#author: vivian darkbloom

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Love and Death in a Trailer Park

Part 1 of Vivian Darkbloom’s White Trash Series

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: From the Academy of Bards: Life in a trailer park takes a on new meaning when a going-nowhere factory worker, Gabrielle, meets a dark and enigmatic firefighter Zina.

Gabrielle held the phone—the old beige one they stole from their mom—away from her ear in disbelief. The perky male voice on the line had asked for her, and when she said "Yup, I'm Gabrielle Hockenberry," the cheerful young man went on to explain that she was being asked to participate in the Jerry Springer Show, more specifically, the show tentatively entitled, "My Sister's Boyfriend Made Me Pregnant!" At which point she screamed, "No fuckin' way!" into the receiver and slammed it down.

She stomped through their apartment in search of Lila, who was on the recliner—the one that Uncle Pat gave him that had been sitting in his garage for two years—eating cold pizza and watching Geraldo. In fact, a half-eaten slice was balanced precariously on her swollen stomach.

Gabrielle snatched the remote out of her sister's limp, greasy grip and Geraldo's face, taut with concern, dwindled into darkness. "What'd ya do that for?" Lila bellowed, as if her sister had stabbed her.

"You know goddamn well, Lila! Some jerk from Jerry Springer just called me!"

Lila's wounded look metamorphosed into surprise and hope. "Yeah?"

"How could you, my own sister! I don't want our dirty laundry aired all over national TV!"

"But Gab," Lila whined, "it would be fun. They put you up in a hotel, you get to ride in a fuckin' limo—"

"Forget it, Lila! If you and Purdy want to embarrass yourselves, go right ahead! But I'm not gonna do it!"

"Come on, Gab—I promise you I'll go easy on you in the fight. After all, you're the wronged party, everyone'll be rooting for you."

The wronged party. Gabrielle clenched her teeth, remembering the night Lila and Purdy sat down with her and told her that they were "in love" and Lila was having his baby. After assaulting Purdy with an old copy of Cosmo, she promptly called up Effie, her best friend, and the two of them went down to the Saddle and got wasted. She had six Rolling Rocks, two pina coladas, and threw up in the bathroom.

Now Lila was five months pregnant. She'd grown accustomed to it all; in fact, when she got right down to it, she hardly missed Purdy at all. She actually saw the bastard even more so now than when they were dating—it seemed like he was over at the apartment constantly, fawning over Lila and the "demon spawn" (as Gabrielle secretly called it) inside her. Still, it all hurt. Being dumped, especially for your own sister, wasn't easy. Purdy had said mean things to her—she was cold, she was too wrapped up in her dreams of writing poetry and going back to school, they didn't have sex enough, blah blah blah....But she didn't blame Lila all that much—after all, Purdy was attractive, that's how he got the nickname, from the bullies in school who said he was "purdy as a flower." The name stuck, but as he grew even more handsome, it took on a favorable aspect.

Gabrielle put hands on hips and glared at her sister. "I could beat you with one hand tied behind my back, even if you weren't knocked up. I've been workin' out, ya know." With that, she stalked into her bedroom and slammed the door.

Once inside her sanctuary, Gabrielle flopped down on her bed and cried a little. To calm herself she clutched her stuffed sheep and stared at her old David Bowie poster. I need something in my life...I need love, I need to get outta here, I need to stop working in that freakin' factory...she chanted this over and over in her mind as the silvery gray of the diminishing day deepened into darkness. She'd had no idea how long she had been lying in bed when she heard the phone ring, and Lila's voice answering it. Then a shout: "GAB-RI-ELLE!!!"

She touched her face—her tears had dried, and she hoped that her eyes didn't look too puffy; she didn't want Lila to know she had been crying. She got up and went out into the living room. Lila stood, watching a rerun of Home Improvement, holding the phone. Her eyes didn't flicker from the screen as she thrust it at Gabrielle, who eyed it suspiciously. Lila did not break her gaze at the TV when she muttered, "It's Effie."

"Thank God it's not Jerry Springer." Gabrielle couldn't resist the jibe as she swiped the receiver from her sister.

"What's this about Jerry Springer?" Effie's voice crackled on the line.

"Nothin', Eff. What's up?"

"Hey, you gonna be there tonight?"

"Huh?" Gabrielle muttered. Then she remembered: Effie and her band, the Amazin' Amazons, were playing down at the Saddle Bar & Grill. "Oh, I guess Eff....although I'm not really in the mood."

"Don't worry. It'll be a short set. Pony hurt her arm at softball the other day, so she's not swingin' the drumsticks as good as usual. "

"Okay, I'll be there. What time you go on?"

"At ten. We'll be done by eleven." A pause. "You okay, honey?"

"Yeah...you know, just the usual bullshit," Gabrielle mumbled so that Lila would not hear. But Effie, of course, did hear her.

"Well, sounds like you need to get the hell out of there for a while. I wish you'd move in with us. We got plenty of room." Effie shared a big farmhouse with her son and her bandmates, Pony and Sally. They were frequently the talk of the town; everyone wondered what went on at "the Farmhouse." Rumors ran amok, of everything from crack houses and homosexual recruitment to orgies involving any number of species and genders. Gabrielle knew none of it was true.

"Come down early, we'll have a beer before the set," Effie said.

"Okay, Eff. I'll be there around nine. How's that?"

"Great! See ya then, honey. Bye." Gabrielle hung up the receiver and headed toward the bedroom. Idly she flipped through the blouses in her closet. Oh what the hell, she sighed, peeling off the old Guns and Roses t-shirt she was wearing, I'll wear what I always wear. She selected the green polo shirt (puke green, everyone said—nonetheless it was her favorite top) and went into the bathroom. She washed her face, dusted her armpits with a fresh layer of Dial deodorant, added a little dab of perfume, washed her face with Noxema, and donned her shirt. She was brushing her flame-colored hair when she noticed Lila leaning in the bathroom doorway. "Goin' out?" her sister asked, noncommittal.

"Yeah," Gabrielle replied with equal neutrality. "Effie's band is playin' down at the Saddle."

Lila scrunched her face with disapproval. "I still don't know about Effie, Gab."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes. "Lila, Effie is not a lezzie, okay? I mean, she had a kid!" Although Gabrielle knew that Effie was open to the possibility, as once declared under the influence of several bottles of Miller Lite and shots of Jagermeister.

"Well, she lives with Pony and Sally, and those two..."

"So goddamn what, Lila. So they're dykes. So what." Gabrielle slammed the brush down.

"Well, I mean, I really don't care...what they do is their own business, just as long as I don't have to see it." Lila tried in vain to sound as liberal as her sister.

"I guess I'll have to tell them not to come over and perform for you tonight, then," Gabrielle growled sarcastically, walking toward the door.

"You're just impossible sometimes," Lila shouted after her. "No wonder Purdy didn't want to be with you anymore!"

Gabrielle picked her car keys out of the candy dish on the kitchen table and slammed the door behind her.

*****

She had been nursing a Miller Lite the entire time Effie and the band were on stage; the set actually ran a little longer than Effie had told her—it was after eleven, and they were finally winding down, singing a version of "Layla." They were an odd group, Gabrielle thought, regarding her friends on stage: Pony at the drums, Sally on bass, Effie with her guitar, singing. Pony liked strictly country music, Sally liked classic rock stuff, and Effie, like Gabrielle, went for mushy love songs, although she was unsuccessful in her campaign to get the group to cover Celine Dion. At last, they launched into the final song of the evening, "Angel of the Morning," much to Sally's consternation; the willowy bassist rolled her eyes as Pony gently yet firmly launched into the melodramatic beats and Effie began to sing. Gabrielle smiled as Effie's voice washed over the inattentive crowd.

Out of the corner of her eye Gabrielle saw an interesting trio enter the bar: A large, burly man with long, sandy brown hair and a short, muscular fellow with curly blond hair were accompanied by a tall, beautiful woman with flowing black hair. They ordered beers at the bar, and while the large man engaged his smaller friend in conversation, the tall woman leaned back against the bar and watched the band. Her jeans, t-shirt, and work boots were as dark as her hair. She stood arms folded, drinking a Heineken. Gabrielle found herself staring at the striking woman, until the woman finally returned her frank, inquisitive stare. With a shudder—of what, she didn't quite know—she turned away and once again focused her attention on Effie. But, half a minute later, when she let her eyes roam once again to the stranger at the bar, she found those sparkling intense eyes still on her.

Half-hearted applause rose as the song ended; Gabrielle, in a nervous burst of energy, led the cheers and clapping. As Effie wished the crowd a good-night and exhorted them to sign a mailing list, Gabrielle climbed on the stage to help the group put their equipment away.

"Hey roadie," Sally greeted her with a grin.

"Hi Sal. How's it going?"

"Pretty good, although dumb-ass over there didn't listen to me!" She threw a glare at Pony, who was slowly dismantling her drum kit. "I heard that," the burly drummer retorted. "I'm fine, Sally, stop bugging me!"

"You're hurt, Pony, you need to rest that arm!" Sally shouted at her lover.

"Knock it off!" Pony yelled back.

"Christ, you two," Gabrielle moaned. Effie came over and gave her a hug. "Well?" she demanded. She always asked Gabrielle's opinion of a performance, because she knew her friend was always honest, yet gentle.

"'Angel' was good, Eff. 'Layla' was a little sluggish though."

"Thought so. Pony was getting tired."

"Shut up!" Pony roared.

"I wish you'd lay off 'Achy Breaky Heart' though..."

"Well, we gotta keep you-know-who happy," Sally growled as she watched Pony stalk off the stage.

"Oh Jesus, Sally, don't let her get tanked!" Effie said to the bassist.

"Don't worry, Eff." Sally leaned into her friends conspiratorially. "Eff—did ya see who's here?"

Effie nodded slowly.

"Who?" Gabrielle asked.

"Zina," Effie nodded over at the bar.

"The woman? With black hair?" Gabrielle said breathlessly. "You know her?"

"Yeah," Effie drawled mysteriously. "We go back a ways."

"I've never seen her in here before," Gabrielle remarked.

"She lives in Chakram Creek. She's a fireman over there."

"Fireperson," Gabrielle corrected.

"Whatever. I'd heard she went straight after getting out of prison."

"No!" Sally cried, horrified.

"Not that kinda straight, Sally," Effie smirked. "I mean, she's not a con anymore. No more dope, no stealin'..."

"What was she in for?" Gabrielle interrupted nervously.

"Oh, she was in and out a lot. Minor stuff at first, like grand theft auto, dealin' weed, then breaking and entering, burglary...she did two and a half years altogether." Effie regarded the dark, dangerous woman who was quietly talking with her large friend. "Some say she even set fire to that old house in Cirra, but they never proved that."

"It's kinda funny she's a fireman then, isn't it?" Sally said. She and Effie cracked up.

"Wow," Gabrielle whispered. She permitted herself to take in the woman unabashedly. Sally and Effie exchanged a look.

"What're you so interested in, Miss Gabrielle?" Sally asked, smirking.

"Nothin'!" Gabrielle cried defensively. "It's just...she sounds real interesting. I'd like to meet her sometime."

Effie raised an eyebrow. "No time like the present, then!" She grabbed Gabrielle's arm and proceeded to drag her friend over to the bar.

"Effie!" Gabrielle squealed in protest. She hoped her hair looked okay.

The three friends at the bar turned their attention to the two women who approached them. "Zina!" Effie said effusively.

" 'lo, Eff," murmured Zina. She hoisted the Heineken to her lips and let her eyes roam over Gabrielle, who felt a strangle tingling sensation travel up her spine. They must have the air conditioning on too strong again, she thought, even though she was sweating a little. Zina, however, looked cool as a cucumber.

"Long time no see. How the hell are you?" Effie said.

"Pretty good."

"Heard you're living over in the Creek now."

"Yup."

"Workin' for the fire department, huh?"

"Yup."

"Like it?"

"Uh huh."

Gabrielle let a dint of exasperation cloud her face. She's about as interesting as that bottle of Heineken, thought the budding poet.

"So what's up, Eff?"

"I wanted to introduce you to my best friend, Gabrielle."

"Hiya." Zina enfolded Gabrielle's smaller hand with her large, warm one. She nodded toward the large man on her left. "This here's Hank." Then a nod to the shorter fellow on her right. "An' this is Ed."

Hank's smile was warm; he too shook Gabrielle’s hand. Ed wore a John Deere cap, from which his mass of curly gold hair tried to escape. His eyes twinkled mischievously. Gabrielle liked him immediately. "Hi!" he said enthusiastically. "Wanna dance?" he asked.

She looked at the dance floor near the jukebox. No one was on the floor except Margie Peckerwood, who was, as usual, drunk and dancing with herself. "Uh, maybe later," Gabrielle said, with an apologetic smile.

"Well, maybe you’d like to go outside an’ look at my new truck..." Ed leered.

Gabrielle looked surprised. Hank shook his head sadly. "Some other time," she suggested. Now she wasn’t sure if she liked him as much.

"Smooth move, Ex-Lax," Hank drawled, playfully swatting Ed’s head and causing his hat to fall to the floor.

"Watch the hat, goddammit!" Ed cried.

"Come on, let’s go play pool. Table’s free." Hank turned to Zina. "You comin’, Z?"

"Not right now," replied Zina with another pull on the Heineken.

As the men sauntered away, Effie announced, "Well, I need to go help Sal load up the van. I’ll see ya later, honey," she gave Gabrielle a quick hug.

"Effie! Don’t leave me with her!" Gabrielle hissed in her friend’s ear.

"Too late!" Effie whispered back, gleefully. She smiled and waved goodbye at Zina, who nodded.

Gabrielle turned to the laconic firefighter. It was then noticed the intense blue of the woman’s eyes. "So, uh, how’d you get such an unusual name?" she asked.

"Mom was a hippie," Zina replied.

"Huh? I don’t get it."

Zina sighed; she hated making the effort to formulate a longer sentence. "Well, uh, you know how tree-huggers are. They’re a little funny, always gotta do things differently. Mom did say it was an old family name, but I don’t know...I mean, she named our dog Moonchild, for Christ’s sake."

Gabrielle giggled. Then stopped, hoping that Zina would not take offense. But a lop-sided grin lit up the tall woman’s handsome face. And Gabrielle felt herself return the smile. Maybe Zina wasn’t as bad as she thought—she did appear to have a sense of humor. "Is, uh, Hank your boyfriend?"

Zina chuckled. "Nope. He was, a long time ago, but not no more. He is my best bud, though. He helped me get on the fire department."

Eventually Zina went over to play pool with Hank. Gabrielle watched and talked with Ed a little, who kept telling her silly jokes.

"Hey, how come little girls don’t fart?"

"I dunno. Why?"

"’Cause they don’t get an asshole until they get married!"

She laughed so hard she spilled her beer. "That’s pretty funny—hey, it’s cool that you told that joke, since you’re a guy and all."

"I’m an equal opportunity bullshitter," Ed replied, swigging a Rolling Rock.

When Gabrielle left the Saddle it was a little after midnight. She climbed into her Ford Escort, inserted the key into the ignition, and heard the car give its old familiar sputter. But this time it would not turn over. She tried for fifteen minutes. Finally she got out of the car, and kicked a tire rather furiously. "Piece of shit!" she yelled at it.

"Not startin’?" said a smooth, sexy voice near her ear.

"Aaaaagh!!!" Gabrielle screamed. She jumped around and saw Zina grinning down at her.

"Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya."

"S’okay," Gabrielle panted. "Uh no, my goddamn car isn’t starting." She kicked the Ford again.

"An Escort," Zina stated flatly. She tch’ed.

"I know, I know, everybody says it’s a piece of crap." She looked at Zina hopefully. "Know anything about cars?"

The firefighter nodded. "Open the hood," she said. Gabrielle reached in and did so. The tall woman ducked her head under the hood. "Battery looks bad," Zina said. "Might be dead."

"Shit!" Gabrielle cried.

Zina slammed the hood down. "Lock it up, call a tow service tomorrow," she suggested. "I’ll give you a ride home on my bike."

"Bike?" bleated the small woman fearfully.

"Yeah." She followed Zina over to a big sleek motorcycle. A Harley.

"Wow," Gabrielle said, awestruck. Zina handed her a helmet. "What about you? Don’t you have a helmet?" she asked, strapping the dark thing on her head.

Zina smiled at her and tapped the helmet. "You’re wearin’ it, kid. Hop on. Where d’ya live?"

"Potadeia Road. The yellow house just past the church."

"Gotcha."

"Uh, Zina?" "Yeah?"

"I’m a little scared—I’ve never ridden on a cycle before."

"It’ll be okay, Gabrielle," Zina replied soothingly. Her simple words, spoken in that rich, clear voice, put Gabrielle at ease. For some inexplicable reason she trusted this woman. "Just hang on to me tight, okay?"

"Okay." Gabrielle climbed on the bike behind the tall woman and gently wrapped her arms around the t-shirt-clad torso. Her grasp tightened as the Harley exploded into sound and motion. The taut, rippling muscles of Zina’s stomach were a pleasant distraction to Gabrielle as they flowed across the parking lot and onto the road.

Zina was a careful driver, Gabrielle noticed—she was confident, yet she did not drive the bike too fast—probably ‘cause she doesn’t want to scare me, thought the young woman. It pleased her that her new friend was so considerate. She sighed happily as they moved through the night. The wind was cool, and Zina’s dark hair whipped behind her, the strands tickling and touching Gabrielle’s face.

*****

The next morning at work, Gabrielle sought out Effie during their 10:15 coffee break.

"So you had car trouble?" Effie said. They didn’t have time to talk before punching in earlier; Gabrielle only had a moment to mention that her car was dead.

"My car broke down outside the Saddle last night. I had to get a ride to work with Purdy," she scowled. Purdy had stayed over last night, and this morning, upon hearing of her dilemma, offered to drive her to work, the big suck-up. Reluctantly she had accepted, since she knew it would be out of Eff’s way to come and give her a ride.

