PART FOUR: TAKING

Later, much later, Eve and A Damn were watching their two pups play.  They were in a cold and heartless land, hungry and lost and longing for the Garden and its magical fruit.  The strong pup kept picking on the other, calling it cruel names and tormenting its crooked body.
      Eve said, “Now I know what to call that last look in the naked Gardener’s eyes.”
      A Damn whacked the strong pup with a stick.  He shouted at it, “For shame!”  It was the same stick that had killed the snake a long time ago.  Then he turned to Eve and asked, “What did you say?”
      She could tell he didn’t really care.  She looked away from him and, her voice a hateful sound to her own ears, whispered into the wind, “Sorrow.”

 

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Two hours later Lucky and I were parked by the bakery in Richmond.  It was where Odysea and I met whenever she was staying at Womyn’s Land, a place where men weren’t welcome.
      Now she was inside the bakery, calling the main house to ask her friend to bring the box of handcuff keys.
      We had taken back roads from Barnet to Barre, then gotten on Interstate 89.  The whole trip we’d been listening to the news on different stations — WSTJ in St. Johnsbury, the Point in Montpelier, WDEV in Waterbury — but there had been no mention of Lucky’s escape.
      “I don’t understand why it’s not on the radio.  The Department of Corrections always puts out an immediate alert.”
      “Is there anyone you could call to find out what’s going on?” Odysea had asked.  She was riding shotgun, while Lucky was hunched down in the back seat wearing a ski mask.  He looked like a bank robber, but it seemed preferable to his harlequin’s mask, at least in ski country where we might get away with it.  I had wanted to wait until dark before leaving Barnet Mountain, but Odysea had insisted that we weren’t safe there, and ultimately I’d agreed.
      “Yeah, there is someone I could call.”
      When Odysea came out of the bakery, I went inside to call Rod.  I figured he’d be at home sleeping before his swing shift.  I got his number from information and dialed it.  After six rings I heard a sleepy growl that must have been “Hello.”
      “Big Man Rod, this is your ol’ buddy Jimmy.”
      “This better be important, Jimmy,” he mumbled into the phone.
      “It is.”
      “Okay, then I guess I’ll wake up a little.”
      “What’s happening with my friend from last night?”
      “Who we talkin’ ‘bout here?”
      “The one who reminded you of your old coon dog.”
      “Henh, henh,” he said, which I knew was his notion of a chuckle.  “That’s who I thought was under consideration.”  There was a long silence, and I was about to ask again when finally Rod spoke.  “Jimmy, if I was you I wouldn’t get too close to that one.”
      “Why’s that, Rod?”
      “Let’s just put it this way: You ever walk by a wasp nest?  As long as you’re not in one of them sucker’s flying pattern, they leave you alone.  But if you just happen to be where they’re headin’, it’s all over.  You can’t shake them, you just get stung till they’re satisfied you ain’t comin’ back again soon.”
      “Rod, you’ve got to do better than that.  I’m in trouble here.”
      “That’s what I’m tellin’ you, Jimmy.”
      “Do you know where my client is?”
      “No, but I know where he isn’t.”
      “Where’s that?”
      “The state hospital.”
      “How come it’s not on the news?”
      “Been a blackout.  Don’t know why.  Never seen it before.  Well, there was one time a guy took a short sabbatical from Windsor Prison and we kept the lid on it for sixteen hours till we caught him near Putney.”
      “Why was that?”
      “He was the son of a police chief in Rutland County, and we didn’t wanna embarrass the father more than he’d already been.”
      “So you’re telling me there’s some kind of police connection here?”
      “I don’t really know, Jimmy.  I’m just talkin’ in my sleep, if you get my drift.”
      I figured that was the end of the conversation.  “Sweet dreams, Big Man.”
      “I always dream sweet, Jimmy.  You know why?”
      “Haven’t a clue.”
      “‘Cause when I’m awake I follow the advice of Satchel Paige, the finest pitcher baseball ever saw and a pretty damn good philosopher, too:  ‘Don’t look back,’ he said, ‘something might be gaining on you.’  You hear me, Jimmy?”
      “The words are coming through the wire, but I’m standing in a dark place and can’t see the forest for the trees, Rod.  Can you shed more light?”
      “Not right now, buddy, but I guess I can keep my ears open as long as you can keep your mouth shut.”
      “Deal,” I answered, “but at the risk of ruining a good thing, why are you doing this for me?”
      “I ain’t doing it for you, Jimmy, I’m doing it for me.”
      “What’s that mean?”
      “Simple:  I don’t like bullies.  Never have.”  Then he yawned loudly into the receiver and hung up.
Ten minutes later a young woman who was dressed in overalls and work boots handed over an old White Owl cigar box full of keys to Odysea.  Her hair, like Odysea’s, was cropped short except for a tail in back.  She never looked at Lucky or me, never spoke a word, merely handed over the box and waited nearby in an old Chevy pickup hand-painted a bright pink.
      It took us ten minutes and dozens of keys before we found one that worked.  The tension had been growing the whole time, and I for one had given up when I heard the first click.  A collective sigh filled the car.
