter to Jim's mother who was becoming nervous at the growing hostility she sensed between the two men. Still can't believe this Peace Corps business is anything more than a bunch of - of crap, he finally continued, his piercing blue eyes glaring now as he slammed his fork so forcefully into the food on his plate it caused Emma Stone to flinch. Do you honestly think a bunch of young do-gooders can teach those African niggers anything? Anything useful that is?

Jim fumbled for a moment, trying to get a slice of meatloaf from the platter his mother was nervously holding. Then he pretended to concentrate on his food.

Suddenly sliding from his chair, Mark scurried out of the dining room. When he returned to the table a few moments later he was carrying his favorite stuffed toy, Reggie the teddy bear.

What do you want with that old toy? his mother asked in surprise once the child settled back down at the table with the soft and cuddly honey-colored bear nestled in his lap.

Well, he's hungry too, he answered defiantly.

Well, I suppose so. But you haven't had him out for a long time, she commented, laughing somewhat anxiously then frowning at Jim when Mark began making a pretense of feeding the bear.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Mrs. Stone began to chatter rapidly about old Mrs. Helbig, the neighbor who lived in a small green house on the hill behind the Stones. Jim didn't really listen to the story, though, which had something to do with the old lady having mistaken Mark's pet rabbit for a cat and trying to feed it cat food. Throughout the remainder of the meal, while watching Mark with the old toy and reflecting back to his own childhood when Reggie Bear had been his own most important friend, Jim ate rapidly and responded only reluctantly to an occasional question.

Later when the conversation around the dinner table turned to Eileen's activities at Junior High School that day, he tried hard to become involved in the discussion again. But he'd begun to feel a strange sense of loneliness coming over him, perhaps for the first time in his well-protected life.

Chapter II

After dinner Jim and Mark had retreated to the cool November night air in the back yard, leaving their mother and sister to clean up the supper dishes as usual. For half an hour he'd pulled Mark and Reggie Bear - which the boy still insisted on holding - in Mark's little red wagon up and down the dusty drive that wound from the Stone family property to the Helbig house high on the hill. Then feeling concerned about why Mark had so unexpectedly liberated Reggie Bear from the cavernous confines of the toy chest, he decided to sit in the wagon with the child and ask him about it. When he did, Mark became quiet then quickly tried to change the subject by begging Jim to tell him one of his favorite stories about the dangers of leading the wagon trains to the great Salt Lake like in the olden days.

When Mark was younger, Jim had been able to keep him entertained for hours with such stories. Tonight when he began to talk instead about his possible trip to Africa, the boy quickly grew restless then begun to mutter quietly to the toy bear. Jim wanted to reassure the boy that the possibility of making it through the training and being selected was very much a matter of chance, but anything he said didn't seem to penetrate the child's obvious distress. The night sky had turned the Sierra Madre Mountains high above the back yard into cardboard silhouettes when their mother finally came to the kitchen doorway to call her two sons inside. She took charge of the boy from there to prepare him for bed.

Jim sat at his bedroom desk, his stereo blaring the voice of Ethel Merman wailing about egg rolls for Mr. Goldstone and I did it for you, baby. It had taken him over two hours to compose his acceptance letter to the Peace Corps invitation. Fumbling again with the pocket dictionary his sister had given him last month for his twenty-second birthday, he read through his reply for the fifth time. Finally satisfied everything was spelled correctly, he carefully folded the letter and sealed the envelope. Picking up the other envelope containing his final car payment, he walked down the darkened hallway to the living room.

His father was doing his just resting my eyes act in front of the TV set, the day's copy of the Star News spread across his lap and on the floor beside his leather wingback chair. Jim's mother, seated at her desk between the French doors, was writing a letter.

Marko and Eileen in bed already? he whispered at her shoulder.

Oh! You startled me, she gasped, looking up at him, then smiling. Yes, his nibs is asleep. I guess you exhausted him out there tonight. Eileen is in her room too, doing her homework no doubt.

I'm not really sure who exhausted who out there. Anyway, have you got a couple of stamps I could have?

Of course, in there where they usually are, she said, pointing to the top desk drawer with her pen.

She sighed when she read the address on the first letter as he placed it on the desk beside her in order to paste on the stamp. You've decided to go to the training after all, haven't you?

Well, yeah, I guess so. If I can graduate early, that is. It's just to U.C.L.A., and it will be a good experience.

What if you're not able to graduate early?

Then I won't go.

Turning in her chair, she looked up at him for a moment and there was an unmistakable tone of resignation in her voice as she said, I think it would be a good experience for you too, and . . . at least the training would be here in California. I mean, you'd have weekends free and we could still see you, don't you think?

I don't know, he replied, quickly glancing down at the letters in his hand in an attempt to avoid the anguished look in her eyes.