Effie smirked. "Hmmm...you gonna get Purdy to fix it, too?"

Gabrielle sighed in defeat. "Yeah, he’s gonna get Bob to tow it over to the garage this afternoon, and he said he’ll get Bob to give me a discount." Purdy worked at Bob’s garage. I might as well take advantage of the bastard’s guilt, Gabrielle had thought.

"How’d you get home last night?" Effie took a drag off her Marlboro Light.

"Zina gave me a ride." Gabrielle struggled to sound casual, and fought the happy grin that tugged at her mouth at the mere mention of Zina’s name.

"Oooooh," Effie giggled. "You two got kinda chummy there..."

"Eff, stop. It’s not what you think."

"Yeah, right. Pony and Sally think you have it in you."

"No!" cried Gabrielle. A blush traveled across her face.

"Yes. Speakin’ of which, we’re having a birthday party for Pony this weekend, remember? Saturday night."

"Oh yeah...damn, what am I gonna get her?" Gabrielle was relieved at the change of subject.

"Hey, if you just bring her a six-pack she’ll be happier than a pig in swill."

*****

When she woke up on Saturday morning, Lila was gone—she was probably off somewhere with Purdy. Gabrielle poured herself a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and sat down to a leisurely breakfast in front of the TV. As she waited for the Cocoa Puffs to get mushy, she noticed a videotape sitting atop the coffee table. It was label-less. Ever curious, she popped the tape into the VCR; the old machine heaved and clicked and whirred, and a picture came into view. It was the Jerry Springer Show. Gabrielle always thought that Jerry—with his messy blond hair and tiny eyes hiding behind those glasses—looked like a Muppet. The title of the show floated by: "Why Did You Knock Up That Slut?" Impatiently Gabrielle started in on the Cocoa Puffs—they still weren’t mushy enough, but she was hungry.

Thus spake Jerry: "On today’s show, we have people who disapprove of their family’s behavior..." The camera swung onto a young man, who looked vaguely familiar: he was thin and scrungy, with hollowed-out eyes, stringy hair, and patchy facial hair. "This is Gary, who is unhappy with his brother’s choice of a girlfriend."

Gabrielle spat out a mouthful of cereal. It was Gary. Purdy’s brother.

"Yeah, Jerry, my brother’s girlfriend is a total skank." She was outraged. That fucker, she thought. How dare he call my sister skank!

"Why do you say that, Gary?"

Gary rolled his druggy eyes. "’Cause she is!"

"Well, er, how about we meet your brother, Peter"—Purdy’s real name—"and his girlfriend, Lila."

Purdy swaggered out onto the set, resplendent in his best flannel shirt. Lila trailed behind him, looking grossly pregnant. Gabrielle felt like putting her foot through the TV, although she was comforted by the fact that Lila looked so huge in the tent-like maternity dress which said "BABY ON BOARD!"

"So, Peter, what do you say about your brother’s claims?"

"Man, he’s so *bleep* up on crack, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about!" Purdy drawled.

"Bull *bleep* !" said Gary. "You got no taste in wimmin whatsoever. Your last girlfriend was a stone cold bitch, and this one’s a slut!"

Purdy hurled himself toward his brother and the set erupted in chaos. Shakily, Gabrielle turned off the TV. She stared into her cereal bowl. He called me a bitch...and they didn’t even defend me. Not Purdy. Not Lila. No one. And they left the tape out in plain sight. Like they wanted me to see it. Why? Why doesn’t anyone ever take my side? She tried to fight it, but tears came to her eyes and she slumped into the recliner, surrendering to the sadness.

*****

Pony eagerly peeled away the wrapping paper. "Bubble bath?" she said, puzzled. "Uh, thanks, Gabrielle." She sat it alongside her other gifts: a whoopie cushion and fake blood (from Hank and Ed), a bottle of Jack Daniel’s (from Effie) and a new softball glove (her most treasured gift, from Sally).

Gabrielle shrugged. Everyone at the party could not help but notice her downcast mood; she felt lousy about it, but couldn’t help herself. Ed tried to cheer her up with some bad jokes, but even that didn’t work for long. So she sat morosely on the couch beside Effie, who every now and then would give her friend a concerned glance.

"I think it’s nice," Effie said. She gave Gabrielle’s leg a squeeze.

"Let’s have cake!" Sally announced. She and Effie moved into the kitchen. Hank, who appeared to have a crush on Effie, followed. Ed took the opportunity to go to the bathroom, and Pony got up to put on a new tape.

"No more Randy Travis, Pony!" Sally shouted from the kitchen.

"Hey, it’s my goddamn birthday!" Pony yelled back. The doorbell rang. "Gab, would you get that?" Pony called.

Mechanically Gabrielle got up and skulked to the door. She opened it. Zina, dressed in a Metallica t-shirt and Levi’s, mirrored sunglasses masking her brilliant eyes, grinned at her. "Am I too late?"

Gabrielle stood speechless. A sense of relief, of warmth, washed over her, and she didn’t know why. Why was she so damned happy to see this woman? "Oh...no," she said quietly. "You’re...right on time." She did not move, but continued to stand in the doorway and stare at the woman before her.

Zina pulled off the sunglasses. Her deep blue eyes showed concern. "Hey, you okay?" she asked gently.

"Uh, yeah. I am now." Gabrielle broke into a grin.

"Can I...come in?"

"Huh? Oh...duh!" Gabrielle stepped aside. "You’re just in time for cake."

"Cool. Where’s the birthday girl?"

"Hogging the stereo," Gabrielle replied.

As Zina moved gracefully into the house, Gabrielle trailed behind her, like a puppy.

*****

It was not lost on Effie that Gabrielle’s mood improved after Zina’s arrival—although she was concerned with how much her little friend was drinking. Her fears were realized when she saw Gabrielle lurch into the bathroom, and heard the tell-tale retching sounds.

Effie surveyed the little party. Ed was passed out. Sally and Pony had "retired" for the evening (thank God for thick walls, she thought)...she wanted to be alone with Hank, who was, remarkably, still sober. She knew that Zina would take off if Gabrielle left, and she hoped the vomiting was the beginning of the end of the party.

She hovered outside the bathroom door with Zina. She knocked lightly. "Gab, honey, you okay?" she called.

"Uh...yeah," Gabrielle moaned.

"Can we come in?"

"What...all of ya?"

"No, just me and Zina."

There was a lengthy pause.

"How about I just send in Zina, okay?" Effie suggested. Zina shot her a panicky look. Sometimes I’m just too smart for ‘em all, Effie thought proudly.

Another pause. "Okay."

Effie turned to Zina. "You’re on your own, Buster Brown." Before the befuddled firefighter could reply, Effie was back on the couch with Hank.

Slowly, Zina opened the bathroom door, expecting the worst. She was much relieved to see that Gabrielle had indeed hit her target, the toilet bowl. The small woman sat on the floor in front of it.

"How ya feelin’?" she asked Gabrielle.

"Better. I’m sorry...I guess I just...had a lousy day."

"Yeah?" Zina asked. "What happened?"

Gabrielle proceeded to tell her about the whole thing: Lila, Purdy, Jerry Springer.

"That sucks," Zina said.

"Thanks. I just felt like shit. Like no one likes me."

"That’s not true, Gabrielle. I...like you." Zina mumbled, nervously rubbing the back of her neck.

"Really?" Zina nodded. "Yeah, well..." Gabrielle giggled.

"What?"

"You don’t want to...you know."

"What?"

"I mean, you don’t like me that way...you wouldn’t want to kiss me or..." Her green eyes met Zina’s. Or would you?

"Uh, no I wouldn’t..."

Gabrielle felt as if she would throw up her heart.

"Cause your breath would smell like puke." Zina smiled. "But if you brushed your teeth..." she added, hoping it sounded enough like a joke so she wouldn’t alarm the girl.

"Get me my purse!" The redhead barked imperiously.

Zina opened the door and yelled to Effie: "Effie! Bring Gabrielle’s purse!" The firefighter saw Effie look up from her position on the couch: stretched out, with her feet in Hank’s lap. The big man was gently massaging her dainty feet. "Oh Christ," Effie moaned. Reluctantly she rose, and did as she was told. Zina smiled gratefully as Effie handed her the huge shoulder bag. "Jesus, what you got in here?" she said, closing the door and giving the purse to Gabrielle.

Gabrielle ignored her and began to ransack the bag with admirable focus. Several objects flew out onto the floor: Tic Tacs, tampons, pens, a tattered-looking notebook, a library card, sunglasses, and birth control pills. Gabrielle stopped for a second and stared at the pills. Then she tossed them into the trash. Then she stuck her arm inside the bag again. "Ah!" Gabrielle cried in triumph, holding aloft a toothbrush. She grinned devilishly at Zina, whose blue eyes went wide in shock.

"Whatsamatter, Zina? You all talk and no action?" She stood up and rinsed the brush, then squeezed some Crest out of the tube.

"Uh..."

Gabrielle glared. "You don’t want to kiss me?" She stuck the brush in her mouth, scrubbing her teeth in a furious lather.

"Uh..."

"Let me tell you somethin’, Dorito-breath, you’re getting the better end of this deal!" she said through a mouth of foam. She rinsed, and flashed her teeth at Zina. Then, for good measure, she took a swig of Effie’s Listerine and gargled.

"Gabrielle, are you sure..."

Gabrielle spat out the blue fluid. "Look, Zina, do you like me or not?" she cried petulantly.

The tall woman, leaning against the tub, smiled her mysterious smile—which turned Gabrielle’s insides out. She reached out and snared Gabrielle by the waist. The short woman was pressed against the muscular firefighter; her hands went flat against the strong shoulders and then glided instinctively around Zina’s neck. "Judge for yourself," Zina said, and lowered on her lips softly onto Gabrielle’s.

They were locked in a kiss when a voice shouted outside the bathroom door: "Comin’ through!" The door burst open and Ed hurled by, crouched over the toilet, and proceeded to throw up. The two women were oblivious to this burst of unpleasant activity. Effie and Hank, who had followed Ed, stood outside the door and stared at the sight of Gabrielle and Zina all over each other.

"Holy hell, Z," Hank muttered in shock.

"Woo-HOO!" Effie chortled.

The noise had roused the birthday girl from a sound, sex-induced slumber. Effie and Hank stood aside, affording Pony a view of the busy bathroom. "This was a pretty fuckin’ awesome party," she observed thoughtfully.

*****

Two weeks passed.

"You’ve been goin’ out an awful lot," Lila commented to her sister one evening, as she watched Gabrielle apply strawberry-kiwi-banana lip gloss in the bathroom.

"Well, I don’t want to be in your way, Lila."

"Bullshit." Lila paused. "It’s not like you were in my way before, Gabrielle." Another pause.

I swear she’s jealous, Gabrielle thought, and let a smug smile cross her face.

"Are you seein’ someone?"

"What if I was?" she retorted in a sing-song voice.

"Who is it?" Lila asked eagerly. She loved gossip, and she was hopeful that Gabrielle would finally get involved with someone, so she could stop feeling guilty.

"You don’t know...this person."

"Well, what does he do?"

"Firefighter," Gabrielle supplied.

"Ooooh," Lila cooed in approval. She conjured up a vision of a tall, dark handsome fireman. Aside from gender, she was not far off the mark at all. "That’s great, Gab. I can’t wait to meet him. Why don’t you invite him over for dinner or somethin’?"

"Uh, maybe sometime soon." She glanced at her Tasmanian Devil watch. "I gotta go. Say, are you and Purdy going to the fair on Friday night?"

"Yeah. You...wanna come?"

"Actually, I was gonna invite Effie and the gang over to watch videos. Their VCR is busted," Gabrielle lied. Her real plan was to invite Zina over for dinner.

"That’s cool. We’ll probably stay over at Purdy’s place that night...so you guys can party all night long."

Perfect, thought Gabrielle with a grin.

*****

There was something about firefighting gear, Zina thought pleasantly: the metal hat and visor, the glossy black and yellow coat, the boots...young children looked at her with awe, adults with admiration and respect, and Gabrielle leaped on her like a tick on a dog as soon as she came home. She sat happily on the couch in her mobile home (she hated to call it a trailer), allowing her lithe companion to crawl all over her like a jungle gym, smother her with kisses, caress her body, nibble her ear and moan throatily: "Ooooh firefighter, save my child...."

The world was perfect, until she heard the screen door slam. "Honey!!!" A shrill voice called. "I got your echinacea tea!"

"Oh shit," Zina moaned.

Gabrielle stopped her assault and turned around. A pleasant middle-aged woman, with a paisley scarf around her head, wearing a flowered skirt and lots of dangling jewelry, stood grinning at them. "Hey honey, who’s your sauce?" she addressed Zina.

Zina sighed. "Gabrielle...this is my mother. Mom, this is Gabrielle."

"Hi, Gabrielle!" Zina’s mother said brightly. "It’s nice to meet you...sorry to interrupt." She winked.

"Hi, Mrs. Zina," Gabrielle blurted, blushing furiously.

The woman laughed heartily. "Honey, you just call me Cyrene. I was never ‘Mrs.’ Anybody." She sashayed past them into the kitchen, carrying a small bag. "So I got you the tea, and some tempeh, a different brand though, I hope you like it..." She opened the refrigerator. "OH MY GOD!" she shrieked.

Gabrielle jumped off Zina’s lap. "What? What’s wrong?"

"There’s something from BURGER KING in here!"

"Mom, chill out, they’re just fries..." Zina mumbled.

"So you say!" Cyrene retorted. "You could’ve had a burger for all I know...and it’s not like fries are any better for you."

Gabrielle looked at Zina in confusion. Just last night she witnessed Zina wolf down a burger from Roy’s. Zina shook her head at Gabrielle and pressed a finger to her lips. Gabrielle nodded in complicity.

"Looks like I got here just in time," Cyrene sighed. "Go get the rest of the groceries out of my car, honey." Grumbling, Zina got up, shed her coat, and lumbered out to the car.

"Now tell me the truth...she’s been eating meat, hasn’t she?" Cyrene asked Gabrielle.

Gabrielle paused. She hated to lie, and she didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Zina’s mom. "Yes," she admitted.

"Oh, hell," Cyrene said. "I might as well give up. I’m never going to make her a vegetarian." She shook her head, causing a chain reaction of clinking from her earrings down to her bracelets. "So tell me about yourself, Gabrielle. What do you do?"

"Well, I work at the cannery right now, but I’m hoping to take some night classes at Olympus Community College this fall..."

"Groovy! What kinda classes?"

"Uh, well, I wanna be a writer," she said shyly.

"Wow! That’s so cool! Did Zina tell you that I knew Bob Dylan?"

"No, really?" Gabrielle breathed with awe.

"Yeah, I dated him...right around the time I was dating Zina’s dad...I always wondered if Bobby was Zina’s real father..." she twirled a necklace and contemplated her monosyllabic child. "Nah!" She laughed. "Anyway, I think Dylan is a true poet. He is this century’s Shakespeare, man."

Gabrielle nodded vigorously, even though she had to admit to herself she never understood a goddamn thing that Dylan sang.

"Hey!" Cyrene pulled a joint out of her skirt pocket. "Care to partake?"

The budding poet opened her mouth to eagerly consent, only to hear Zina shout from the doorway, "Goddammit, Mom, put that away!!! D’ya want me to get arrested again?"

"I don’t see any cops, honey," Cyrene grumbled. Nonetheless she put away the joint for later. "Man, busted by my own kid!"

*****

"I’m glad you eat meat, ‘cause I made a meatloaf," Gabrielle said proudly.

It was Friday night. Wearing her best Levi’s, Zina had showed up at the apartment...with flowers, no less. Damn, she’s smooth! thought Gabrielle, sniffing the roses. Purdy never bought me flowers!

"Uh, nice place," Zina awkwardly, sitting on the plaid couch. Then she added: "I do like meatloaf. In fact, I haven’t had a home-made one in a real long time." Like try never, you moron, Zina thought, recalling the endless parade of beans and rice and tofu and tempeh in her childhood.

"Good," responded Gabrielle, who bustled in the kitchen. "You like potatoes?"

"Yup."

"Mashed potatoes?"

"Yup."

"Hey Zina, just what were you in jail for?"

"What?"

Gabrielle poked her head out of the kitchen. "Sorry, I’m just curious...Effie told me you were in prison for two and a half years."

Zina sighed. "Yeah...I had all sorts of priors, and, um, when they caught me breaking and entering, I had a gram of coke on me, and uh, the getaway car was stolen..." Well, so much for romance, the tall firefighter thought.

"Wow," Gabrielle said.

"It’s not somethin’ to be impressed with, Gabrielle."

"I’m not...impressed."

"Scared, then?" The firefighter’s blue eyes issued a dangerous challenge.

Gabrielle met it. "No...hell no, I’m not scared. Why should I be?"

Zina said nothing. Gabrielle crossed the room and sat beside her and linked her arm with Zina’s. "Hey, that’s all in the past. I know that. You’re a different person now...you got a good job, you’re doing right." Gabrielle paused. "You’re trying to make up for what you did, right?"

"I...I’m tryin’, but it’s hard." Zina sighed again, and stared down at the orange shag rug. "You don’t know the worst of what I did." A gentle hand touched her chin and guided her gaze back to Gabrielle’s face.

"Tell me, Zina," she requested softly.

"I guess Eff told you...about the house. In Cirra." Zina’s voice was tight.

"It’s true, then?"