      I stuffed Lucky’s handcuffs, chains, and belt into a Grand Union supermarket bag that read JUST SAY NO, then buried it beneath a mound of black plastic garbage bags in a green dumpster at the edge of the parking lot.
      “Okay, now we’re free,” Odysea said when she’d gotten back into the car after returning the cigar box.  I got the feeling she meant all three of us, not just Lucky.
      We pulled out of the bakery’s lot just behind the pink pickup.  It went towards Womyn’s Land, and we turned back towards the interstate.
      “Why did she help us?”
      “She doesn’t like bullies,” Odysea answered.
      “That’s the theme of the day,” I said, then told her about my conversation with Rod.  She wasn’t surprised at the coincidence.
      “There’s no such thing as coincidence, Jimmy.”
      “I’ve heard that said before, but it feels just a little too neat for how I see the universe.”
      “The universe appears chaotic but actually is very purposeful,” Odysea insisted.  “Besides, there are more freedom fighters in this world than the forces of evil admit.”
      “You think that’s what this is about, Good and Evil?”
      “It’s always about good and evil.  Every breath we take, every thought, every moment of our existence is a yea or nay, a choice between those two irreconcilable forces.”
      “I’m surprised that a Buddhist like you sees the world in black and white.  I thought you tried for a gray dispassionate approach.”
      “I do.  But that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize how seductive evil can be.  Evil plays endlessly on our desires, the cause of all suffering.  Which is why we must strive for awareness.”
      “I’m not so sure about the ‘striving’ part.”
      “I am,” a tiny voice said from the back seat.
      I laughed out loud.  “I keep forgetting that you talk, Lucky.”
      “Mostly I listen,” he answered in a very somber tone.
      “Why don’t you say more?” Odysea asked.
      “I’m afraid.”  His tiny voice quaked as he said it.
      “Can you tell us why?”
      “Some time.”
      “We’ve got all the time in the world,” I said as I drove up the ramp that led onto I-89 heading to Burlington.  My plan was get into New York state as fast as possible, then go south to Albany where we’d head west.  “How long do you figure it will take us to reach Austin?”  I asked Odysea.
      “If we sleep at night, about three days.”
      “Three days,” I mused.  “That’s a lot of hours to fill.”
      “I know one way to fill them,” Odysea said, looking right at me.
      I must have smirked, because she laughed and said “Don’t look like that.  I’m not prying.  I just think we’re past the point of having any secrets, Jimmy.  You, Lucky, me — we’ve thrown our futures into the same stream, and so our pasts are flowing together, too, in ways that may not be visible but are real and powerful.”
      “Sounds like we’re about to make a pact,” I said sardonically.  Then I remembered the September morning in the Horn of the Moon Cafe and realized I’d already made this pact.  Only I hadn’t lived up to it, had held back more than I’d promised to give.  Odysea must have read my mind.
      “I’ve never pressed you to tell me about your past until today.  I knew you needed to hold onto it.  But now I think the opposite is true.”  She was silent awhile, letting what she’d said settle.
      As I pulled into the passing lane to get by a semi with Quebec plates, she resumed speaking.  “We’re at the start of a new journey with a new partner, and maybe we should begin by agreeing to share everything, including our stories.  Especially our stories.”
      “Just for the record, what are you asking for here?
      “How about the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me Goddess.  Are you ready for that, Jimmy?”
      “Do I have a choice?”
      “You always have a choice.”
      “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
      I glanced over at her and saw the determined look on her face.  In the rearview mirror I spotted Lucky with the same look in his golden eyes.  I didn’t have to ask whether he agreed.  It was obvious.
      I was the lone holdout.  It was getting tiresome always being in that role.
      I must have sighed, because Odysea put a hand on my shoulder and left it there.  From the back seat Lucky put his hand on top of hers.  I smiled at them both, I couldn’t help myself.  They looked beautiful to me, radiant with a glow that made me feel loved and honored, maybe for the first time in my life.  A calm, intense energy passed among us at that moment.  It buoyed me up, and I felt connected to them in a way that astounded me because it was real and natural.
      “So where do we begin,” I asked.
      They both smiled and settled back as Odysea said, “Actually, I was wondering why you ended up working in the law.”
      “I thought I told you during our Woodbury College days.”
      “Not really.  You just said that you wanted to help people who had no one else on their side.  You never told me why.”
      I, too, settled into the Audi’s plush seat.  I put on the blinker and returned to the right lane, set the cruise control for 64 mph, and put it all on automatic.  Almost at once I started seeing the faces of men who will haunt me for as long as I live.