He wanted to give her a kiss, but as he leaned down towards her she unexpectedly threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly for a moment. Releasing him, she took the letters from his hand and placed them with the others she'd written and stacked neatly against the antique brass oil lamp at the back of her desk.

I'll mail these on my way to church Friday, she stated, straining to maintain the casual tone in her voice.

Okay, sure. That'll be fine, he mumbled, feeling once again confused and alone.

His mother cleared her throat, and though she turned quickly back to her letter writing, he'd noticed the tears welling up in her eyes.

Well, James, sleep well, she murmured without looking up at him again.

• • • • •

Two hours later he still lay in bed restlessly drifting in and out of sleep. Both the unhappy look in his mother's eyes and an eerie imaginary picture of Mark clutching his teddy bear in his arms and huddling alone in the corner of some strange dark room had been keeping him awake. Around eleven he heard the child scamper from his bedroom across the hallway down to the bathroom.

But Reggie is thirsty, the boy whined when his mother scolded him for being out of bed.

Later still, Jim thought he heard his father drop something in the bathroom but he wasn't sure. Just before finally slipping off to sleep in the now warm and silent Stone family home, his mind focused for a second on his green car and he remembered.

"Tin Lizzies, that's what Dad always calls the family cars."

Chapter III

Bonnie Logan, Mr. Silver's secretary, was leaning against the office doorway when Jim entered the corridor and began searching for his time card in the black metal rack that hung on the wall to her left.

Well, look who's honoring us with his presence this morning and only fifteen minutes late, she remarked, as he nervously punched the manila card into the time clock then replaced it in the rack.

Hi, Bonnie. Did you have a good Thanksgiving? he asked politely.

Just fine. And how about yours, James?

It was okay, I guess. Not much in the way of excitement. The usual family and food, he replied, attempting to step around her so he could get through the doorway to his desk.

Oh, excuse me, sweety, she grunted, moving inside and then executing a cute curtsy. Any time, sweetheart, any time at all.

The ad office, actually only a glass partitioned corner of the entry corridor to Caruso's shipping and receiving warehouse, was a rectangular room about ten feet wide and twenty-five feet long. At that it seemed barely large enough to house the three gray metal desks which lined the inside of the glass partition and the two artists' easels with the long work table between them that ran the length of the gray interior wall, cluttered today as usual with sketches, drawings and hanging racks full of sample merchandise.

Jim's desk, the last in the line along the front glass partition, was piled high with packages of paper and ad copy requests. Next to the desk and up against the back wall of the office stood the printing machine he'd used for the past two years to insert the copy for the various newspaper ads, publications, catalogs and mailers the office created - all extolling the quality and savings to be gained by shopping at the swankiest department store in Pasadena. Both Mr. Silver's and Bonnie Logan's desks located close to the office entrance were, as always, wiped waxy clean and kept free from any semblance of waiting work.

Connie Jones and Meg Roberts, the store's paste-up and layout artists, were seated behind the long work table as Jim entered. Swilling coffee as usual, these two young ladies were deep in a discussion about men's shorts.

How was your turkey day? Connie called out, looking up and toasting Jim with her coffee cup as he hurried past, closely tailed by Bonnie. Would the big college man like a cup? the auburn-haired young artist smirked.

No, thanks, he called back.

Oh, that's right. I forgot. Good Mormon boys don't drink coffee.

You girls have a nice holiday? he asked, as he took off his tan leather jacket and tossed it over the back of the gray metal chair behind his desk.

Don't we all have work to do? Bonnie sarcastically interrupted, placing her hands on her hips and glaring over her shoulder at the girls.

Answering Bonnie's remark with only ugly looks, the two artists quickly resumed their discussion of the day's assignment.

Jim sat down and began the process of sorting out the things before him, but he had to stop when Bonnie, maneuvering her formidable fanny amongst the piles of paper, flopped down on top of his desk.

About twenty-three years old, plump, plain and pug-nosed, her bleached blond hair was cut in page-boy fashion. As usual the pink sheath dress she was wearing was cut much too low at the bodice and much too tight around her flabby upper arms. From each of her wrists jangled four gold charm bracelets. From her neck dangled a gold heart-shaped locket. Her closely set eyes perfectly matched the steel gray of the ad office walls.

She and Jim had dated five times in recent months; the first time going for a round of miniature golf followed by a round of wrestling in the front seat of Nellie Belle. The second time he'd taken her to see the film Becket at the Big Sky Drive-In in Monrovia - an evening which included another round of wrestling, this time in the rear seat of the car.