Zina nodded. "No one got hurt, but the whole family...they were homeless. They lost everything. They had no insurance neither." She breathed deeply, for the courage to tell Gabrielle the rest of it. "It was my girlfriend’s house, Gabrielle. She lived there with her parents and sister. One day we had fought somethin’ awful, she said she never wanted to see me again, and I just went nuts. Later that night me and a buddy of mine, Artie...we went by the place...I just meant to like, throw eggs or something, but he lit a newspaper on the porch...an’ it just spread..." Another deep breath. "Callie knew, of course. She knew it was me. I even admitted it to her. But the cops could never prove anything, and since she’s always been mad as a hatter anyway, they just never really believed her." She closed her eyes. She thought Gabrielle would jump up, demand that she leave...call the cops, the state troopers....

Instead, she felt the warm sensation of arms wrapping around her, squeezing tightly. And, for the first time in years, since she was a kid, she let herself cry.

*****

After the fair, Lila and Purdy had gone to his place, but much to their dismay they found Gary crashing there—his cash had run out, and he had no place to go. Feelings were still a little raw from the Springer show—not to mention Purdy was understandably scared of his psycho brother—so Lila and Purdy opted to go to Lila’s.

Purdy woke up Saturday morning around 6:30—he had to be in at the garage by 7, so he had just enough time to wash up and grab breakfast from Dunkin’ Donuts. Lila, of course, was out like a light as he climbed out of bed and wandered down the still-dark hallway. To his dismay he noticed that the bathroom was occupied—what the hell was Gabrielle doing up at this hour? He knew that the woman never voluntarily rose before 10am on a weekend. Well, he thought, I’ve seen her on the can before—and he opened the door to find a tall, strange nude woman with damp hair, glaring at him with irritation. "You might try knockin’ next time," she growled. In a panic he slammed the door shut and stood there in the hallway, puzzled as all hell. "Hey!" he shouted through the door. "Who’re you?"

"Shoosh!" hissed Gabrielle, who was suddenly standing behind him. He yelped loudly in surprise. Gabrielle wore a long black t-shirt which hung down to her knees. It’s not like her to dress in black, he thought. "Gabrielle, what the fuck is going on? I hafta get ready for work!" he yelled.

"Quiet! You’ll wake up Lila," she whispered.

"Who is that in the bathroom?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"Her name’s Zina. She’s a...friend."

"We didn’t see anyone on the couch when we came in last night."

"She was sleeping in my room, Purdy."

He frowned, confused. "Where?"

"In my bed, you idiot."

"Where did you sleep?"

She glared at him.

The faint dawn of understanding crossed his dopey features. "Oh...man. Jesus!" He spun on his heel and ran back into Lila’s bedroom.

*****

"You’ve gone queer on me!" Lila wailed.

"Oh for Christ’s sake, Lila..." Gabrielle groaned.

"I knew I shouldn’t have taken Purdy away from you," she blubbered.

"What are you talking about?"

"You’re too sensitive Gab, you always were. Obviously, the shock of it—losing Purdy to me—was too much, and it made you gay."

"Lila, you can’t make people gay. The therapist on Jenny Jones last week said so."

"That’s just crap!" Lila cried. "What’re you gonna tell Ma and Pa?"

Gabrielle shrugged. "The truth, I guess. That I’m happy. That I’m in love. That I’m going back to school and I’m gonna make something out of my life."

*****

Gabrielle recalled how, when she was little, her parents always told her that the lowest of the low lived in trailer parks. And, she had to admit, trailers in general were pretty ugly...although Zina’s was nicely kept and simple. She smiled. I don’t care if we have to live in a tent, as long as we’re together, it doesn’t matter.

They had decided to move in together. Zina had said, with her salary, she could support them both while Gabrielle went to school full time. At first Gabrielle had resisted—she didn’t want to be a charity case—but later reconsidered. She knew she would get a better job with a college degree, or so she hoped. And she could do the same for Zina someday, like if she wanted to retire early...in the meantime she was happy to return to school, cook, clean, and wash Zina’s seemingly endless supply of black t-shirts.

Things got better and better. One day, not long after they had moved in together, Effie showed up after work, in a state of excitement that Gabrielle had never seen her in. "Guess what!" she shrieked.

"What??" Gabrielle squealed in return; the emotion intensified the shrillness factor.

"We got a record deal!!" screamed Effie.

"Oh my GOD you’re kiddin’!!!" They clasped arms and jumped wildly about the trailer so much that Gabrielle was half-afraid the thing would fall off its foundation.

"It’s true, Gab! It’s all ‘cause of Hank, too!" Effie said proudly. "He made a tape of us one night when we were performing at the Saddle, and he sent it to this record company in Memphis!! The dude who owns it—Colonel Tom Artemis, I think his name was—says he wants us to come down and make a record!"

They collapsed on the couch together. "Wow, Eff, that is so cool! I’m so happy! I’ll be your number one fan, always."

Effie turned serious. "Look, honey, I got a favor to ask..."

"Anything, girl. You know that."

"I want you an’ Zina to stay at the farmhouse while we’re gone."

Gabrielle’s jaw dropped.

"Look, you know that house has been in my family for a long time. Well, we’re not gonna be there, at least maybe for a long time...we really want this thing in Memphis to work...and I want someone there, to watch over the place, to take care of it. And I can’t think of anyone better than you two, ‘cause you really are family to me."

"Oh, Effie!"

Together they cried so much that they went through an entire box of Puffs.

*****

They stood outside the trailer. Or rather, Gabrielle stood and Zina paced. "I hope this idea of yours works," the firefighter muttered.

Gabrielle smiled confidently. She had a feeling it would.

A red Camaro swung in the trailer park from the highway. As it careened down the road, the driver’s wild blond hair became visible and the car seemed to gain speed as it approached them. Gabrielle panicked for a moment and thought the driver might kill them. But Zina seemed undisturbed, so she figured it must be okay.

The wild Camaro abruptly stopped a mere three feet in front of the stoic Zina. It had happened so fast Gabrielle didn’t even have time to be afraid. But Zina’s face betrayed nothing as the driver exited gracefully from the car.

She was tall, although not as tall as Zina, thin, wearing a yellow halter top and the shortest pair of cutoffs that Gabrielle had ever seen. "Hello, Zina," she sneered sarcastically.

"Callie," Zina returned the greeting in a hostile, bored tone.

Callie turned her attentions to Gabrielle. "What is this, Little House on the Prairie?"

"Callie..." Zina growled.

"What is it you wanted to see me about, Zina? Or did you want to try to set me on fire this time?"

"I want to give you something, Callie. I know I can never repay you..."

"I’ll say, you firemen don’t make that much...I thought it was pretty funny, Zina, when I heard you became one...I thought, boy, they must be pretty desperate."

"I wanna give you my home, Callie." Zina jerked her thumb toward the trailer. "As payment. For you to do with whatever you want. You can live here. Your parents can live here. Hell, you can set the thing on fire if you want." Zine held up a thick envelope. "I signed it all over to you."

Callie stared at her in disbelief. Then she stared at the trailer and, walking around it, made a slow circular inspection. Then she opened the door of the trailer, and peeked inside at its immaculate emptiness. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she looked at Zina, her sneer firmly back in place.

"So you think," Callie began in a low, menacing voice, "that if you give me this piece of crap, that it’ll make up for everything you’ve done to me, that it’ll equal the loss of my HOME?" she screamed out the last word, which echoed over the park.

Gabrielle winced. Man, she’s even shriller than Eff & I put together.

Zina raised a sculpted dark eyebrow. She held out the envelope to Callie. The crazed brown eyes met the cool blue ones.

Callie blinked, then shrugged. "Okay. What the hell." She snatched the envelope from Zina. Hands on hips, she regarded her new trailer. "Ah...things I could do with this place..." she murmured in delusion.

God, she’s even crazier than Zina said, thought Gabrielle.

"Well, it’s been real, Callie, an’ it’s been fun...but it hasn’t been real fun." Zina started to walk toward her Harley, followed by Gabrielle.

Callie ignored her and idly twirled a strand of her wild hair. She was picturing the exterior of her trailer in day-glo orange.

"That worked out pretty well," Zina commented as she straddled the Harley and started it with a kick. "Thanks, Gabrielle. How’d you come up with that idea anyway?"

Gabrielle tucked her red-gold hair under her helmet and then flung her arms around her companion’s waist. "Oh honey, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it."

Laughing, they tore of out the trailer park together.

THE END

[lolita-on-the-dotted-line]

Let's take a look at Clare Quilty's plays: source: cap 8, first part.

Here Humbert describes Clare for the first time (using his real name) Quilty, Clare, American dramatist. Born in Ocean City, N.J., 1911. Educated at Columbia University. Started on a commercial career but turned to playwriting. Author of The Little Nymph, The Lady Who Loved Lightning (in collaboration with Vivian Darkbloom), Dark Age, The strange Mushroom, Fatherly Love, and others. His many plays for children are notable. Little Nymph (1940) traveled 14,000 miles and played 280 performances on the road during the winter before ending in New York. Hobbies: fast cars, photography, pets.

Let's compare the names with other details we can found while reading the book.

The little nymph. Little Nymph (1940) traveled 14,000 miles and played 280 performances on the road during the winter before ending in New York. I personally link this to Lolita herself.

The lady who loved lightning - we have a reference here: cap 18 part 2, Lolita says during a storm: "I am not a lady and do not like lightning," said Lo, whose dread of electric storms gave me some pathetic solace.

Dark age. I believe this is about "nymphets": Between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur maidens who, to certain bewitched travelers, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but nymphic (that is, demoniac); and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as "nymphets.".

The strange mushroom - This one is the creepiest. ". . .And perhaps your family doctor might like to examine her physically--just a routine check-up. She is in Mushroom--the last classroom along that passage." Beardsley School, it may be explained, copied a famous girls school in England by having "traditional" nicknames for its various classrooms: Mushroom, Room-In 8, B-Room, Room-BA and so on. Mushroom was smelly, with a sepia print [...] After that he made her touch him. Inside the fuck**** school.

Fatherly love. This one is easy. Humbert hides himself behind the picture of a perfect father. Lolita also considers him a father, as she has no references (hers died when she was 3). "How sweet it was to bring that coffee to her, and then deny it until she had done her morning duty. And I was such a thoughtful friend, such a passionate father […]" Dick did not know a thing of the whole mess. He thought I was her father. She asked me not to be dense. The past was the past. I had been a good father, she guessed--granting me that. "I do, Quilty. You see, I am her father."

[sunnys-rewatch-blog]

S2, E18

"A Kiss Before Lying"

How are you telling me Caleb can blow up this garbage graphic to get a detailed photo of "Alison's" fake ID/driver's license? I don't even think they can do this in law enforcement.

"Why would Ali need an ID that didn't even look like her?"- looked like her enough for you to identify her in half a second.

"We just have to generate more heat"- girl, can you not grab his face while he's driving???

Ashley cares about nothing except how she looks.

This is a very cute Mayaly scene, but I think Emily is a little insensitive to how Pam's homophobia also affected Maya.

"Because, based on how you treated Hanna, everyone's gonna see how ugly you are without any help from me" ahh! Yes, this is precisely why Spencer was so many fans' favorite!

Why does Aria act like hanging out with Holden is weird? Aren't they childhood friends? They haven't seen each other for a while. If I were to meet up with a childhood friend I haven't seen in a few years I would be hyped to hang out with them.

I really don't understand why Maya was made out to be "in the wrong" for this stupid weed joke. Pam went through her personal belongings without permission to find anything she could to justify her homophobic rampage so she could split the two of them up, went behind her back to report it to her parents- people she didn't even fucking know- and got Maya sent off to some religion-based rehab for months. By the time she got back, she may have been behind in school, her family ended up moving again, she has to go to a different school, now, and the boy she hooked up with while she was away became her stalker. It's clear that this was a traumatic experience for her based on how she reacts when she's thinking her parents might send her off there, again. And now that I've been exposed to weed, I have no idea how Maya kept it a secret from her parents- especially if she was smoking in the house. That stuff has a potent, noticeable smell. Anyways, Pam owed Maya an apology just as much as she owed Emily one. Em got one, Maya didn't. Emily thinks that just because her relationship with her mom was repaired while Maya was away that Maya's relationship with her should be made a blank slate and that's not how this works. The correct response would have been for Pam to say something like "I was way out of line, and I'm sorry. I would like a chance to honestly get to know you," not for Emily to be mad. It would be forgivable for a teenager to think like this, except that the narrative validates it.

If Hanna makes a habit of going through people's photos without permission, she's going to see stuff she really doesn't want to. What if Spencer had an OnlyFans?

I hate Byron more every time his bitch ass is on-screen.

Hanna is the one who's out of line on this whole flashdrive thing. I'm sorry, but this situation involved everyone- not just her- and she had no right to try to make that decision without consulting them.

Garrett stopping Caleb like that is complete abuse of police authority.

"Darkbloom" is no one's fucking last name. They just call her that like it's totally normal.

And where the fuck is this place? Ali seemed pretty shocked that someone she knew would see her here, but why would Hanna go a super long distance to get her hair done? Why are they treating the wig like it's Alison's actual hair- or was the wig part of...whatever she was having done?

I had a pretty thorough analysis of Alison's personality way back when, I feel like this monologue about how she gets tired of being herself was definitely part of it. This was a concerning interaction. I am also super curious to know about this "Vivian Darkbloom" character- why was she made? Just as a separate identity to Alison? What was her personality? I guess I'm supposed to infer that Alison was using an alias to track down the person who was stalking her and her response to Hanna might have just been a lie, but this doesn't at all seem out of character for her. She spends a lot of time in the flashbacks lying about who she is, and then says something to the effect of "If you can't believe your own lies, what's the point?". It sounds an awful lot like Alison DiLaurentis didn't like herself very much.

Did none of the adults in her life notice she was doing this? To be fair, I have known some young kids to do similar things and kind of experiment with themselves, so maybe it isn't super weird.

I feel like there's a subplot in here about "Lolita" and a story full of underaged girls being in completely inappropriate relationships with older men- especially Alison. Not to harp on it too much, but "Lolita" was meant to be read as a crime novel, and some humans somewhere read this book and found a fire romance story. The glorification of child predation...they drop it in here so casually, are there a lot of teens in this day and age reading "Lolita?" Like enough that someone who's never read it would have memorized the cover? I don't even remember hearing that it was a book until I was eighteen, maybe seventeen, and I don't think any of my friends read it. I was familiar with the term from anime, but I thought it was a Japanese word. I guess I didn't ask a lot of questions about it. For the record, I have heard nothing positive about the impact of this book. I wonder if them dropping this book in here like this is their way of paying homage to a book that provided inspiration for this story.

[tunemyart]

Ok, how about #29 from the fic writing meme?

If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

oh man so I’m #blessed right now that most of the fics I’ve consumed and loved in the last... oh, five years or so have either been self-contained in a way where I genuinely don’t want/need a prequel or sequel OR the author has been kind enough to gift them to us themselves (awkward idiots by coalitiongirl (Once Upon a Time) and ofc cities of illumination by Vivian Darkbloom (XW:P) come to mind), so I’m not sure how exciting I am re: this question? (Sorry!) The fics that I most remember going full *screams* at realizing there was or would be no sequel are actually from several yesteryears ago: namely Square One by Laoise Potter (Rizzoli & Isles) and An Acceptable Arrangement by literatiwannabe (Stargate: Atlantis.)

[liviaserpieri]

Aesthetic Bliss

“It may seem anomalous for puppeteer Nabokov, creator of the sham worlds of Invitation to a Beheading and Bend Sinister, to worry this way about “reality” (with or without quotation marks); yet one extreme does not preclude the other in Nabokov, and the originality of Lolita derives from this very paradox. The puppet theater never collapses, but everywhere there are fissures, if not gaps, in the structure, crisscrossing in intricate patterns and visible to the discerning eye...” The Annotated Lolita

Indeed, ghostly objects—shadows and shades—traverse the pages of Lolita and most prominently in Pale Fire, guided by the hand of Vivian Darkbloom herself, a faithful mimic of “that good cheat,” “V.N., Visible Nature”.

___

Nabokov’s characters are both aesthetically and morally endowed, and their actions often blur the concrete definitions presented here. Yet the substance of Nabokov’s style reigns superior to his characters’ attempts at moral and aesthetic autonomy, and we learn of the author’s unfaltering belief that the “goodness of man” is “a solid and iridescent truth.”When Kinbote asks Shade what prevents man from evil if they do not believe in God (“And so the password is—?”), Shade responds: “Pity.”Indeed, pity is an essential emotion that characters like Humbert and Kinbote lack as they actively pursue their aesthetic vision at the cost of human compassion.

In the slow clear hand of crime I wrote: Dr. Edgar H. Humbert and daughter, 342 Lawn Street, Ramsdale. A key (342!) was half-shown to me (magician showing object he is about to palm)—and handed over to Uncle Tom. Lo, leaving the dog as she would leave me some day, rose from her haunches; a raindrop fell on Charlotte's grave; a handsome young Negress slipped open the elevator door, and the doomed child went in followed by her throat-clearing father and crayfish Tom with the bags. Parody of a hotel corridor. Parody of silence and death. "Say, it's our house number," said cheerful Lo

https://escholarship.org/uc/item/9209s0gd

[whatisitnowforfuckssake]

What makes lolita a good book?

This whole answer is a copy and paste from the Lolita post on another blog I run called Pretend You've Read:

What’s it about?

It’s a comedy about a paedophile and his relentless pursuit of a 12-year-old girl. Once he has secured her, the story becomes about his feverish, ultimately unsuccessful, attempts to prevent her escape.

Did you say a “comedy”?

Yes. If you take nothing else away from this piece of text, let it be that Lolita is not a grisly tale of one man’s sick obsession. It’s a hilarious travel diary of, you know, one man’s sick obsession.

That does not sound like the sort of thing I want to read.

As with all Nabokov books, the story is more or less subordinate to what has been referred to as the “best prose stylist in the English language”. This particular book has been described as Nabokov’s “love affair with the novel”,  which Nabokov himself corrected to “love affair with the English language”. 