 

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       Mighty Mouse went kicking and screaming all the way.  He knew what was in store for him.

      “Tell me why you are here, Mr. St. John,” the psychiatrist said as I sat facing him at his desk in his office on the ward.  The blinds were drawn, and it was cool and shady.  He spoke with a strong Spanish accent, for he was Cuban.  A short, middle-aged man with a neatly clipped mustache and curly hair graying at the temples, he was handsome and genteel, unusually un-aggressive for a psychiatrist.
      Why was I there?  All the reasons, including those I knew too well and those that I only sensed, spun through my mind in a split second filled with doubt and hesitation.
      I saw the flash of fire, felt the concussion, and for a moment I thought I would start screaming.  But I didn’t.  I just looked him in the eyes and gave him the simple truth, that during the summer a friend had given me a shopping bag full of peyote buttons he had picked in the desert in the southwest.
      “Every morning I woke up and ate a few.  By the fall there was little difference between fantasy and reality to me.”
      “I think I am going to give you some medicine to help you calm down.”
      “Please don’t,” I begged.  “I’m very sensitive to any kind of drugs, and the whole reason I’m here is because of them.”
      He hesitated, thought for a moment, then finally said,  “Okay, we’ll see.”
      That evening I heard the night nurse slide open the glass window of the staff room and call out, “Medication!”
      I watched as the men shuffled up to the window and accepted their drugs.  When the long line finished, she started calling out the names of those who hadn’t appeared.  I was surprised to hear my name.
      “There must be some mistake.”
      “There’s no mistake.  Your doctor signed an order for you to take this medicine.”  She was an attractive white woman, perhaps forty, her crisp nurse’s uniform heavily starched, her long peach fingernails perfectly polished.
      “But he told me this afternoon that he wasn’t going to,” I insisted.
      She bristled and said, “Either you take this medicine now or I call Central.”
      I didn’t know what Central was, so I said, “Can’t you call him and ask?”
      “No, I’m not going to bother the doctor at home.  Now stop wasting my time and take this medicine.”  Her face was rigid and unyielding.  I knew the conversation was over, and I felt like I were living One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
      “No way in hell,” I said, then turned away.
      Three minutes later I could hear the loud locks turning in the double doors to the outside, and six huge men stormed into the room.
      “Goddamn you, St. John!” the shift supervisor yelled as the five other gorillas grabbed me.  I resisted, but one of them got hold of my thumb and wrenched it back until I thought he would break it off.  The others each seized a limb and stretched me in more directions than I knew existed, pummeling me in ways that hurt but didn’t leave bruises.
      They carried me struggling to a Quiet Room where they pinned me on my stomach to a bare mattress.  The supervisor yanked my pants below my knees.  Then he rammed a long needle into my ass and pumped the syringe, which suddenly shot the offensive fluid into my body.
      That’s right, I’m talking about rape.  Gang rape at that.
      Almost immediately a heavy veil of fog filled the room and I felt my joints stiffen as if concrete had been poured into my veins.
      The fog continued to fill the room for two more days.
      I couldn’t see and I couldn’t feel and I couldn’t think.
      I was the living dead.

