Sarah, youre not drinking alcohol, are you?
Its not for me. Sarah set the bottle and a single wine glass in front of Cathy. But I think you could use a nip. After all, its been a cold, traumatic night. And here we are, talking about turkeys of the male variety.
Well, since you put it that way Cathy poured out a generous shot of brandy. To the turkeys of the world, she declared and took a sip. It felt just right going down.
So how is old Jack? asked Sarah.
Same as always.
Blondes?
Hes moved on to brunettes.
It took him only a year to go through the worlds supply of blondes?
Cathy shrugged. He might have missed a few.
They both laughed then, light and easy laughter that told them their wounds were well on the way to healing, that men were now creatures to be discussed without pain, without sorrow.
Cathy regarded her glass of brandy. Do you suppose there are any good men left in the world? I mean, shouldnt there be one floating around somewhere? Maybe a mutation or something? One measly decent guy?
Sure. Somewhere in Siberia. But hes a hundred-and-twenty years old.
Ive always liked older men.
They laughed again, but this time the sound wasnt as lighthearted. So many years had passed since their college days together, the days when they had known, had never doubted, that Prince Charmings abounded in the world.
Cathy drained her glass of brandy and set it down. What a lousy friend I am. Keeping a pregnant lady up all night! What time is it, anyway?
Only two-thirty in the morning.
Oh, Sarah! Go to bed! Cathy went to the sink and began wetting a handful of paper towels.
And what are you going to do? Sarah asked.
I just want to clean up the car. I didnt get all the blood off the seat.
I already did it.
What? When?
While you were taking a bath.
Sarah, you idiot.
Hey, I didnt have a miscarriage or anything. Oh, I almost forgot. Sarah pointed to a tiny film canister on the counter. I found that on the floor of your car.
Cathy shook her head and sighed. Its Hickeys.
Hickey! Now theres a waste of a man.
Hes also a good friend of mine.
Thats all Hickey will ever be to a woman. A friend. So whats on the roll of film? Naked women, as usual?
I dont even want to know. When I dropped him off at the airport, he handed me a half-dozen rolls and told me hed pick them up when he got back. Guess he didnt want to lug em all the way to Nairobi.
Is that where he went? Nairobi?
Hes shooting gorgeous ladies of Africa or something. Cathy slipped the film canister into her bathrobe pocket. This mustve dropped out of the glove compartment. Gee. I hope its not pornographic.
Knowing Hickey, it probably is.
They both laughed at the irony of it all. Hickman Von Trapp, whose only job it was to photograph naked females in erotic poses, had absolutely no interest in the opposite sex, with the possible exception of his mother.
A guy like Hickey only goes to prove my point, Sarah said over her shoulder as she headed up the hall to bed.
What point is that?
There really are no good men left in the world!
It was the light that dragged Victor up from the depths of unconsciousness, a light brighter than a dozen suns, beating against his closed eyelids. He didnt want to wake up; he knew, in some dim, scarcely functioning part of his brain, that if he continued to struggle against this blessed oblivion he would feel pain and nausea and something else, something much, much worse: terror. Of what, he couldnt remember. Of death? No, no, this was death, or as close as one could come to it, and it was warm and black and comfortable. But he had something important to do, something that he couldnt allow himself to forget. He tried to think, but all he could remember was a hand, gentle but somehow strong, brushing his forehead, and a voice, reaching to him softly in the darkness.
My name is Catherine
As her touch, her voice, flooded his memory, so too did the fear. Not for himself (he was dead, wasnt he?) but for her. Strong, gentle Catherine. Hed seen her face only briefly, could scarcely remember it, but somehow he knew she was beautiful, the way a blind man knows, without benefit of vision, that a rainbow or the sky or his own dear childs face is beautiful. And now he was afraid for her.
Where are you? he wanted to cry out.
Hes coming around, said a female voice (not Catherines, it was too hard, too crisp) followed by a confusing rush of other voices.
Watch that IV!
Mr. Holland, hold still. Everythings going to be all right-
I said, watch the IV!
Hand me that second unit of blood-
Dont move, Mr. Holland-
Where are you, Catherine? The shout exploded in his head. Fighting the temptation to sink back into unconsciousness, he struggled to lift his eyelids. At first, there was only a blur of light and color, so harsh he felt it stab through his sockets straight to his brain. Gradually the blur took the shape of faces, strangers in blue, frowning down at him. He tried to focus but the effort made his stomach rebel.
Mr. Holland, take it easy, said a quietly gruff voice. Youre in the hospital-the recovery room. Theyve just operated on your shoulder. You just rest and go back to sleep