If you could have passionate sex with a language, it would probably look like this.

That’s a strong metaphor.

That’s nothing; you should read the book. Lolita is stuffed with all sorts of allusions, in-jokes, anagrams (Oh Vivian Darkbloom, you so crazy), puns and wordplay. While you’re reading it, remember that English was Nabokov’s third language (after Russian and French).

What should I say to make people think I’ve read it?

“This book helped me understand why people want to be writers.”

What should I avoid saying when trying to convince people I’ve read it?

“I strongly disapprove of child sex abuse.”

Should I actually read it?

If you have any interest in the uppermost potential of the English language novel, then yes. 

If you can’t get over the whole “paedophile” thing, then no. But if you’ve read Game Of Thrones and you still think that Lolita has too much inappropriate sexual content, you should you should probably present yourself to the relevant authorities at first light.

[sabriputrinada]

Free Download Ada, or Ardor audiobook free Audio Book by Vladimir Nabokov

[Book] Ada, or Ardor audiobook free by Vladimir Nabokov

Published two weeks after Vladimir Nabokov's seventieth birthday, Ada, or Ardor is one of his greatest masterpieces, the glorious culmination of his career as a novelist. It tells a love story troubled by incest, but it is also at once a fairy tale, epic, philosophical treatise on the nature of time, parody of the history of the novel, and erotic catalogue. Ada, or Ardor is no less than the supreme work of an imagination at white heat. This is the first American edition to include the extensive and ingeniously sardonic appendix by the author, written under the anagrammatic pseudonym Vivian Darkbloom. One of the twentieth century's master prose stylists, Vladimir Nabokov was born in St. Petersburg in 1899. He studied French and Russian literature at Trinity College, Cambridge, then lived in Berlin and Paris, where he launched a brilliant literary career. In 1940 he moved to the United States, and achieved renown as a novelist, poet, critic, and translator. He taught literature at Wellesley, Stanford, Cornell, and Harvard. In 1961 he moved to Montreux, Switzerland, where he died in 1977. "Nabokov writes prose the only way it should be written, that is, ecstatically." - John Updike

Download Ada, or Ardor audiobook free by (Vladimir Nabokov)

Duration: 20 hours, 49 minutes

Writer: Vladimir Nabokov

Publisher: Brilliance Audio

Narrators: Arthur Morey

Genres: Arthur Morey

Rating: 2

Narrator Rating: 0

Publication: Thursday, 01 September 2011

Ada, or Ardor audiobook free Reviews

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[rosewoodrebel]

Vivian Darkbloom. Mr. Fitz, some of us may have forgotten the Lolita narrative about the professor in love with his student, but I didn't. I also didn't forget that Ali's alter ego, Vivian Darkbloom, is an anagram for Vladimir Nabokov, the author of Lolita. I also didn't forget that your girlfriend that you've used and abused for more than half a decade looks exactly like your ex/obsession's alter ego Vivian. Go on and tell me that EzrA isn't A. Just go on and do it.

[fanfictalkdotcom]

Thoughts on Alison DiLaurentis (by ailhsa23 | i-am-viviandarkbloom @ tumblr)

Sasha Pieterse as Alison DiLaurentis/Vivian Darkbloom | photo cred: http://sashapieterse.net

Let me start by saying that this girl is one of my favourite characters on this entire show. 

Alison is hard to place, as her characterization has changed over the years.

When we are first introduced to Alison DiLaurentis, she is about 15 years old. Rude, bossy, and most importantly, she’s cunning. She is seen to easily manipulate 4 girls from very different walks of life, and get them to become part of her group of friends. Each girl is seemingly special to her in different ways. She easily gets them to open up about their worries and secrets, but never shares anything about herself. However, she manages to make herself the centre of attention – the glue – but when she disappears, everything falls apart and the girls go their separate ways.

Outside of the 4 girls, Alison carries on a life of her own. She finds her persona as boring and thus creates a new one, which is who she becomes after the night she disappears. Enter Vivian Darkbloom.

Vivian Darkbloom is an anagram for the Russian author – Vladimir Nabokov – who makes a cameo in one of his novels ‘Lolita’. Alison is obsessed with this book for reasons which shall come to light shortly. She bought a wig and styled it, often wearing it out, asking people to call her Vivian. She also has fake IDs and passports made with the same name (see photo above…Alison is naturally blonde).

Alison is also perceived to be very jealous. When someone intrudes on her own territory, she will not rest until they are humiliated. All of her deeds have returned to haunt her as she receives threatening messages from anonymous sources. All coinciding with the time many theorists believe she was planning to fake her death and disappear due to her being pregnant with an older man’s child (re: Lolita references). In attempts to preserve herself, Alison sought to blackmail every single person she had some dirt on, and hope to scare off whoever sent her those texts.  

She disappears for 2 years, leaving everyone to think that she had been killed. When she returns, she is drastically different, though some fundamental traits remain (again, some of the PLL theorists might object to this not being Alison at all, but that’s another essay for another time). As the years pass and everyone else leaves, she still manages to reel the 4 girls back to their old town to speak on behalf of her sister (the one who tormented them for years) and grant her release from a psychiatric facility. She is still fully aware of all their secrets, but they still know very little about hers.

Cunning, self-preserving, and manipulative traits make Alison DiLaurentis a Slytherin. 

[sexierthanaheartburn-blog]

Pretty Little Liars - Wren is A.D and Melissa is Charlotte’s Killer Theory

The last ten episodes of Pretty Little Liars episode is going to get released in two days! This was basically my teenage life and now we are back with this again. Who is A? Now back with three questions:

1. Who is A.D?

2. Who is Charlotte’s killer?

3. Are they the same person?

First, we need to whittle down the suspects of this mystery. It cannot be Jenna as in the summer finale, we found out that Jenna was kidnapped by A.D (or at least, by another person who is on the exclusive A Team.)

Now, released by Marlene (shows author and producer), A.D has been in the first ever episode of Pretty Little Liars.

Wren.

Wren is one character that never made sense to me.

I mean, he’s almost too sugary perfect character. Everyone has a secret in Rosewood; no one that lives in Rosewood remains innocent. It’s a small town. People talk.

So, what do we know about Wren? Let us look at his timeline and possible theories.

In Season 3, Episode 2, Wren talks to Hanna about Mona, and he mentions that he has gone through the same loss as she has because his dad had Schizophrenia when he was a kid. Schizophrenia can be passed down genetically. Genetic inheritance is only one of the many factors (both biological and environmental) that contribute to the cause of schizophrenia

https://www.buzzfeed.com/katiegreen/21-reasons-why-wren-is-the-real-a-br8c?utm_term=.fr01dRn3J#.yj0XBN6wJ

In Season 2, Episode 21, Wren tells Spencer he can't sleep unless his bookcase is in alphabetical order and that he has a touch of OCD. Not only is "A" once seen organizing and straightening hoodies, but the "A" lair is always pretty organized. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is a mental health disorder that affects people of all ages and walks of life and occurs when a person gets caught in a cycle of obsessions and compulsions. Obsessions are unwanted, intrusive thoughts, images or urges that trigger intensely distressing feelings. Obsessions such as stalking girls that are much younger than him?

Here’s another one. Wren Kingston and Alison Laurentis dated. But how?

At the end of Season 4, Episode 10, we see Wren sketching Red Coat that appears to have black hair. In Pretty Little Liars, we know for a fact that there are three red coats: Charlotte, Sara Harvey and of course Alison.  They are all natural blondes so what’s with the dark hair, you ask? Because Wren was drawing Vivian Darkbloom. Alison's alter ego and disguise.

But didn’t Charlotte use Vivian Darkbloom disguise too? Once. In Season 5, where she fled to France because she killed Wilden. So Wren must have known it was Alison or he didn’t and thought she was Vivian. Nevertheless, they had a brief relationship and it ended. Wren maybe had an obsession with Vivian and tried to replace her with Melissa, Spencer and even Hanna at one point but failed.

Here’s another loose end solved. Wren is the Beach Hottie. It had already been established that Board Shorts (Ezra) and Beach Hottie were two different people and then later, Alison had a pregnancy scare and she was adamant to not tell the father. This was also the time where Alison developed the disguise for Vivian and so maybe, Wren and Alison were in an intimate relationship? They could have broken up due to the various flings that Alison had and maybe her past caught up with her. We can’t confirm if she had or hadn’t given birth but this is a motive strong enough to get revenge. Wren could have found out due to medical records and such and even found out that Vivan was Alison. By then, she had disappeared.

At the start of the series, Wren is engaged to Melissa Hastings, until she broke off the engagement after seeing him and Spencer kissing outside of the house. Before they kissed, there was already flirting and a chemistry between Wren and Spencer. Maybe, Wren didn’t truly love Melissa nor Spencer and just used them to gain information and insight about Alison whom may or may not carried their baby?

He also tried to get information from Mona about her being A and why she tortured the girls - hoping to get some leverage on Alison or any answers about her disappearance. In that case, he succeeded to an extent until Mona refuses to give Wren anymore more information as he has been keeping secrets from her.

Mona responds “That was before I knew where your loyalties were.” Mona also says, “That was before I knew you were keeping secrets from me.” 

So where do his loyalties lie?

To Melissa? To the A-Team? I think wherever his loyalties lie, it is clear to say at one point Mona and Wren were on the same team or at least on the same side. Mona must have found out something that could potentially ruin Wren’s professional career and his life. She must of find out about something to do with Wren (which is quite easy, using her resources at the A lair) that can question his integrity. Loyalties suggest that being loyal or someone or something for a long period of time. We can safely assume that his “loyalties” are quite close to him and been that way for a long time or maybe another double act.

Later on, during the series, we find that both Toby and Spencer was on the A Team to act as double agents and to protect each other. We can assume that Mona recruited Toby and we also know for a fact that Mona had several attempts to recruit Spencer. Why Spencer? Because they are both geniuses and has great inside connections. But, what if another reason why Mona kept on pestering Spencer in Season 2 was her connection with Wren.

Before actually recruiting her on the A team. So, what if, Mona recruited Wren too in Season 2, assembling the perfect A-Team. Wren would have joined because Mona must have tempted him with information about Alison and the girls. Wren wanted revenge on Alison but the best way to have done this was to target the girls. Alison was loyal to them and always come in their time of need or whenever they were in danger.

“I have answers to questions you haven’t even thought off.” Despite Mona says this to Spencer, this same persuading technique can be used here.

But Spencer and Toby were double agents leading to the collapse of the A-Team and thus getting the game easily stolen by none other than Charlotte DiLaurentis.

Because, who else was also in Radley the same time that Mona was? Charlotte.

Mona told Charlotte about the game and Charlotte, being clever as she is, put two and two together to work out she was talking about her cousin and adoptive sister, Alison.

And I have a hunch that someone around there was listening in or someone else who was there but wasn’t show in the flashback. Wren. Wren was there when both Charlotte and Mona was in there hence why he was so close to both of them. Then Mona stops taking her medicine and found out some information about Wren; possibly been passed by an A-Team member such as...

Yup, you got it.

Toby Cavanaugh.

Sure, it’s pretty unethical but Toby knows that Spencer and Wren had a mini fling or a kiss and might of wanted to keep tabs on Wren? He might have been a jealous boyfriend being jealous of this insanely perfect “doctor” that Spencer was quite friendly with.

We know that Toby and Wren haven’t had the best relationship - that's a bit of an overstatement, to be honest. There’s a quite a bit of hostility between them both and at first, I thought it was due to Spencer but what if Toby found out some information about Wren that turned both Toby and Mona against him and kicked off from the A- Team. When Charlotte took over what if Wren was recruited AGAIN?

Like authorizing Cece Drake to visit Mona? Part of his A-Duties?

A has a bunch of Wren's prescription pads. This explains why the A-Team can get hold of medicine quickly to drug the Liars and to frame them like previously done before...

But, anyways, the Liars caught up to their cat-and-mouse game. Spencer confronted Wren about the Cece Drake pass and despite he played it cool, he made a phone call to someone, “We got a problem.”

And to whom?

Eddie Lamb.

Eddie Lamb was there inside knowledge of Radley and keeping an eye on Spencer. We know Eddie regrets doing this and ever teaming up with Wren but like Wren said, “I held up my share of the bargain.

So, Cece unmasks herself as A but conveniently misses anything to do with Wren whatsoever. Maybe Cece had another master plan. Even if Cece got caught as A, Wren would help her to finish off the A game.

Or is it?

But why didn’t he stop, you might ask?What if the game was a drug? An addiction to him. It meant more about getting revenge. Now, even if he wanted to stop, he’s too far in to escape. Escape to London?

We also know that he is quite close to Charlotte DiLaurentis. We learned that Charlotte used to call Wren on the phone during her "penthouse arrest," which led to her eventually confiding in him about what happened to Bethany Young as well as Melissa's involvement in accidentally killing her. Thus, Wren plays a vital role in this whole game and is one step further into knowing the truth about Alison.

Obviously, Melissa was less than thrilled about this little revelation, considering it was the main cause of their breakup, so that alone certainly gives her a solid motive to want to kill Charlotte. Wren immediately dumped Melissa and seemingly returned to America to visit Charlotte.

This is huge because it not only confirms Wren's involvement, but it also gives us a clue as to the nature of Melissa and Charlotte's relationship, which was never fully explained. That being said, what could Charlotte tell Wren that would be so terrible it would make him leave Melissa? My guess is that Melissa is somehow connected to Mrs. DiLaurentis's murder, and we all know that Charlotte had an axe to grind there.

Yes. I’m even going there. Melissa killed both Jessica and Charlotte.

(but I'll go into that at a later time)

In Season 3, When Hanna finds out that Mona can stay in Radley and won't be transferred to another facility, she is so happy that she kisses him. Wren is also a volunteer at Radley Sanitarium. Wren thinks Hanna did it out of a love interest of himself and flirts back when he finds out it was only out of on the spot emotions he is disappointed.  

Wren is a “doctor” that seems to be floating about in one department to another. First a nurse then a mental health professional? Something seems a bit fishy. But since he as so many access to hospitals, it can help him carry out some of his A.D duties.

Like swapping Emily’s eggs to impregnate Alison as the final revenge plot?

Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence Elliot and Wren are both “doctors”.

My guess is that Wren hired Elliot and Mary Drake, forming his own A-Team and to avenge Charlotte’s death in which we know that Elliot and Charlotte had an affair.

EDIT -08/07/2017- *sighs*

-sexierthanaheartburn

[faveficarchive]

Coup de Grace: Part 1

The Last of the International Dilettantes

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: From the Author:

The fabulously ill-tempered archaeologist Janice Covington and Southern-Belle-in-Exile Melinda Pappas gradually discover the real truth at the heart of the Xena Scrolls, in a story that darkly plays with time and memory, loss and desire, and the nature of what is real and what is not.

The stars all seem motionless, embedded in the eternal vault; yet they must all

be in constant motion, since they rise and traverse the heavens with their

luminous bodies till they return to the far-off scene of their setting.

—Lucretius

1. Still Life with Assistant Professor

Cambridge, 1948

At precisely 12:19 p.m. on Saturday, June 11, 1948, after sitting on the back porch and consuming two meatloaf sandwiches, drinking half a beer, pondering the uneven lawn begging to be mowed as well as the rutted wood rot in the roof beams of the porch, thinking that she didn't want to go to Venice to some damned boring conference anyway, then wondering why she didn't want to go anywhere and would rather stay and home and paint the kitchen ceiling and pull weeds out of the garden and just watch her lover fall asleep in the sun, after all this fermentation of thought aided by the American institutions of beef and beer, Dr. Janice Covington, the restless, relentless archaeologist and world explorer, fully realized that she had been domesticated.

She exhaled, as if some intangible pseudo-virility within her had been deflated.

Then she burped, and this small, crude action comforted her.

Janice laid back on the porch, head pillowed on a forearm, ignoring the empty, yawning lawn chair—she could not tolerate being civilized any further. Smoke from her cigarette drifted up into the rafters of the back porch. Out, damned rot! she thought, scowling at the poor old beams. She had warned Mel about this, when they bought the house—that it was less sturdy than it looked. But its shabby genteel, struggling-academics-meet-haunted-house ambiance possessed great appeal to the Southerner, who reveled in a very regional penchant for the Gothic. Not to mention that the house, drafty in the winter, also possessed incessantly creaking floorboards and a regularly flooding basement. Nonetheless, Janice reluctantly admitted to herself that she liked the house. Oh, hell, I love it. It's ours. She sat up abruptly, as if the happy thought would strip it all away. I've been waiting for two years for the other shoe to drop. 

She continually expected to wake up some morning in a leaky tent somewhere in the middle of nowhere: alone, on a site...lucid and miserable and no longer part of this living dream. Or she would wake to find a "Dear Jane" kinda letter propped against the sugar bowl (no, Mel would take grandma's sugar bowl with her. Against the toaster, maybe?) on the kitchen table : Dear Janice, I cannot go on any longer loving someone as short as you. I'm going back home to my fiancé, who was 6'4" in his stocking feet. You can keep the car. Love, Mel. Never mind the fact that the fiancé was now, most definitely, a former fiancé and married to another woman, and who kept sending Mel annoying photos of his newborn son, who had a strangely large head, like a mutant turnip....now there's someone who desperately needed the Pappas gene pool. But so far, practically every day, she woke to the smell of coffee, to Mel in the kitchen, loose hair spilling over a bathrobe, frowning over the newspaper. This world, I swear, she would drawl.

This world. When Janice was younger she kept a journal, in which she wrote about the things she was learning from her father. When she was 19 she finished one particular notebook with a litany of names—all the places she'd seen thus far. Under the dark canopy of night and tent, everything seethed with possibility, and she would recite the list in her mind: Hierakonpolis. Athens. Syria. Alexandria.

The litany kept her company, and for a long time it felt like her only friend. Through the holes in the old tent she would see stars.