The L-shaped ward was split into two wings.  At night the new inmates and those less tractable were locked into a dormitory room.  To sleep in the rooms on the other side of that locked door was an earned privilege.  After I finally had worked my way into one of the smaller bedrooms, I went to bed one night to discover Mighty Mouse getting into the bed next to mine.  I knew he hadn’t earned the privilege, and I was not about to sleep next to this volatile person, so I complained to the staff.  Mighty Mouse was forced back to the dorm, and I slept soundly.
      The next morning a man named Michael said to me, “Hey, St. John, come in my room.  I want to talk to you.”  Michael was a long-term inmate.  He was the leader of a gang of young white men on the ward who obviously controlled their end of it.
      It seemed as if nearly every member of Michael’s gang had been charged with or convicted of brutal sex crimes.  One powerfully built young man, whose pale face was deeply pitted from acne, leered at me every time I passed him in the hallways.  “That’s my new girlfriend,” he’d tell his sniggering friends.  Now he stood guard outside the door as Michael shut it behind him.
      “Sit down, St. John,” he said.
      I sat on one of the beds, uncertain and wary.  Michael stood over me, one foot up on the bed next to my leg, leaning with his face very close to mine.  His breath was sour, made so by the psychiatric drugs we were forced to take.  Michael started speaking slowly, quietly, but soon worked himself into a rage.
      “What the hell do you think you’re doing, St. John?  We brought Mighty Mouse over from the dorm last night and you got him sent back!  We’ve been working on this for weeks!  We’re tryin’ to get him better, you asshole!  You got a big mouth, and the next time you open it . . . ,” here he paused for breath and shook his clenched fist right next to my face, “we’re comin’ in the shower room when you’re in there.”  The menace in his voice was so real it filled the room around us.  I stared at him, transfixed by his anger.
      “You know people slip on soap all the time in showers,” Michael said.  “It’s tragic, it really is.  Some of them even get fucked first, then they fall on their heads and they die.  It’s tragic, you know what I mean?”
      Then he swung his arm back as if he were going to punch me in the face, but for some reason he controlled himself at the last second and lightly tapped my nose with his fist.  Even so, I could feel the incredible force of his rage.
      He glowered at me, then growled, “Get out of my room.”
      I left, and from then on I rarely spoke to anyone without thinking first.

Pacing the halls, pacing the halls, pacing the halls.  It was the only real activity that was available.  Up and down one corridor of the L, up and down the other.  Every day I paced, along with many of the other inmates.
      One of these was a man from Germany who kept raving in bouts.  No one understood what he was saying, for most of it was in German.  Day after day we passed each other in the halls, though he never noticed me.  He was just under six feet and very gaunt.  His greasy hair hung limply to his shoulders, and he rarely shaved the stubble from his chin.
      One morning I began to walk alongside of him.  Carefully, deliberately, I started matching his pace, which often was furious.  At first he didn’t notice, so consumed was he with his ravings.  Then I saw him glance out of the corner of one eye to look at me.  I smiled at him and just kept walking.
      The next day I did the same thing.  And then the day after that.  Soon we were partners in our pacing, and the German began to pause in his ranting to talk with me in halting English.
      He never called me by name, but referred to me as “my friend.”  It was always, “Good morning, my friend,” or “It’s good to see you, my friend.”  Some days he was consumed by his rage, and if I came near he would wave me away.  When he saw the concern on my face, he’d gesture me to him.  I remember his hands, very pale and soft, with long, slender fingers.  He would gently pat me on the arm, and whisper, “I’m okay, my friend, this is just something I have to do.”  Then he’d bolt down the hall, gesticulating wildly, shouting and swearing in German.  Other days he was calm and, as we paced the halls, able to tell me his story.
      He had come to Miami on vacation.  One night, walking the streets alone, he had been mugged and robbed of all his money.  Was that when his ranting began?  I don’t know for certain, I only know that the heavy psychiatric drugs he was forced to take were no help to him.  Because he continued to vent his anger and frustration, the staff was threatening to use electric shock to end his raving.  They didn’t even know why he was so upset, nor did they see the gentle man beneath the threats and shouts.  They saw the obvious and cared about one thing only — controlling his behavior.
      I feared for him, for I had seen other inmates returning onto the ward after having been shocked.  It was very disturbing.  They had to be assisted by the staff, for they stumbled as if in a drunken stupor.  Some stared blankly, most grinned stupidly.
      Electro-convulsive therapy (ECT) is the industry’s name for shock, which is an electric kick in the head that leaves your brain traumatized.  Often your memory is affected, sometimes permanently, and you feel light-headed and care-free, which is common when people suffer head injuries.  The “high” from shock, however, lasts only about four months, then the overwhelming sorrow or despair returns, and the shock docs are there waiting.  It is the most lucrative treatment there is, spawning an industry that provides ample documentation for its “success-rate,” especially among the most powerless people in our culture, including old women.