Sex had been the sole purpose of their third date. On that evening Bonnie had hardly waited a second after getting into the car before she'd begun to fondle Jim's crotch in order to get him aroused and then unzipped his pants in order to get her eager mouth around his hardening cock as he drove, rather erratically, towards the uninhabited hills above Altadena. The subject of marriage and pregnancy had created the coldness which followed their fourth date at her apartment.

After that he'd dated her only one more time, reluctantly taking her to a church party where, unfortunately, she met his mother. Also unfortunately the two women had become fast friends. Since that night in early October, he'd been making every attempt to avoid Bonnie's desire for fun, sex and marriage. Recently this endeavor had become even more complicated because of his changing relationship with Gregg Madison.

Until last summer Bonnie had been Gregg's girlfriend, and she'd thoroughly enjoyed telling everyone who would listen how Jim had just swept her off her feet. But now she was seriously beginning to resent Gregg's and Jim's close comradeship, sensing it was canceling out her chances of charming either of the two young men into being her permanent consort.

How about coming over to my house tonight? We could see what pops up, so to speak, she whispered, leaning sexily across the desk.

Oh, get off it, Bonnie, he snapped back, I've got too much work today to put up with your teasing 'so to speak'.

Oh, I see. But you're not too busy to go to a movie with Gregg tonight.

And what does that have to do with it? Besides, what business is it of yours anyway?

No offense, my love. Well, at any rate, you'd better get your act together around here soon. The Spring Catalog is due out next Thursday, you know.

I know that and I'll get it all done, he said, trying to avoid looking at the heart-shaped locket dancing between the cleavage of her breasts as she leaned even closer toward him.

You know Mr. Silvers is getting a bit tired of your being so late, and I've been . . .

Look, I do my job here, he interrupted. I've always gotten things in on time, haven't I?

Well, sweet, not always. Not the last time we tried it in your car at least, she whispered, bending even closer to him. You're not having the same trouble getting it up for Gregg, I bet.

Recoiling at her words as if she were a spitting cobra, he angrily pushed his chair away from the desk, stood up and strode away from her in the direction of the Linotype machine.

If you'd get your ass off my desk, I could . . .

Okay, okay, she interrupted, shrugging her shoulders and getting gingerly to her feet. Well, work hard, sweety, she called as she sauntered across the office then out to the corridor.

Bitch! he sneered under his breath. Walking back to his desk, he angrily began to sort out the piles of paper again.

With her priggish innuendos, she better keep that fat mind and fat face of hers shut or I'll . . . He hesitated, glancing across the office toward the work table, noticing both Connie and Meg were staring at him. Sheepishly grinning back at them, he shrugged, sat down and tried to concentrate on his work.

Chapter IV

By ten he'd managed to get the Linotype machine set up, finished the six pages of women's underwear copy for the Spring Catalog and was setting the perimeters on the machine for the women's shoe section when Gregg breezed into the office.

Morning, ladies, the handsome young shipping foreman chimed not glancing at Connie or Meg as he glided past the work table and sat down on top of Jim's desk.

What this office really needs is more chairs, Jim snapped, slamming down the off switch of the Linotype machine.

And what's troubling you this morning? Gregg asked in mock surprise. Did you acquire indigestion from leftover cranberry sauce or something?

No, did you? Jim retorted, walking to his desk and collapsing in his chair. Stretching his legs out in front of him, he leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. I'm sorry. It's just Bonnie. She's been bugging me again today and I guess I'm uptight about it.

Oh, is that all? Well, why don't you just forget about the little slut?

That's easy for you to say, he replied, smiling up at Gregg, but remember, that little slut is my boss' secretary.

Then just tell her to go fuck the boss, Gregg laughed.

Yeah, sure. Well anyway, did you have a nice Thanksgiving?

The usual, his friend commented with a wave of his hands as if he were dismissing the question in princely fashion. We ate at my aunt's house, as always - the whole tribe - and naturally I blew my diet again.

First surprise, then embarrassment flooded Jim's face and the well-defined muscles of his neck began to flinch when he realized Gregg was staring at the bulge in his Levi's visible just above the edge of the desk where the metal was cutting across his upper thighs. Bolting upright in the chair, he pulled himself close to the desk hoping the subtle stirrings which had begun within the crotch of his pants had not been noticeable.

Oh! Gregg began to giggle. And are we still planning to go to the movies tonight or do you have something better in mind?

Just the movie, Jim replied, nervously glancing beyond his friend's curly head to find out if the girls were watching them.

Gregg's hair was thick, black and cut medium length. Certainly his best feature, it perfectly framed his finely sculpted nose, the chiseled straight line of his jaw and even accentuated his wide-set green eyes. At six-foot-three with heavily muscled arms, neck and chest, and a swarthy dark-olive complexion, he would have been considered handsome were it not for the forty or fifty pounds of excess weight which had plagued him ever since childhood.

Today as usual he was dressed in