Cairo. Rome. Istanbul. Thessalonika.

It had not occurred to her then to wonder if she was happy. Because everything had seemed possible. She looked around the yard. And the amazing thing was, it still felt that way. 

Add Cambridge to the list.

*****

"Ah, my little Mad Dog. My poor, little, housebroken Mad Dog."

Upon murmuring this benediction, Paul Rosenberg leaned back into the soft leather chair at the study's desk, and put his feet up on it, ignoring Covington's entreaties about doing so. Janice was always so nervous in the study—which she considered Mel's room—as if she were in the tomb of Tutankhamen himself and fearing some ancient Carolinian curse, should objects be tampered with. Carefully, he stretched his long legs over the desk, avoiding the thick, vellum-paged notebook, covered with lines of Greek, and an English which, to him, was as indecipherable as the ancient language, given the florid, tangled serifs of the bold hand. He knew instantly it wasn't Janice's handwriting, having encountered her painstakingly neat printing while they worked at Neuschwanstein. The chair carried a faint whiff of Mel's perfume. He smiled and closed his eyes for a minute. 

His brief, fluttery daydream of a certain leggy, blue-eyed brunette was disrupted by the disgruntled tones of a certain small blonde: "Hey, asshole." 

Janice had lured him from his penniless life in New York to an equally penniless one in Boston, with the promise of a teaching post for him at the college. When this drunken promise failed to materialize (I would've known she was drunk on the phone if I hadn't been drinking myself!), he found music gigs in town, tutored here and there, and acted as Janice's Boy Friday, a position that dictated nothing much more than picking up her dry cleaning (skirts being an unfortunate fact of life for a female professor, even one as lowly as she) and trying to discern the fate of the scroll she viewed at Neuschwanstein at the end of the war. You've still got the military contacts, buddy boy, she had said to him. Paul opened his eyes and smiled broadly at Janice, a toothy grin crowding his ten o'clock shadow, his open madras shirt flapping in the breeze from the window, revealing a slightly yellowing white v-neck undershirt. "Yes, my little Mad Dog?"

"Stop calling me that," she snapped. He had been relentless about the nickname, ever since hearing Mel employ it in an equally teasing fashion one day, as she shipped Janice off to work: Mad Dog honey, y'all sure are pretty in that dress! Now she stood before him, scowling, hands settled along her hips, in blue jeans and a dirty white t-shirt. He suddenly wondered if she had seen A Streetcar Named Desire recently, or if Marlon Brando had taken butch lessons from her. "Whaddya got for me? You call that number down in Washington?" 

"Ah. Well, I got stonewalled. That's what I got." He sighed, and toyed with a fountain pen from the desk. "I can't get the file. Sorry."

"You're kidding me. They won't even let you see a file?"

He shook his head. "I tell ya, I really ran up my phone bill trying to track it down. All I found out was that the scroll had been returned to the family of the owner before the war. Presumably the family that the lovely Fraulein Stoller bought it from. They live in Venice."

"Venice," Janice repeated dully. 

"That mean something to you?"

"There's an international archaeology conference there next month." Then, to herself: "Damnit, I need a name, at least." He murmured, "That's a coincidence."

"I hate coincidences, Paul." She paced in front of him. "Who's the bigwig in charge of all this?" She felt a familiar burn in her gut: the excitement of the chase. Is it happening again? I've still got it, then?

"Some general named Fenton, in Washington. I spoke to a flunky in his office. We got to bullshitting about the war, and he was the one who told me the scroll is in Venice. But that's all he would tell me."

Janice stopped pacing. She stared at him. Another coincidence. "The general is Jeremiah Winston Fenton?" "None other." Paul glanced at her uneasily. "Why?" "I'll be damned. Mel knows him. He was an old friend of her father's."

"Old Dr. Pappas knew everyone, it seems."

"Comes in handy."

"I see. So...you think Melinda could sweet-talk him? Is that your plan?"

"No." Janice sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. "She hates him. Said he's a creepy old bastard."

"Somehow I can't hear her saying that," Paul noted wryly. 

"Her exact words were, 'He's quite a terrible old man.' " She mimicked Mel's accent to perfection.

"That's pretty good, sweetheart. You sound just like her," he said admiringly.

"I get a lot of practice. But let me translate it into our lingo: He's a bastard. He put the moves on her, not long after her father died."

Paul shrugged. "Surely she's used to beating them off with a stick," he said, with forced carefulness. You don't want to be on that list of terrible men, do you, buddy? He was content just to be in Mel's orbit. Or so he believed. Given the strength of the relationship he witnessed between the two women, he knew he had very little choice in the matter.

"We're talking hours after Dr. Pappas's funeral," she snorted.

"Oh." He winced. "Lovely."

"Yeah. I don't want to put her through talkin' to that asshole again." Additionally, she was wary of using Mel's charms in this way, given the near disastrous results with Catherine Stoller. Near disaster? Okay, definite disaster. She was quiet for moment, but Paul didn't like the strange glint in her eye.

"Get the phone, will ya?"

*****

Paul's hand grew sweaty as he gripped the phone, and the business-like woman answered. "Melinda Pappas calling for General Fenton!" he barked into the receiver. Janice gave him a thumb's-up sign. He nodded, then handed her the phone. She made a great show of wiping her hand after touching the slimy receiver, but no sooner than she did, Paul could hear, from his close proximity, a deep male voice on the line.

"Why, General Fenton, is that you?" she began. Eerily, her voice had taken on the accent and cadences of her lover's. "Yes, it's me, Melinda. I know, it has been simply too long. Yes, yes, that is too true! So! How was your war?"

Paul rolled his eyes.

"Oh yes, I was abroad for a while, in England. I did so want to help the cause, and I was kept out of the WACs 'cause of my terrible nearsightedness." Janice giggled like a demented schoolgirl. "General, stop! Y'all are too much! My eyes do not look like sapphires! Well, maybe just a teeny bit, I suppose. You're so sweet. A summer sky? No, no one's ever told me that before! Well, now, I did have a purpose in callin' you…I've been so desperate for help. Yes, I am positively desperate!" Janice sat up straight, breathless as a Gene Tierney heroine. "You see, I have been continuin' the work of my Daddy—God rest his soul—and durin' the war I was fortunate enough to view a certain scroll at this lovely little castle in Germany—Neuschwanstein, yes. Now I'm sure you know, given how eee-fficient the military is, that it has been returned to its original owner, but I would so love to have a look at it again, so I need to contact the individual who is in possession of it. I had one of my manservants call your office earlier, to see if they would provide any information of their own free will—but I'll be darned if your Yankee bureaucracy didn't have me hog-tied! Yes sir, I bet you could just picture that: me, all tied up! What a sight! I was madder than a hornet's nest." A pause. More male rumbling. "Oh my, yes, you better believe it, sir! I do have a terrible temper. Why, just the other day I found one of the servants spit-polishing my silver! Usin' his disgusting saliva on the tea service that my great-grandaddy fought and died for, defendin' it from Sherman's fiends! I was so furious I could've cut off his balls and fed them to the hounds…" Janice's voice dropped menacingly. "They do so love the smell of blood, it arouses them for the hunt."

Paul conveyed a frantic plea to stay in character via a well-placed kick to the shin.

Janice grimaced, then cleared her throat. "Er, as I was saying, I would so love it if perhaps you could intervene…" Another pause. A bright smile lit up the archaeologist's face. "Oh General," she cooed seductively, "you are wonderful. I am entirely indebted to you. Uh-huh..." Janice picked up a fountain pen and scribbled down some information in the notebook in front of her. "Yes indeedy, I will call that lieutenant...and I certainly hope you read him the riot act!" Another pause. "No, I'm not living in South Carolina, or even in North Carolina anymore..." An unfortunate inspiration occurred. "Why, I'm livin' in New Orleans now! You sound as excited as I did when I moved here! Ah got together with a bunch of my old sorority sisters from Vanderbilt, and we all chipped in and bought a lovely old house down in the French Quarter. We call it the Rising Sun."

He buried his head in his hands.

"If you're ever down that way, well, you just try lookin' me up." Another peal of feminine tittering. "Oh, you're just awful! Uh-huh. Really? Well, red is my favorite color, you know…mmm-hmmmm. I would love to talk longer, General, but my manservant just brought in my mint julep and reminded me about gin rummy with the girls this afternoon. Why, yes…" she grinned at Paul. "He is a big strapping man, how did you know?"

Paul heard a loud click at the other end of the line. Janice looked at the phone in surprise. "Got him all worked up," she muttered.

He shook his head in pure disbelief. "You are out of your damn mind, Janice."

"That ain't no way to talk to a lady, mister."

"You're no lady, even when you're pretending to be one. And I tell you, if she ever finds out—"

Janice jammed a finger in his face. "She's not gonna find out unless you tell her, and if you do, I'll feed your balls to the hounds—"

"I'd like to see you try, butchling, 'cause we might as well face facts here—"

She grabbed his shirt, yanking him up out of the chair, knocking over the notebook.

"—you're pussywhipped!" he shouted gleefully.

Both parties felt a breeze from the study door, now opened by the woman who, indeed, without a single doubt, had them both pussywhipped. Mel stood in the doorway, her face slightly flushed from her brisk walk from the campus in the midday sun, carrying the leather satchel that once belonged to her father on her shoulder, and with a needless cardigan sweater draped over one forearm, poised like a waiter with a towel. Her pale, well-formed arms were bare in the summer dress she wore. Judging from the slightly dazed expression on her face, she either heard Paul's exclamation or was suffering a mild form of heat stroke.

"Hi," Mel greeted timidly, feeling as if she had interrupted some intimate scenario in a house that was not her own.

Both Paul and Janice mumbled hellos.

"Um..." Mel began, as she deposited both satchel and sweater on the study's couch. 

Paul straightened his abused shirt. "Hey, didn't you tell me you guys got meatloaf?" Before Mel could affirm, he darted past and down the hallway into the kitchen.

Janice remained sitting, now cross-legged, on the desk, prompting a scowl of disapproval from her companion. The archaeologist jumped off the desk immediately, sending loose papers scattering in her wake, and inadvertently wounding the fountain pen, which proceeded to bleed blue ink all over the desk's blotter. 

Mel sighed deeply.

"Sorry."

"This word—" Mel tried again. A parade of nervous tics commenced. First she nudged her glasses with a knuckle. Beneath the becoming blush, Janice could see the little linguistic wheels spinning in her lover's mind: Pussywhipped. Transitive verb. Pussy. Slang, obscene.... Then she scratched her cheek and tugged nervously on her ear.

The bullshit generator kicked in. "It's all part of the Mad Dog legend, baby. You know lots of things are said about me, and ah, this is one of those rumors...that, ah, I liked to abuse cats."

"I see," Mel responded, drawing an imaginary line in the carpet with the tip of her shoe, perhaps indicating a rapidly lowering threshold of nonsense. She took a step toward Janice. Who retreated with a much larger step of her own. "You know...dogs don't...like...cats..."

"If that is the case, then, wouldn't it have made more sense for Paul to call you a pussywhipper?" Mel said the word cautiously, as if afraid of mispronouncing it.

Oh, to hear that word rolling off that tongue. Language covered in honey. "Now Mel," Janice muttered, taking another backstep and colliding with a chair, "you know the intricacies of American slang cannot be easily dissected and understood fully without further research. There is also an arbitrary element at work, which we must take into account—"

"Good Lord, you are becoming an academic."

Janice gaped at her, hurt. "That was low!"

"My apologies, Assistant Professor Covington." Mel grinned at her; then, gradually, both the smile and the warm blush faded. "Did you sleep at all this morning?"

"Huh?" The archaeologist feigned ignorance. "Sure, once you were gone. You take up a lot of space." As do the nightmares in my head. "And you snore like an old man," she added softly.

The smile returned to Mel's face. "No one says you have to sleep with me."

"Actually, it's in the 'Rules for Pussywhippers' handbook. I must suffer for love."

"Perhaps," Mel suggested, "I should just ask Paul about this word. Hmmm?" She turned on her heel for the door. The little blonde panicked; she knew Paul would crack as soon as Mel took the meatloaf away from him. With a running leap, Janice jumped her, piggybacking effortlessly onto Mel's back. The Southerner oofed in surprise, then giggled, but bore the weight effortlessly, instinctively grabbing the legs that locked around her waist, and opting not to think about the dirty heels digging into her clothes. "Is this pussywhipping?" she asked in mock innocence. "Or a prelude to, perhaps?"

Janice laughed. "Will you stop for a minute?" She tightened her arms slightly around Mel's neck and shoulders. 

"I will find out what that word means," the translator proclaimed.

"Of that I have no doubt. You're the most stubborn woman I ever did meet."

"You bring it out in me," accused Mel.

No snappy retorts came to Janice's mind. She was too close to the nape of Mel's neck, and inhaled her scent with the ferocity of a junkie. The roller coaster rush through her blood left her dazed and senseless, and resistant to sequential thought. "How's your Italian?" she mumbled into Mel's ear.

"What? Oh, just fine. It's sittin' in the back of my brain, with my French and my Latin, playin' backgammon. Why?"

"That's a surreal answer."

"Such a non-sequitur deserves it."

Janice kissed her cheek. Several times.

"Hmm. That's a better non-sequitur."

"Baby," the archaeologist purred, "we're going to Venice."

Mel craned her neck to look at Janice in surprise. "You changed your mind?" In previous discussions concerning the conference, Mel had taken Janice's lack of interest as a sign they would not be going. She had been surprisingly disappointed, wondering, with some amusement, if she herself were the one growing restless.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Good question, wondered Janice. I just got caught up in the chase again. Figures as soon as I accept settling down, it starts up again. "Tell ya later," she replied as Paul stomped back into the room.

"Hey, you guys are out of—" he stopped, blinking in surprise at this playfulness. Simple horseplay, or Lesbian foreplay? I don't want to know, do I? Whatever it was, the obvious love made him feel about a dozen kinds of ambivalence.

But that happy look in Mel's eyes, and her big grin, seemed to override everything for him at that moment. "We're goin' to Venice," she blurted, like a kid, breathless, as she lugged Covington toward the door.

Paul managed a small, wry smile. "Send me a postcard," he said wistfully.

2. The Spell, Unbroken

Venice, 1948

For Jennifer Halliwell Davies, another trip to Venice was…another trip to Venice. The city was like a drowning woman, a dying dowager thrown on a reef: It was alive, though just barely, and as such did not interest her. She could not even remember how many times she had been in the city, let alone this particular palazzo, one of many built during the Renaissance by the powerful Cornaro family.

But there was one thing in Venice that interested her: a certain woman, who stood in the crowd milling in the courtyard below.

She'd had a premonition—well, not exactly that. She'd met a fellow in the hotel bar the night before, some poor anthropology professor from Harvard, who hit her up for as many vodkas as she was willing to buy. And when she discovered that the chap knew Janice Covington and had said that the esteemed archaeologist was attending the conference as well, Jenny would have stormed Moscow itself and raided Stalin's liquor cabinet just to keep him talking.

And there she was.

Jenny hid herself, allowing a large vase to provide her cover, as she stared at Janice through her fashionable turista binoculars.

Upon closer inspection through the looking glass, she noted that Janice wore a man's white oxford shirt, bright against her tanned arms, and it looked clean. Must've been laundry day yesterday. The pants were khaki, as they usually were, and the wild strawberry blonde tresses were twined carelessly into a messy braid. The only things missing were the leather jacket and the foul fedora, older than the Dead Sea Scrolls. Perhaps the abomination passing as a millinery item had finally faced its overdue demise. Nonetheless, the good doctor looked quite prepared to lead an impromptu expedition into the most appalling of canals.

Despite the never-changing attire, she thought Janice looked different somehow. The small article she encountered almost a year ago in Archaeology magazine, about the so-called Xena Scrolls and Dr. Covington's role in their recovery, mentioned that she had served in the war—was that why Janice looked more mature?

The archaeologist was nodding politely at the older woman who had engaged her in conversation—whom Jenny recognized as a White Russian expatriate, just another international dilettante like herself. Her brows knitted in curiosity as she realized what was different: There was no impatient, angry scowl on Janice's face.

Jenny felt Linus's presence before he said anything—or, more accurately, she felt his mustache tickle her ear. "You were right," he burred.

She frowned, then lowered the binoculars. "Not totally useless, you know."

Linus smiled. "Never said you were, darling." His arm drew around her waist in an affectionate squeeze. "Aren't you going to go say hello to her?"

"Should I?" She tapped the lens of the binoculars irritably, then pushed away a loose strand of her blonde hair. "I suppose it's tempting."

"I'll leave it to you." Linus touched the knot of his green silk tie for the umpteenth time. Then he slicked back his dark brown hair with the damp palm of his hand, twitched his mustache to make sure it was in place, and allowed his hand wander back to the tie.

"If you don't stop fussing with that, I'm going to hang you with it," his wife hissed. "You're worse than a woman."

He raised a thick eyebrow. "I always thought you liked that about me," he parried pleasantly.

She smiled at the familiar retort. After almost ten years of marriage, the minutiae of their lives—the jokes, the jaunts, and the lovers, shared and not shared—flimsy on their own accord and meaningless when dissected, held them together more than any illusion of love or fidelity.

"You haven't seen her in over five years," her husband reminded her. "The spell is broken, is it not?"

She said nothing.

"You know what she's like." Linus prodded with the delicacy of a ham-handed surgeon. "Girl in every port...."

...and I was just lucky Alexandria was a stop on her itinerary.

"I would be surprised if she's here alone. And," he added, ignoring her homicidal glare, "Covington is an awful lot of bother. She breathes trouble like air."

Jenny turned her gray eyes to her husband. "That was part of her appeal, you idiot," she growled.