As the German and I paced the halls, my attention was often caught by a young black man with a cleanly shaved head who was pacing, as well.  His name was Mufti, and when he smiled his entire face lit up with a rosy glow and he gave off a gentle light I can only describe as holy. At times I actually could see an aura — waves of color and light — emanating around him in a brilliant scheme.
      One day, and I’m not sure why, he and I were summoned together for an interview by the treatment team.  On the team of about ten was an elderly black woman who alternately reprimanded and praised us as if she had a personal stake in our lives.  She was the only staff member who spoke this way.  The others hid behind a wall of professional jargon.
      As Mufti and I walked out of the room together, I asked him, “Did you see the green aura around her?”
      “You can see auras, too?” he asked, clearly surprised.  Then he smiled at me, a brilliant smile that lit up his beautiful face.  From that moment on we often walked the halls together.
      Once, as we passed under the fluorescent lights, the transformers crackled and hissed.  Mufti laughed, pointed at the ceiling, and said ingenuously, “That’s because of me!”  I believed, him, too, for his energy was, while very calm, also quite intense.
      In time Mufti trusted me enough to tell me his story:  “Last year I was walking the streets of Miami when Allah spoke to me.”  As Mufti related in detail what his god had told him, I could feel the depth of his faith, could sense his unerring acceptance of the holy command he was receiving.  I listened intently as the drama then unfolded precisely as the voice Mufti heard had predicted.
      “So I came to the hotel,” he continued, “and walked inside as I had been told.  There stood the police officer in my vision.  I reached in my coat and slowly took out my gun.”  Mufti, like many of the young men of Miami, was always armed.  “I aimed it carefully and then fired, killing him.  Everyone screamed.”
      Mufti told this story calmly, without visible sign of emotion or doubt as to whether he had done anything wrong.  His god had spoken to him, and he had obeyed.
      “They sent me here where the doctors want me to say I was crazy.  But I wasn’t.”
      The psychiatrists at South Florida State Hospital were Cubans who had left their homeland after the revolution.  They were compassionate men who did not want to see their patients’ tragic lives destroyed by the harsh criminal justice system.  In Mufti’s case, they believed he was insane at the time of the crime.  Moreover, because he refused to accept their label of mental illness, they held that he was incompetent to stand trial since he would not be able to assist his lawyer in his own defense.  When they looked at him, they saw a sweet, confused, sick young man who would surely be sent to death row if they returned him to court.
      Mufti, however, felt that he had been acting from a holy directive.
      I never doubted Mufti’s religious sincerity, and I was not alone in this.  He was much beloved by the other inmates, including those who had worked their way off our ward to a less restrictive one.
      We sometimes would see these men as we walked to meals in the dining hall, a separate building connected to our ward by open-air corridors completely enclosed with chain-link fence.  From their walkway across a square of lawn, someone would spot Mufti and call out his name.  Soon many would be chanting: “MUFTI! MUFTI! MUFTI!”
      The warm Florida air would fill with the rhythmic chanting as a serene smile slowly spread across Mufti’s beautiful face, a holy glow emanating from his slender body.

Eventually I worked my way off the maximum security ward, though it was more by accident than design.  No one had ever explained to me the rules or procedure.  The day I walked onto my new ward the Cubans there adopted me, making sure I got a semi-private room near their end of the corridor.
      Every evening around seven o’clock they would take over the kitchen on the ward and make their strong, sweet coffee.  They always offered me some, which one drank very quickly in small amounts.  It was like a shot of speed coursing through the veins.
      As soon as we drank the coffee, everyone would start talking very fast all at once, laughing and being very gay.  They would speak to me in their mix of English and Spanish, which I didn’t really comprehend, but it didn’t matter because we were comrades in the kitchen they had made our own.
      In time I began to feel better, more clear and in control.  It wasn’t because of any treatment I received, nor was it due to the psychiatric drugs that I dutifully took and spat out twice a day.  It was just because people naturally heal when allowed to rest and restore themselves.
      I continued to learn the stories of the men around me, so many of whom were violent offenders.  To me, the murderers seemed to be the gentler souls on the ward — men who had killed in fits of unrestrained passion and afterwards had to confront this most irretrievable act.  On the other hand, the sex offenders seemed to be the more volatile of the group.  Boundless rage seethed within them.
      As I started feeling better I also felt more despair and sorrow because of what had brought me there in the first place.  It was as if I bore an open wound that went untreated, a stigmata of the heart.  The weeks dragged on with little to do on the ward but rehash my life’s tragedy, and as the winter holiday season approached, I become emotionally charged.
      On Thanksgiving evening I watched the other inmates visit with their friends and family.  I sat alone in a corner until the last visitor had left and the room was empty.  Then I stood up and dialed on the pay phone a collect call to my sister.  As soon as I heard her voice, I began to weep.
      “Where are you?” she said.  I had vanished four years before, and she knew nothing about where I’d gone or why.
      I tried to talk but couldn’t.  She sensed my sorrow, my loneliness, and she began to cry, too.  Her tears for me were more than I could bear, and I started to sob silently, my chest heaving, my shoulders shaking.  Somehow I managed to mutter “I love you” before hanging up the phone.
      I turned and walked out of the room, hoping no one would notice me.  All the hard weeks I had spent there among the maddogs of Miami, I had been protected to some degree by a false veneer of hardness.  I could not afford to have the other inmates see me in this vulnerable state.
      The corridor to my room was empty, so I hastily headed down it.  Then out of his room burst Big Willie, the official ward leader.  Willie was massive and very powerful.  He didn’t take crap from anyone.  He was there on a murder charge, and it was obvious from the look of him and the way he carried himself that he would kill again if pushed.  I did not want Willie of all people to see me, so I averted my face as I rushed by him.
      But Willie did see me and called after me, deep concern in his voice, “St. John!  St. John!  You alright, man?”
      I nodded my head and mumbled something, but Willy wouldn’t let it go.  “Come back, St. John.  We’ll talk, man, . . . .”
      I couldn’t go back, couldn’t face the tender gift he was offering, but the warmth of his gesture carried me to some safer place than I had been in a long time.

      Big Willy, thank you.
      Cuban comrades, I salute you.
      Mufti, bless you.
      The German, I think of you.
      Michael, be gentle.
      Mighty Mouse, be well.
      You are all maddogs, it’s true.
      But you are maddogs I have loved.

 