Linus rolled his eyes, unable to comprehend this. "Oh, righto. Forgot that bit. As I said, I'll leave it all to you, dear. If I should run into her first, I'll just tell her you're at Baden Baden with the masseuse again and you can remain up here, hiding."

He succeeded in making her laugh. His lines around his eyes crinkled as he grinned, and then softened as he grew serious.

"What?" she prompted.

"Don't get hurt, hmm?" He kissed her cheek, trotted down the stone steps leading into the garden, and she turned her attention, once again, to the woman in her sights. "And Jenny?" he called, turning around suddenly to face her again.

"What?" she shouted irritably.

"Don't give her any money!"

Oh, you cheap bastard. "Fine!" she retorted, as he melded into the crowd. With another sigh she put the small binoculars back in her purse, snapping the bag shut. I think I need another drink first. She lost herself for a few minutes, staring into the crowd. Linus wants to see her again. Wants her to come to Alexandria. What about what I want?

Jenny had to admit that she didn't have a clue about that.

Italian purring emanated from just beyond the open doors of the palazzo. She knew, even with her back to them, that it was Vittorio Frascati, who owned the palazzo. She did not know him well—she vaguely recalled being introduced to him once before the war—but the old man, scion of a prominent Venetian family and descendent of a doge, was high profile among the wealthy international set. And now he was oozing his lecherous charm on some hapless female. "Is it not the finest Cornaro in Venice?" he was murmuring.

Jenny turned around, just for a peek. She expected to see some tittering blonde barely out of university, but this one made her raise an eyebrow appreciatively; Vittorio did have taste after all, she marveled. The small, dapper man had linked arms with a tall, bespectacled black-haired beauty, who smiled at him graciously. Jenny wondered if the woman was the wife or mistress of a famous man, or even, perhaps, famous herself. Her clothes were impeccable: a silk blouse of deep blue, a darker matching skirt, both items flattering and elegant.

The woman nodded at the old man. "Grazi, Vittorio," the woman replied, honoring him in his native language. "You have been very generous with your time. And very helpful."

"And you have been generous to humor a babbling old man, Melinda." He squeezed her arm affectionately, then disengaged from her. "I hope you find what you are looking for." He kissed her hand, smiled, and returned indoors to maintain his Gatsby-like aloofness from his own party.

Jenny found herself alone—and exchanging smiles—with the beautiful woman, who looked faintly embarrassed to have been fawning, however subtly, over a wealthy and powerful man.

"He's quite a charmer," Jenny said to the woman.

"That he is," the woman agreed. Her low, indolent drawl was from the American South. She came closer to Jenny, and that was when the Englishwoman noticed that the stranger was about half a foot taller than she, almost as tall as her husband. "If I wanted to marry for money, he'd be the one," the Southerner added.

Jenny tried to stifle a grin. "You seem the type who would marry for love instead."

The woman smiled mysteriously and said nothing, but absently touched a ring on the smallest finger of her left hand. It was a silver ring, a nice complement to the expensive watch (Cartier) and the pearl earrings (real).

"I'm Jennifer Davies," she said, offering a hand.

The tall woman enfolded it in one of her own. "Melinda Pappas."

"Let me guess..."

"Hmmm?" Mel mused, raising an eyebrow.

"You're from Virginia!"

It was the "Guess the Accent" game. Mel was well acquainted with it; it had made the first few months of living in New England sheer hell. "Er, no, I'm afraid not."

"Tennessee?"

"No."

"Kentucky?"

"No."

"Definitely not Texas."

"Certainly not," Mel affirmed, a touch haughty.

"I'm afraid I've run out of Southern states," Jenny said, almost apologetic.

"South Carolina," Mel provided, the syllables languishing in her speech like Janice Covington on the sofa after one bourbon too many.

"Good heavens." Jenny paused. "Does each compass point have a Carolina?"

Mel laughed. "No. Just North and South."

"And what brings you to this party, this conference?"

"I'm a translator," Mel supplied succinctly.

"How fascinating. I barely stumble through English, let alone any other language. What have you been working on?"

"Well, it's a bit of an ongoing project. I'm translating a series of ancient writings, known as the Xena Scrolls."

For once Jenny was glad she wasn't drinking, for if she were, she would have choked. Then providence, divine and sadistic, threw a sunbeam down to highlight the silver ring on Mel's finger. Oh bloody hell.

"So," Jenny enunciated carefully, "you must know Dr. Covington."

***** Janice frowned in the general direction of the palazzo's great doors, wondering where Mel was. She scowled into the dregs of her wineglass, then returned her gaze to the house. Venetian architecture failed to impress her, and she had opted not to go on the impromptu house tour that Count Frascati offered to them. But she knew Mel's motivations were more than a desire to see the palazzo; the Southerner had hoped that the Count would know something about the Falconettos, the elusive, aristocratic family that had owned at least one scroll authored by Gabrielle of Poteidaia. So far all they knew of the family was that the patriarch had died at the end of the war and his son, his heir, could not be found.

The old maze of the city, though, intimidated her, and she frequently found herself getting lost whenever she was alone, tooling around the city with the ridiculous—and essentially useless—hand-drawn map that Mel had given her. "Don't get lost," Mel always said to her. And the archaeologist always scoffed at this: Lost? She, who could navigate all five boroughs of New York (even Staten Island!) with ease, who knew Alexandria and Cairo like the back of her hand, who, as an ambulance driver during the war, had the smallest streets of London and Paris committed to memory?

"Venice is a tricky city," Mel had said. "It's a changeling." She had paused dramatically, and if you aren't any kind of goddamn warrior you sure did inherit a sense of drama from that damn woman, Janice had thought to herself. "Kind of like the South," Mel then added, both wistful and mysterious.

This was typical. Whenever Mel liked anything, it reminded her of the South.

This is what I get for taking her up North, thought Janice, with a trickle of guilt. Endless nostalgia and romanticism.

Janice deposited the empty glass on a tray that sailed by, piloted by an overworked waiter. No sooner was it out of her hand than a fresh drink was thrust into her hand. "Hey!" she exclaimed, half-turning to berate the waiter.

Who was already gone. Standing in his place was Jennifer Davies.

Oh shit. Janice's sudden desire for Mel to be there was not because she wanted her lover to witness what could be a potentially ugly encounter, but because she knew that the ever-responsible Mel would, if nothing else, ensure a safe return to the hotel after Jenny had beaten her to a pulpy state of unconsciousness.

"Janice," she purred.

"Jesus," blurted the archaeologist.

"Not quite, love." The Englishwoman sipped at a glass of pinot grigio. "Almost didn't recognize you without the hat. And the jacket. You seem almost naked."

Janice rolled her shoulders nervously, then squared them, both gestures dying for the roguish finishing touch of a leather jacket. She studied Jenny. The Englishwoman was still lovely, with her mess of dark golden curls now tamed into a respectable looking bun, her gray eyes, usually mischievous, still possessing a lively glint. But what that glint meant now, Janice was not sure. All she felt was gratitude that Jenny was not enamored of firearms. "Good to see ya," Janice mumbled. Goddamnit, Mel, where are you?

"It's surprising to see you." Jenny swallowed. "I thought, for a while, you might be dead."

Is her hand shaking? "What?"

"Not long after the war I ran into Andrew Curran. He said he saw you in London, in '44. And they were sending you to the continent, right into the heart of it."

Janice remembered that. She also remembered he borrowed ten quid and never paid her back. Andrew was a writer, an old friend and ex-lover of Jenny's, and a RAF pilot during the war. "I'm glad Andrew made it."

Jenny ignored this. "I've spent five years wondering what's become of you."

Shit oh shit. Somehow an I’m sorry seemed pointless in the face of this weighty fact. "Guess I shoulda sent word."

"Perhaps. But eventually I knew you were all right: Your scrolls are making you well known." Jenny sipped the wine. "You have them all now?"

A tiny frown, and the familiar furrowing of her brow. "Not all of them. There are more."

"Really, Janice? Your translator thinks you're wrong." Jenny smiled, relishing the stunned look on her former lover's face, and tilted her head. Janice followed the direction of the motion. They were not difficult to spot, because they were both two of the tallest people at the party: Linus and Mel, together, talking.

Shit oh shit oh shit. "You've met Mel." Janice was, initially, too surprised to ignore the implications of what Jenny claimed Mel had said about the Scrolls. "Quite by accident. We started talking, and found out we had a mutual acquaintance in you, my pet. Then I introduced her to my charming husband, and they've been blathering about Mayan architecture for the past twenty minutes. Terribly dull. Oh Janice, don't glare at me like that. I'm not saying your little concubine is a bore. Actually, she's not so little, is she?"

"No, she's not," snapped the archaeologist.

Rather defensive, thought Jenny. "Not that it's a bad thing," she amended.

"It's not. I never have to worry about changing light bulbs or gettin' things from the top shelf in the pantry."

Always ready with the wisecrack, Janice. That hasn't changed. "At any rate, she's lovely, and very smart. Don't worry. I said nothing to her of our—shared past, and I'm sure Linus won't either."

"I'm not worried about that."

But Jenny could tell from the nervous clenching of the archaeologist's jaw, that this wasn't quite the given that it was declared to be. "To be frank, dear, I didn't think she was your type."

"If that's your polite way of sayin' she's out of my league, I know that." Janice glared at her.

"She's out of everybody's league, darling." Jenny said it lightly, but felt it deeply, miserably, in her bones. She would have been prepared to compete with a woman—or even a man—for Janice's affections, but not an Amazonian demigoddess. "They look good together," Jenny observed, as they both watched Linus and Mel. "My husband and your lover. Both so tall. Like some Nazi-Nietzschean super breeding couple." As she'd hoped, Janice did chuckle at that. Nice to see I can still make you laugh, if nothing else.

"And I thought I was pissed off about being short."

"I'm pissed off about a lot of things, love."

"Even after five years, baby?" Janice raised an eyebrow.

Jenny resisted the diminutive and what it stood for: an obvious attempt at being charmed. Unfortunately, as she stared into the green eyes and ached to kiss the lips, she realized it was working. "She wears a ring."

"Yeah," Janice grunted. "Is that a crime or something?"

"No. But it's the ultimate symbol of marriage, of commitment. Isn't it?"

The infamous Covington sneer of defiance made an appearance. "So suddenly you're an expert, since you're married yourself? You might as well wipe your ass with that piece of paper."

Ah, Janice, I have missed you. I needed to feel something, and you're it. Who else would talk to me like this, who would let the truth fly like that? She wanted to take Janice in her arms, and forgive her, and make all the promises that she knew she couldn't keep. Our mutual marriages appear to be in the way of that. Mine has always been flexible. But yours? She watched Janice watch Mel. This was also something new, this naked look, a vulnerability slowly crossing Covington's face, like a blind man negotiating an intersection.

"Just admit it. You're in love with her. And it's something bigger than anything you ever felt for me."

Janice closed her eyes. "Jenny, don't do this. Don't start." A little too late for that, big mouth, she chastised herself.

"I'm not starting anything. I'm finishing it." Jenny glared into her wine, watching the surface of the liquid spin like a hula hoop. "You left it a bit sloppy, a bit unfinished in Alexandria. Didn't you?"

Alexandria. It was the last time they had been together. Janice remembered little of it: Hazy golden blurs of fucking, of drinking. Of the haunting urge that built in her head to see Mel again, until it became so strong and desperate that she sold her mother's wedding ring just to get enough money to buy a plane ticket home. She had left Jenny without saying goodbye. She remembered sitting on the edge of the bed, money in her hand, watching Jenny sleep. And then moving, as if in a dream, for the door. "I guess I did," Janice replied softly. "I regret that." The musing tone gave to the words all the weight and substance of a feather. But it felt, to Janice, as if she were now a different person, someone not capable of that behavior. For she could never see herself doing that to Mel, ever again. Especially since I gave you a ring and I said I didn't need a ceremony or a church or a God. I don't need anything except you.

Jenny, of course, knew none of this, and even if she did, would have remained as  impassively impressed as she was now. "A hell of an apology."

Okay, I tried noble, now I'm back to the bitch. "Well, what the fuck do you want from me?" snapped Janice.

She wanted to slap Janice hard—very, very hard. But instead, she opted for the humiliation of throwing wine in her face. The sudden violence of the gesture possessed the emotional impact she wanted, as she watched the archaeologist flinch, if only ever so slightly.

"Try to explain that to your dashing Southern belle," she said quietly.

*****

Inevitably, at any type of social gathering, Mel eventually reverted to wallflower status; she felt most happy quietly observing other guests.

Especially Janice. At the moment, however, the archaeologist was not visible from where she sat, on a stone bench, at the periphery of the crowd. But then Janice was walking quickly toward her, whistling tunelessly and betraying her nervous restlessness by tapping a clenched fist against her thigh.

Mel straightened in distress when she noticed the dampness of Janice's cheeks. Crying? she wondered. But once the small blonde sat down next to her she realized it was not the tracks of tears, but a sheen of white wine. Luminous clear drops were falling happily, willingly, into her cleavage.

"Oh, dear. And we were proceeding so nicely, without incident." Mel murmured. She handed her companion a clean yet wrinkled napkin.

Janice blotted her face dry.

"Could have been worse, I suppose," she added, discreetly checking for bloodstains or bruises.

"I suppose," echoed Janice with a sigh. "But white wine does possess a certain sting."

"Would you care to tell me what happened between you and Mrs. Davies?"

"Mrs. Davies?"

"She was the last person I saw you talking with. Did she do this?" Mel gestured at her lover's face.

"Ah, dear Mrs. Davies."

"Yes. What of Mrs. Davies?"

"This conversation is beginning to remind me of that crazy book you were trying to make me read."

The "crazy book" was by Gertrude Stein. What Mel found to be a fascinating exercise in the modern use of language had sent Janice scurrying for the comfort of her old friends Raymond Chandler and Dash Hammett.

"Don't change the subject, darling. Especially when it's about a woman who still seems to be in love with you."

"So you figured that out, huh?"

"Yes. I'm pretty good at decoding the obvious. You should have seen me when the Hindenburg blew up."

Mel had hoped to bring a smile to the that lovely face, but instead Janice frowned, wrapping the napkin around her fist, the white contrasting with her tanned hand, like a bandage. Like the gauze and cloth slapped on her during the war, like the handkerchief Harry gave her when she scraped her knuckles on rocks during an excavation in Macedonia. Four days later he was dead and all she had was his handkerchief, covered with her own blood, and his dreams, and his debts.

"I didn't know she'd be here," Janice admitted quietly.

"Of course not. But when...when were you with her?"

Janice continued to stare at her hand, watching the white cotton flutter as she wiggled her fingers within it. "Last time I saw her was in '43. It was one of those on again, off again things. I met both of them…" she exhaled, scowled in thought. "….oh, I think it was 1940. Harry called their set 'the international dilettantes.' They threw parties, they traveled, they nosed around on digs, acting all curious and trying to buy anything that struck their fancy. No one took them seriously. They were kind of on the fringe of things. In a way, so was I, but no one could say that I didn't do my time in the field, and that I wasn't serious about what I was doin'." She shot Mel a wry look. "I thought you were one of them, one of those types, when I first met you."

Mel shrugged. "Well, I guess I am.”

"No," teased Janice, "you're a debutante, not a dilettante, honey."

"Gosh, I do get those words mixed up in my pretty little head!" Mel drawled.

Janice laughed. "There's a lot in that pretty little head, I know. In fact, I've always thought you should be the one teaching, not me. I'm just a digger at heart. Anyway," Janice continued with a sigh, "we kept running into Jenny and Linus—Athens, Cairo, Syria, you name it. They were always around. Eventually we all became friends...and, with Jenny, more than that."

"And Linus? Did he know? Does he know?"

Janice snorted derisively. "Oh yeah. He knew all right. In fact, he gave me money for a couple of my digs. 'Cause I was fucking his wife and keeping her happy."

"This made him happy?" Mel frowned, confused.

"Linus and Jenny have what you might call a marriage in name only. He's nouveau riche, Canadian. His family was looking to make themselves classy by marrying off their dissolute son to a woman with background. Jenny's got the lineage, her father is a squire or something stupid like that...they have this big country house...but no cash flow. It's a perfect set-up. They're fond of each other, and for all I know they may actually fornicate with each other every once in a while, but usually they go their separate ways when it comes to companionship of that kind."

"Oh." Mel blinked, pondered something meaningful to say. "At least she's not a Nazi."

Janice laughed in amazement. "No, she's not. She's worse." Morosely she stared at the ground, then scrutinized Mel. "You're taking this awfully well," she accused.

"I don't see the point of getting upset over something that's already happened." Mel chewed her lip. How to convey reassurance, with an innocuous touch, what inept words cannot…whoever thought that language would fail me, of all people? Even now there were moments when she could not trust her body, her movements, as if any casual sign of affection would tell the world what she was, and what she felt. Her fingers twitched, she steadied her hand, and plucked at the khaki pant leg, gently, teasingly.

Janice looked at her.

"I don't care about that."

"Jesus, I do not deserve you. Damn this stupid thing. Why did we come to this party anyway?"

"It was your idea," Mel reminded her.

Janice made a pretense at scanning the crowd. "I thought we should get out. Some people might think fucking in a hotel room for a whole day is unhealthy."

"I wouldn’t take you to be one of those types, Janice."

"And I never thought you'd turn out to be a sex fiend with unlimited energy." Janice reached out and took the wineglass from the large hand, permitting her fingers a brief electric entanglement with Mel's own. "But you are, aren't you?"

Mel thought, for a moment, that Venice had just sunk another inch.

The archaeologist drained the glass. She swallowed. Her lips glittered, wet.

"Do you want to go back to the room?" Janice asked. She pressed the empty glass into Mel's hand. Her palm brushed along the knuckles curled loosely around the expensive Venetian stemware.

She took the soft smash of Vittorio's fine wineglass as a yes.

*****

In the sanctuary of their rooms at the Hotel Danieli, Jenny lit up a cigar in honor of Covington. She puffed furiously. Like to see that Southern ninny try to smoke one of these. The spiteful thought came too soon, as the smoke strangled her and she proceeded to hack violently. It's like tasting death.

Linus emerged from the large bathroom while unknotting his tie to find his wife sprawled, unladylike, on the couch, her skirt hitched up to dangerous heights and a cigar in her mouth. "You know," he began, "Byron called Venice 'Sodom on the Sea.' " He sat down next to her, draping a large hand on her bare thigh, not in the least tempted by the smooth skin. "So one would think, whatever your misfortunes with the lovely doctor, you would find a bit of...entertainment elsewhere." He squeezed her leg with gentle affection. "The night is still young."

She unfurled smoke at him in lieu of a response.

He coughed loudly. "Darling, put that foul thing out before we all go up in flames."

She dropped it in the half-empty champagne glass. It fizzled, just like all those hopes I had of being back in your bed, Janice.

Linus took her hand. "Look, I know it bloody hurts, but she's happy. Can't you tell?"

"Yes." She flopped against him and pressed her face in the dark soft night of his black jacket. No crying. Not yet. Not now. She took a deep breath, its jagged rhythm suggesting the inhalation of broken glass. It fucking feels like that, anyway. "She'll be coming to Alexandria?" The tiny pleading voice was almost lost against the breadth of his jacket.

He shrugged. "The invitation was proffered to both of them. You can lead a horse to water…."

"…but she'll end up drinking bourbon anyway." Jenny sighed and sat up. She stared at the ceiling, then at her husband. Time to ask the tricky question. "Lye, this really has nothing to do with me, does it?"

His standard trick, in attempting to look innocent, was widening his dark eyes.

"Why do you want Janice in Alexandria?" she asked slowly, knowing she would get the answer he always gave, the answer that, in his so-called line of work, he couldn't help but give her.

He smiled. "You know what I'm going to say…"

"Say it anyway."

He rubbed his chin. "I need to keep an eye on her."

*****

Mel had decided that they should never leave the hotel room. Because she was both deliciously happy, yet deeply mortified. What kind of looks might they get when they dared to leave the sanctuary of the room again? If this were a room in the Bible Belt, we might get away with saying we were holding a small revivalist meeting or something. I could even throw in a hallelujah. For, if the proverbial fly on the wall were, say, a blind nun, this creature would have been most impressed by the Christian devotion of Dr. Covington, as she chanted "Jesus" over and over again, so lovingly, so frequently, so breathlessly. The repetition had indeed made Mel downright nervous, triggering dormant Methodist tendencies, and distracting from the extremely pleasant task of servicing the good doctor. Blasphemy upon blasphemy. I really am going to hell...if I still believe in that. Her quasi-theological ruminations derailed as Janice climaxed, blonde head slamming back into a soft, fat pillow, with one final cry for Christ. Her mouth glistened, as if she had swallowed stars, and her eyes were dazed, unfocused, and happy.

Mel decided that hell was worth this.

"Keeps getting better and better," mumbled Janice, before rolling on her stomach and falling into a light slumber. Mel indulged a bad habit and sprawled practically on top of her, cheek against shoulder blade, hips to butt. She was on the precipice of sleep herself when the soft growl of Janice's voice reverberated against her.

"I was a shit." The words were almost smothered by the pillow to which they were addressed.

Mel could not see her face. "What?"

"With Jenny. I was a shit."

Her hand swept down and felt the scars along Janice's thigh, then the resultant shudder that the touch brought, one of desire or remembrance, she did not know. She wondered if Janice herself knew. "I don't care." The words tumbled out of her mouth. It was true. It also appeared cruel somehow. She wondered, ever so briefly, why she didn't. Love, the great blind spot.

"You should."

"Why?"

"The last time I was with her…I could think of nothing but you." Janice whispered this, sighed, then stretched, the action rippling her body.

Mel rode the current of flesh. "Am I too heavy for you?"

"No. Don't move." And she added, almost shyly, "I like it."

Some emotion caught Mel by desperate surprise, a nameless, rootless anxiety, and she knew now Janice's own fear of having it all taken away, of the dream dissolved. She thought of the other woman who, in this city, at this moment, also loved Janice Covington. If fate were crueler, she wouldn't be here now. Usually, Mel possessed a powerful ability to find common ground with others; empathy had caught up with her at last.

"I love you anyway," she said.

3. Lucky

Cambridge, 1949

Dr. James Snyder sat at his desk, focusing a passionate amount of attention on his pen. He twirled it in his fingers, aligned it with the stack of papers in front of him, picked it up again. "You don't think she'll bring a gun, do you?" he muttered, half-joking.

The Dean, sitting on a worn leather couch near his desk, only smiled.

"Of course, you've heard the rumors…."

"Hmm," was the Dean’s noncommittal reply.

"…she killed an entire Nazi patrol single-handedly. Didn't she get some sort of commendation? And I have a colleague at the University of Texas who said that she pistol-whipped him."

The Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Oh, dear." This response did little to assuage Snyder. "I'm relatively certain that Dr. Covington is capable of behaving herself, Snyder. We've had no incidents in the two years she's been on staff." Just a rash of infatuated coeds, he thought.

Nonetheless, when the door opened and the small woman, wearing dark trousers and a rumpled khaki shirt, strode into his office without being formally invited, Snyder felt his palms go clammy and every muscle in his back knot itself. He was not comforted either by the tall woman who lingered shyly near the door. Great, she's brought a second. He only knew of Melinda Pappas via her rising professional reputation, but wrongly assumed that the translator was as ill-tempered as her companion.

"Hiya, Snyder," Janice said as she flopped in the chair facing his desk. She nodded at the Dean, who sat at her left. “Old man."

The Dean grinned, amused. "Hello, Janice."

The archaeologist craned her neck to gaze back at Mel. "Join the party, Stretch."

Mel rolled her eyes, and reluctantly approached. She was not faculty and enjoyed no special status, despite tutoring and being a regular denizen of the library, and thus felt uncomfortable at being privy to matters among the staff. Even if it they were about the Scrolls. But Janice had insisted that she attend the meeting. You're my partner, Janice had said. And, she thought as she took the seat next to Covington, I really like the sound of that.

"Hullo, Miss Pappas," Snyder said.

"Hello, Dr. Snyder. How are you?"

"Oh, just fine." He smiled at the polite, blue-eyed beauty. "Stretch, huh?"

"Mmm."

"Didn't know folks call you that."

"They don't," Mel replied firmly. She flicked a sidelong glare at Janice, who shrugged.

Snyder blinked. "Oh."

A stake was now driven through the heart of casual conversation.

Janice cleared her throat. "Why are we here, Snyder? I assume it has to do with the dating of the Scrolls."

"Correct, Dr. Covington. Er, the results of the carbon dating are in."

"And?" Janice prodded impatiently.

"Well, it is a little later than you initially thought."

The archaeologist shrugged. "They were damn difficult to date. That's why I was so broad on time period."

"I quite understand. In general, that's the safest, most practical route. But now with the advent of radiocarbon dating, we can be much more accurate. Statistical probability is the basis in calculating the half-life of C-14, but no one can really predict the rate of decay, and a standard deviation exists in every case, which is—"

"Snyder, I don't need a goddamn lecture on the process, okay? Just tell me what you found."

The befuddled and frightened academic mumbled something which sounded like "churlish beans in sentry." In fact, this was precisely what he said. For within the great roaming recesses of his mind he thought that perhaps Covington would be satisfied with this response, would smile, shake his hand, declare him a genius, perhaps even buy him a drink.

Instead, her gaze cut him like a diamond on glass. She straightened from her lounging, relaxed position. He saw her flex her hands and became utterly convinced that even her fingernails possessed muscles. "Come again?" she requested smoothly.

Snyder swallowed, thought a quick prayer and a farewell to his wife. "The early sixteenth century."

Another silence dropped, like a theater curtain after a botched performance.

Until it was broken by Janice. "Are you shitting me?"

"Calm down, Janice," the Dean urged.

The only thing that kept Janice from jumping up was the sudden warm hand that, mindless of their location and the parties present, gave her leg a comforting squeeze. She looked quickly at Mel, whose stunned expression nonetheless betrayed the assurance of the gesture. "There has got to be a mistake," Janice snapped. Mel nodded numbly. "This is still a very new procedure. Someone made a mistake."

It was now Snyder's turn to be riled. "No mistakes can be made in this process. I checked the results several times. I dated several pieces of parchment."

Janice stood up and began pacing. "But the typology of the instruments—the scroll casing, the stiles—it all fit in with the time period."

"The stratigraphy confirmed this?" asked the Dean.

"Yes! Do you know how far down I had to go? They were in a tomb, for Christ's sake!"

"Those artifacts—the scroll case and the writing tools—did date well within the time frame you assigned," Snyder agreed. "As did some of the pottery you brought from the same location. But it's the actual scrolls themselves that do not: the paper."

"So this was all a ruse. They're fakes." Helpless, inconsolable for the moment, Janice leaned against the windowsill. It was the only thing that kept her standing.

"Or very cunning duplicates of the originals," Mel added softly.

The Dean smiled. He didn't know Covington's partner well, but what he knew, he liked.

But before he could pursue this line of thought, Snyder threw in, "Oh, who cares how real they are!" The women and the Dean stared at him. "They're a fascinating discovery! Somebody was clever enough to write in ancient Greek, use the proper materials to make them look like ancient scrolls, found a case somewhere, then buried them for posterity, thinking they played a massive joke on the world. You know, like that MacPherson fellow, who invented Ossian."

"Or they are copies of the original scrolls, which are still missing, as Miss Pappas proposed," the Dean added. "What do you think, Dr. Covington?"

Janice's fury was spent for the time being, otherwise the hand pressed against the cool windowpane of Snyder's office would've been bloodied by shattered glass. "I don't know what to think," she whispered.

"I know what I think," the Dean retorted. "I think you're lucky."

Janice shot him a curious yet homicidal glance.

"Your father spent his entire professional life looking for those scrolls. Yet you, barely thirty, made this discovery, and in a war zone, no less. They may not be the real thing. But they're a damned sight closer—and more interesting—than anything Harry Covington found."

"Watch what you say about my father, old man," Janice grunted.

"Janice." Mel sounded the warning.

"My father laid the foundation for me to find what I did. He did thirty goddamn years of legwork chasing after these. If he hadn't died when he did, he would've found them." She drew a breath to refuel her fury. "If you want me off the faculty now, fine. I don't give a damn. I didn't have much of a reputation before I came here. It doesn't matter to me. So I'll resign."

Alarmed, Mel stood up. "No. Wait a minute—" She exchanged a look with her lover. 

How much of the bravado was shock, and wounded pride? Janice's desire for legitimacy—for someone to take her work seriously—was very much a part of why she accepted the position at the university. It complemented her wish, however seemingly tenuous at times, for a stable life.

"That isn't what I want," the Dean replied quietly. "I want you to find the real scrolls."

"You believe they exist," Janice stated warily.

"I believe that if they do exist, you'll find them. And if this is, as Snyder suggests, some kind of fantastic fraud, you'll find that out as well."

"All for the greater glory of the old alma mater, eh?"

Once again, the Dean proffered his smug smile. "Anything you uncover would benefit the university, as long as you are under its auspices. And as far as I'm concerned, you are." The older man stood up. "Let's give you a year to come up with something. I know that doesn't seem like much time, but if, at the end of that year, you give me enough reason to continue the search, I'll extend the expedition. After you spend a semester in the classroom, of course."

The Dean extended his hand for Janice to shake. She stared at him suspiciously.

"Don't be a bad sport, Covington. I'm giving you an opportunity to do what you do best. And you're damned good at it, I know that. Have a proposal on my desk in six weeks."

Her hands remained idly on her hips.

He chuckled and withdrew his hand. "I look forward to seeing what you'll do." He winked and picked up his walking stick, and a hat. "I'll get my money's worth out of you, my girl." He nodded at Snyder and Mel. "Dr. Snyder, Miss Pappas, good day."

Janice was staring into space. "Money's worth?" she mumbled. Her gaze snapped to the doorway where the Dean had departed. She stomped over to the door, flung it open, and shouted down the hallway at his retreating form: "You already get your money's worth out of me, you old sonofabitch! Do you know how goddamn low my salary is? You're wringing me dry, you cheap bastard!" She drew in another breath with which to launch another tirade, relented, growled, and stormed down the hallway after slamming the door.

Mel yanked her glasses off her face with a groan and massaged her temples.

Snyder gave her a timid look. "She really doesn't want tenure, does she?"

*****

The odd, arrhythmic typing of Mildred, the department secretary, was punctuated by the strange thwaps emerging from one of the offices nearby. She paused in her task, wondering when the noise would cease, and if the perpetuator would notice that her typing had stopped, but the angry sounds continued. She sighed, and took a cigarette out of the pack she kept in her top desk drawer. She was halfway through the cigarette, and pecking halfheartedly at the letter in the typewriter, when Mel arrived.

The stout middle-aged woman exchanged a look with the Southerner. "You want the bourbon?" Mildred asked. She hadn't the chance to ask Janice if the professor wanted the emergency bottle of hooch—the little archaeologist had barreled past her with such speed and anger.

Mel shook her head. "I don't think letting her drink will help in this instance."

"Actually, I meant for you."

The translator laughed so faintly that it was barely an exhale of breath. "Ah, no, I don't think so." A finger stemmed the tide of her eyeglasses, sliding down her nose.

"If I hear screams I'll call the police," Mildred remarked as Mel entered the sanctum sanctorum.

The lack of time spent in the office was reflected in its bare décor; the assistant professor was rarely in it except to brood and meet the occasional student. Pieces of wood—representing two and a half years' worth of grading midterms, finals, papers, and resisting the advances of romantically deluded students—were scattered on the floor, along with the woman responsible for them and the large, cracked dent in the side of the desk. Janice smoked a cigarette and regarded the pile of tinder, as if a merry little act of arson would cap her day.

"Paul Bunyan," Mel said. She half-leaned, half-sat along the desk.

"Get me an ax, then, so I can destroy it properly." A baseball bat, which lay beside her, worked well when she grew tired of kicking the desk, but a sharp object would be ever so more pleasing.

"You're very lucky the dean likes you, honey."

"Lucky!" Janice exploded. "You're as bad as he is." She pushed at the woodpile with the toe of her boot. "I should have let Kleinman keep them," she said softly.

"No, you shouldn't have," Mel countered. "They may not be the Scrolls, but they are still Gabrielle's words. And as such they are sacred."

Janice ignored this. "Why does it seem impossible to get to point B from point A?" she mused. "I thought I was already there. Thought I had them." Thought I had it all. She looked at Mel, who had her arms crossed and was staring into space, thoughtfully. I am incomplete without you, but I'm incomplete without them as well.

"Zeno," Mel muttered absently.

"Huh?"

"One of his paradoxes—about how all motion is impossible. You recall—?"

"Oh. Yeah." Janice, in reality, had totally forgotten anything to do with Zeno, or much of anything she was forced to read as an undergraduate. "Is there really a Gabrielle or a Xena? Are we so sure that these just weren't stories our fathers created? They fed us these legends, these make-believe stories. We ate it all up. We were kids. And then it seeped into our subconscious, these myths. They're universal. A shared hallucination."

"I never suspected you were a Jungian, Janice."

"Are we descendants of heroes and bards, or forgers and pranksters?"

Mel's lips tightened, set in their familiar stubborn grimace. "You deny what you know to be true."

"Do I?"

"You have the dreams."

Janice said nothing. How long did you think she would say nothing, would wordlessly hold you after you wake up screaming? How long would she politely ask you how you've been sleeping, and settle for your half-hearted lies?

"Will you sit there and tell me that those nightmares you have…that they're just about the war? Can you tell me that?"

The dreams were about the war, at the very least. What her mind refused during the day, what it would not acknowledge, her body whispered in the ragged gossamer of scars: This happened to you. And then the brain would finally rebel, subconsciously. 

More recently, they were tenacious—and they went further than ever, extending into a darker past: Lying in snow, stomach bathed in blood, daylight faltering around her, in the blue glow of a winter world devoid of sun. She looks at her hand, watches it fall...onto a plank of wood, where it is bound by a Roman soldier. And what was too horrible to contemplate, too awful to bear, was that she doesn’t die alone. There is a broken body next to hers.

Yet you managed to smile for me. I still remember the first time you smiled at me—really, truly smiled. It was hesitant, shy, belying the reputation of the warrior and the coldness of your eyes. This piece of you—so fallible, so human, you gave to me. The stupid, stubborn farm girl who followed you.

"Hey." It was Mel's soft drawl, snapping the spell. The chill she experienced every time after the dream was aroused once again, and the hairs on her arms stood, stiff in fright. Until Mel smoothed them, rubbing warmth with her palms.

Janice swallowed, stood up. She simmered, paced. Mel sighed inwardly, and waited for the inevitable.

"Goddammit!" she screamed, and kicked the desk once again. More chips of wood spiraled from the desk, like gymnasts executing backflips.

Mildred is calling the police.

A finger, not as callused as it was once when they first met, was thrust at the translator. "It may be all fine and well for you to hear fucking little voices inside your head, but not me, baby! Not me!"

Or maybe she is finishing off the last of that bourbon.

"I thought that I really accomplished something: I found the Xena Scrolls. They were real—or so I believed. And then, I thought, just maybe, I could have a simple life. Where I could just be myself. Not the descendent of some naïve brat who changed personal philosophies like underwear. Not the daughter of some obsessed grave-robbing bastard carrying on the crazy family legacy. I wanted it all normal." She regarded Mel thoughtfully. "You made me want that. Just a house. A steady job. And a girl who loves me."