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      “Sounded like an intense conversation,” Odysea offered.  It was an invitation to talk.
      I stared at the unending ribbon of highway in front of me.  I felt drained, both from my conversation with Diane and from talking about South Florida State Hospital.  It was as if I’d given away too much of myself in too short a time.
      “I don’t know if I’m up to more ‘deep disclosure,’” I said in a weary tone.  “I’m starting to feel like I’m on The Oprah Winfrey Show.”
      “How do you know what that show is like?  You don’t have a TV.”
      “You’re right, I have no idea.  I’ve never seen it.  I just know it’s what people say these days when they feel as if they’re revealing too much.”
      “You’re not revealing too much, you’re just letting out what you normally keep stuffed inside.  You’ve stuffed so much for so long that it’s choking you, Jimmy.”
      I didn’t know what to say.  Was she right?  Was I choking?
      “It must feel strange for you to open up, but it’s a healthy way of being.  It sets us free, gets us ready for the next, newest moment so that we can truly experience the present.  Besides, to share what’s going on inside us is the only true gift we can offer.  To hold back, to hide and feint, is to feed the grandest illusion of all — social convention.”
      As the mile markers flashed by us, I considered what she’d said.  If she were right, I had a lifetime of habit to unlearn.
      I still hadn’t responded when Odysea spoke again.  “I guess I do need to know if you’re serious about turning Lucky over to the cops.”
      “I doubt it.  It was an offer that seemed to make sense at the moment.  I don’t want her reporting this car to the police, and I didn’t know what else to offer to forestall her.  I’m just hoping for enough time to get us to Texas.”
      “Then what?”
      “I don’t know.  Maybe by then the pieces of this puzzle will start to fit together so that I can make some sense out of it.”
      “Do you think she would turn us in?”
      “She might.  She’s a lawyer, and I suspect she’ll do whatever she must to protect herself.”
      “You don’t like lawyers, do you?”
      “I have a love-hate relationship with the law and lawyers.”
      “And Diane is no exception to that?”
      “Up until yesterday I thought I respected her as a lawyer and lusted for her as a woman.”
      “And today?”
      “Today I no longer trust her as a lawyer.  What has always bothered me about lawyers is that every single one of them is an officer of the court.  Their first allegiance is to the judicial system, not to their clients.  That’s a fundamental conflict in my mind, one the profession denies.”
      “And what about Diane as a womon?”
      “As a woman, she’s got me on the ropes.  I don’t know what to believe or how I feel about her.”
      “How does she feel about you?”
      “She says she’s in love with me, but I don’t understand why.”
      “You can’t conceive of a womon loving you, can you?”
      “I’m not going to fool myself.  I’m short, squat, ugly, lined, and gray.  Why would a beautiful young woman like Diane fall in love with me?”
      “Maybe she doesn’t care about your physical appearance.  Or maybe she likes the way you look.  I do.  You have this intense look that makes you very interesting.  Plus there’s a mystery about you because of the way you hold everything so close.”
      I scoffed.  “First you tell me to let loose, then you tell me holding tight is what makes me appealing.  That’s why I love you, Odysea.  You know just how to milk both sides of an issue.  It’s the mediator in you.  Or maybe you should have been a lawyer!”
      “Now I’m going to pout because I think you’re insulting me.”  She put on a perfect pout, which made us both laugh.
      This whole time Lucky had been sleeping in the back seat.  Even when I’d shouted over the phone, it hadn’t disturbed him.  Now he was starting to whimper as he had earlier, to whine and yap in that dog-like way.  I thought he was waking up, but he just got wilder and more dog-like.
      “Should we wake him?”
      “I don’t know,” Odysea said.
      Then he howled, which actually hurt in the close confines of the car.
      “Lucky!” I shouted.
      He groaned, then yipped and yapped a few seconds more.
      “Lucky, come on, wake up!”
      I looked in the rearview mirror and could see his golden eyes opening out of sleep.  He looked dazed, as if he’d been dreaming something disturbing.
      Odysea loosened her seatbelt and leaned over the seat to stroke Lucky.  “Are you okay, Lucky?”
      He stared at her in confusion until a look of recognition took form in his eyes.
      “I’m okay now,” he whispered.  He sat up straighter, stretched his long limbs as best he could, and yawned without restraint.
      “Were you dreaming?” Odysea asked.
      He nodded his head, Yes.
      “Can you tell us about the dream?”
      Again he nodded Yes, then yawned massively.  It was catching.  Odysea yawned into her hand, and I found myself yawning, as well.
      He began to speak, haltingly at first, then with less uncertainty and more confidence, yet always with a pained look on his face.  He told us it was a dream he often had, one that had repeated itself for as long as he had known what dreams were.
      The telling took a long time.  Sometimes he’d fall silent, apparently lost in the dream.  Then we would prod him with a question or encourage him with praise until slowly, piece by piece, the dream took shape for us.  When it had, we knew without question why he felt tormented by it.