“I know,” Mel said softly. “I’ve wanted the same thing.” She paused. “Come here.” Janice hesitated in the face of the gentle order, remembering the same words in different circumstances: The first time they made love, when she had stood, fixed in the doorway, neither resisting nor giving in, afraid to take the leap into the bedroom, until Mel, sitting on the bed, had uttered those two words. She had felt as if she were opening up Pandora's box, propelled by an unknown energy and motion, by fatal curiosity. And she felt that way again, now. Afraid of what you'll find.

She permitted herself to be held, to let Mel prop her chin upon her head. And afraid of what you’ll lose. She had lost Harry to this search—even before he died.

The blue of the dream was the abyss and the salvation at once, beribboned together.

Mel pulled back and looked at her. And the blue of these eyes? "Weeks ago you were excited at the prospect that there were still scrolls out there to be found."

"That was when I thought they were real."

"They are real."

Janice said nothing, frowned, let Mel's thumb press a temporary cleft in her chin.

"It'll be you and me, under the stars," she said.

As it has been always been.

"How bad can that be?"

Janice did not know. They hugged again, she placed her head against Mel's shoulder, and for the moment she could ignore the chill of the dream and could draw upon the strength of Mel's words. She loved the certain, the tangible, the sure thing. Now she gave herself over to words not written down, belief neither felt nor seen, and a love that, more often than not, she did not understand, nor felt she deserved.

[farminglesbian]

xena/gabrielle uber recs (incl mel/janice)

(most fics turn M-rated at some point)

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to perhaps read...

wyoming by redhawk

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dial z for zombies  by eldritchsandwich (2K)

gabby and z, professional zombie exterminators. – the cutest.

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her majesty's a pretty nice girl by vivan darkbloom (3K)

lovestruck claire's in handcuffs after crushing her beloved's wedding ceremony. BEAUTIFUL CRACK.

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reasons to be beautiful by domino (6K)

a housewife and mother's dull life changes when a woman moves in next door. (okay, so this one's not an uber but an original story...and it's pretty grim, and contains depressing hetero sex, but i'm in love with the writing.)

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as good as it gets by lariel and kamouraskan (6K)

a little office uber satire. 

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first date or cuppa jo by seana james (7K)

jo, drive-thru barrista, gets a charismatic new regular. –i remember this one to be irresistibly good, ugh.

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above and beyond by annemart (7K)

protecting angel uber. – pretty fantastic and inventive writing--love that author a lot.

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clean up on aisle 9 by bludreamscape (8K)

klutz regularly stalks her crush at the supermarket. – that one was fucking hilarious.

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nepenthe (smut) by angelrad (11K)

audrey's going out to a club to forget. --almost...pwp. but from an excellent writer!

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blown away by kim baldwin (13K)

fire department volunteer finds woman trapped in tornado-crushed house and stays with her, on the other side of the wall. (really, really sweet.) #firefighter.

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talking her down by angelrad (13K)

procrastinating writer reluctantly prevents lovelorn neighbor from jumping off their adjoined balconies. (FAB.)

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maleficent beauty by creme brulee (14K)

three fairy godmothers have a terrifying vision: their delinquent, deviant youngest sister and familiy embarrassment (who loves to sport a pair of black horns) is fair princess aurora's true love! the horror. they promptly cast a spell to change that outcome, but fate will find its way... (hahaha. amazing.) btw, check out all of creme brulee's writing!

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working lunch (smut) by karen malevich (15K)

so... they're still called gabrielle and xena, but it's a hooker/buyer uber. smut—i mean it. basically pwp, and the little plot there is is a bit bananas, tbh!

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a narcoleptic's guide to romance (5K), a lexicon for the sunday morning sleeper (6K) + partita (5K) by vivian darkbloom (16K in total)

at a snobbish party at her mother's house, danny meets her ex lover. (viv, wtf. this is so beautiful.) if you're not gonna read anything else—please read those.

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delirium tremens by vivian darkbloom (18K)

washed-up actress gets shipped off to aspiring young thespian's country house to shoot an episode of the twilight zone. --bhahaha.

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five hotels by brigit m morgan (20K)

a former beloved tv-show actress, going through the con-circus, is reminded of her now-married ex. (very gloomy, but so well written that you'll wanna read it anyway?)

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the stranger and zoe by brigit m morgan (20K)

at a gas station, zoe picks up a stranger in an orange jump suit who's eloping from her community service group—and they're on the run together from then on. (see above! so dark you might call it depressing. and still! god. so good? but i also hate myself?)

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been there, done that, bought the t shirt by angelrad (28K)

disaster magnet natalie has a pretty shit day (including many a mishap at a melissa etheridge concert) but at least she gets to try her luck anew, every (damn same) morning. (groundhog day spin! hilarious stuff.)

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endless twilight by rainbird (30K)

so. xena's been cursed by ares and has now lived for 3000 years. as she's finally found him, in present day nyc, to take her revenge, she comes across a familiar face... who's also married to him. (yeah, that sounds a bit bonkers—but i think it was pretty good/enjoyable, as it made it onto my list)

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eagle's reach by j. falconer (47K)

lady katherine, for her protection, agrees to a fake marriage with algernon, a noble woman who lives as a man. romance ensues, of course! (i didn't finish that one tbh, but really enjoyed a huge part of it!)

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where there's smoke by angelrad (49K)

grumpy #firefighter jo gets new neighbours, miranda and daughter hope. --super lovely story, that was. wonderful author! also see below!

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charlotte bell by angelrad (50K)

IT'S A JANE EYRE UBER HOLY SHIT. (truly one of the best fics i've ever had the pleasure of reading--a little masterpiece.)

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white trash series by vivian darkbloom (65K in total)

the most epic story of gabrielle and zina, white trash extraordinaire. the best trailer park romance you'll ever read. ms darkbloom pokes fun at possibly every single uber cliche out there and it is a thing of beauty. and MASSIVE FUN. (also #firefighter – must be a thing in uber world huh!)

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the ghost and the machine by zipplic (76K)

a young woman called kit is traveling through 19th century europe in a box in the back of a carriage. her fate: operating a chess machine in order to have her mistress earn a living off of wealthy audiences. as they are set out to perform for an eccentric viennese lady and her niece, a string of events is set in motion... --very dark (subject matter) but often with a pinch of (also very dark) humor... all sorts of tws apply to this—read with caution, tbh. (#a bit fucked up) but if you do, you'll get a rich, incredibly cleverly constructed story with a lot of unexpected twists and turns. i loved it!

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shell game by zipplic (85K)

disgruntled piratess meets cheeky village girl who dares to challenge her to a duel... and somehow... almost seems to enjoy being kidnapped. gritty, witty, hilarious, has the classic ingredients of a rough and romantic pirate tale (with some pretty dark plot twists) but is also a cleverly constructed story that’s slowly unfolding. LOVED IT.

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cooking on high  by creme brulee (135K)

restaurant owner, ruthless chef and human disaster french hires feisty new waitress fry. --the most HILARIOUS, at times absurd thing i've ever read?! god bless it.

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renegade by cheyne (142K)

a cop in trouble gets sent back in time to the wild west where she teams up with a smart young woman who'd been fending for herself against the terrorizing local land owners. (yep. just roll with it!)

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redemption by sword'n'quill (165K)

it's a prison uber and it's excellent. and deliciously sexy. (hoo boy.) (and then there's some melodrama and corny stuff later on, but don't let that stop you)

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jericho by ann mcman (191K)

syd's looking for a fresh start and ends up as the new librarian in a small town--where she keeps stumbling upon maddie, local physician with a heart of gold, an amazing old farm house and dog, and a gay bff with husband. while all of them become fast friends, unexpected feelings might soon take over... a perfectly charming, witty, mostly light-hearted romance--something like this would be the ideal lesbian rom com, TBH!

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arbor vitae by sx meagher (200K)

a charming landscape architect falls for, and begins a secret affair with her slightly older client while working on her garden...

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tropical storm by melissa good (235K)

dar's computer firm takes over kerry and her colleagues, therefore making her kerry's new boss. boy do they hate each other. boy does that feeling not last long! #nerds.

(part one of an actual book series—see: http://www.merwolf.com/ffiction.html#dk)

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all that matters by sx meagher (236K)

it's a fertility doctor/patient uber... (yes, there's heteros trying to make a baby, but there's also a gay slow burn and dogs and classical concerts)

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mel pappas/janice covington

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the stars fell down by vivian darkbloom (1K)

mel picks up janice after baseball practice. (sweet little add-on. the rest of the fic is a humorous xena/gab tale)

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a royal burden by creme brulee (2K)

janice solo sets out to save princess meleia. --wow?! a mel/janice star wars au you never knew you needed? cracky and golden.

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the circuit by seana james (4K)

janice comes to kentucky to see mel again as she's giving a lecture at university. beautiful writing, swoon.

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the fangs of academe by vivian darkbloom (8K)

an old friend and colleague of the trade requires janice's assistance in hunting down a bunch of vampires, among them perhaps her beloved bespectacled companion?... halloween treat! /very humorous supernatural spin to mel and janice (who are of course blissfully living together.)

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kiss me deadly by angharad_governal (12K)

mel/janice à la los angeles noir! really swell story.

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dreaming while you sleep by commoncomitatus (63K)

after traveling and working together for a couple of weeks, mel & janice learn some things during a stopover in a bar in the middle of nowhere… very warm and comfortable story, all the laughs, all the feels!

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cities of illumination (series) (ao3) (261K) by viviandarkbloom

all the colours of the world (25K), the secret histories (62K), venezia (8K) + coup de grace (155K)

a year after first meeting at the excavation site in macedonia mel and janice have an encounter in mel's charlotte home, but janice runs from her own feelings and becomes a wac overseas, unaware of mel following her... so the story begins! and what a story it is! it'd been the first mel and janice fic i'd read, and it was so fucking good that i'm probably settled for life when it comes to that pairing. that's all you need to know. and, i guess--to be fair-- that this fic is going to break your heart.

companion piece:

the book of the body (3K) vignettes set in '53, '44, '73, '47, and '33, respectively; all related to books. and lovely.

and another companion piece:

fortunate travelers (8K) vignettes set in '77, '92, '56, including janice gifting mel a leica for her birthday. <3

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[myhikari21things]

Claire Quilty for A Year of Theme Posts

Claire Quilty from Lolita (1955) by Vladimir Nabokov for June 16, 2017 June, 2017 Villain Theme.

Honestly I almost put Humburt (also from Lolita) here instead, but he got replaced with Quilty at the last minute for the very small reason that Quilty can be seen in a more villainous light. What is that reason? That Humburt showed remorse in the end for what he did and Quilty did not. Not to say that showing remorse makes everything ok.

Even though he is not seen in the flesh until the end of the novel Claire Quilty is mentioned a couple of times throughout and is heard talking as well. After being picked up from her summer camp Lolita meets Quilty in the lobby of the Enchanted Hunters hotel and bonds with his dog first and has a short conversation with him while playing with his dog. That night after Humburt is trying to figure out how to handle the situation of having Lolita all to himself he stumbles across Quilty who easily sees through his lies while the two have a short conversation. 

Quilty is mentioned again when Humburt and Lolita are living in the town of Beardsley while Lolita is practicing in a play that he wrote. When she’s questioned about her knowledge of Quilty, Lolita tells Humburt that he is the female author and that Vivian Darkbloom is the male author of the play. In reality the opposite is the truth. 

After going on a second long road trip (with Lolita planning the route this time) Humburt realizes that someone is tailing them and finds that the individual has a resemblance to a Swiss cousin of his by the name of Trapp. Along the road Lolita does little things to sabotage Humburt finding out the identity of their tail while she already knows who it is. 

Quilty steals Lolita from Humburt after the girl recovers from an illness in the hospital. Humburt is long in denial that Lolita and Quilty had been planning this together and begins his search for her that takes him a few years before he hears from her. 

After their final conversation together Humburt decides to kill Quilty for taking Lolita from him therefore taking his chance to apologize to her. When Humburt finds Quilty’s house Quilty tells him that he is dying and goes on a rambling rant about how Humburt wasn’t the best Father and tries to placate him by promising him the house, a collection of erotica, and other little girls. Instead of accepting these gifts Humburt chases Quilty throughout the house and during this shoots him in the armpit before cornering him in his bedroom and shooting him in the chest. 

When Humburt is caught by the police he is put on trail not for the years of abuse of Lolita, but for Quilty’s murder. 

[faveficarchive]

Coup de Grace: Part 2

Imaginary Consequences

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: From the Author:

The fabulously ill-tempered archaeologist Janice Covington and Southern-Belle-in-Exile Melinda Pappas gradually discover the real truth at the heart of the Xena Scrolls, in a story that darkly plays with time and memory, loss and desire, and the nature of what is real and what is not.

1. Regeneration

This is what we bring to the temple, not prayer or chant or slaughtered rams.

Our offering is language.

—Don DeLillo, The Names

Ravenna, Italy

Autumn, 1950

The archaeologist stood in the pit and held a small object, clumped with dirt.

Her lower lip, already mashed and ragged with worry over something far more important, endured more of a workover as her filthy thumbnail carefully shaved away moist dirt.

The boy who discovered the piece, seventeen and on his first dig, watched her expectantly, nervously shifting his weight from leg to leg. He was eager to impress the beautiful blonde American, and was confident he could do so: He was the only person on site she had not yelled at. Even her friend, the tall woman who usually followed her everywhere, received the brunt of Dr. Covington's anger at one point or another; and thus he had come under the impression that she favored his intellect and his instinct more than anyone else on the dig. He did not know that the real reason she had not yelled at him was because she remembered, all too well, what it was like be too young, too ambitious, and too rash.

In fact, Janice thought as a layer of dirt gave way and revealed a very dull razor circa 1923, she still felt that way surprisingly often.

The boy tensed, awaiting the barrage of English obscenities to fall on his head. Tebaldi, the Italian archaeologist acting as foreman and interpreter, also winced.

Janice drew a deep breath and hoped it would calm her. It did succeed in preventing her from taking the kid's head off, and for that she was grateful. She forced a grim smile, and gently grasped his arm. "Better luck next time," she said in her wretched Italian. As she stalked away, Tebaldi's elephantine shadow followed. The large man walked daintily, as if on eggshells. She slowed her pace, both so that he could match it and that she could better snarl at him. "You, on the other hand, should have known better."

Tebaldi shrugged apologetically. "He wouldn't listen to me. He wanted you to see it."

"Don't waste my goddamn time right now," she snapped. She pulled canvas gloves out of a back pocket and slipped them on. Grabbing the pulley rope, she scampered out of the pit, just like the Harvard-trained monkey she is, he thought angrily. Always has to play tough. Just like her father.

He lumbered over to the makeshift steps leading out of the pit, made from wooden slats and packed clay. When he reached the top of the steps and saw how upset she was, his anger dissipated. She flicked away drops of sweat from her face with the brim of the fedora, then ran a dirty hand through her limp hair. "When will the doctor be here?" she murmured. She would not look at him. Her thumb dragged a line of dust across the ribboned headband of her hat.

"In about an hour," Tebaldi said.

Janice said nothing, but put the fedora back on and walked toward the tent.

He followed, not knowing what else to do.

When they arrived, he stood at the periphery, afraid to get too close to the sick woman, for none of them had any idea the origin of the fever that possessed her. Was it contagious? Tebaldi worried for a moment, and thought that perhaps he should not even be in the tent. But if Covington is not afraid, I won't be either.

Normally, he did not approve of diggers who brought along their women to a site.

Would a surgeon invite his wife into the operating room? Does a chef allow his mistress in the kitchen? But Covington's woman was useful, at least until the onset of her illness: She wasn't afraid of physical labor, she bore the workers' flirtations and vulgarities with humor and good grace, and she spoke beautiful Italian. This last quality being, in Tebaldi's eyes, her true saving grace.

And even now—even in her profoundly sick state—she mesmerized him. A long, bare leg, moored to the floor by the blanket tangled around the foot, hung out of the fragile cot. She wore nothing but a camisole and underwear. A dark edge of pubic hair escaped the white boundary of the cotton briefs and he felt momentarily aroused, then ashamed, then alarmed: Covington possessed a preternatural ability to sense—and expose—baser instincts in men. The last thing he needed was her fist in his face. But fortunately, she was too occupied by the care of her friend—she gathered the blanket off the floor and covered her friend's legs, mopped the sweat from the sick woman's brow, and began to take her pulse.

"Do you need anything?" Tebaldi croaked nervously.

It startled Janice. She had forgotten all about him. "No," she replied curtly. Then, in a gentler tone: "Please bring the doctor here as soon as he arrives."

He nodded and left.

As much as she was relieved to see the Italian go, Janice felt nervous—almost afraid—to be alone with Mel. The hopelessness of the situation sank her when she was by herself; under its deadweight, she had no reason for the pretense of strength. Even though Tebaldi saw right through it all.

The rapid onset of the illness had been particularly alarming to Janice when she realized that, since the day they had met, she had never seen Mel sick in any serious way. The woman had survived severe New England winters with barely a cold to show for it, despite her absentminded tendency to run around without hats during snowstorms. On the other hand, Mel had nursed her through flu, seasickness, airsickness, menstrual cramps, hangovers, and gunshot wounds. It hardly seemed fair.

The strangeness of the fever also unsettled her. For a day now Mel, when conscious, spoke in languages that she did not understand, and one that she could vaguely identify as the language in the scrolls. The words chilled her, even though she did not understand them.

The murmuring began anew. Janice leaned in closer. The translator's eyes were closed; a tangle of incomprehensible words was borne upon a shallow strand of breath. Janice touched her lover's cheek. Before she could even utter the name, Mel had her by the throat. The large, powerful hand pressed against her windpipe. Janice felt the world dim for a second before she was flung almost halfway across the tent.

Jesus Christ. Janice lay gasping, afraid to move. What was that? She swallowed, touched her neck, and sat up slowly. Mel was still prone on the cot, the arm that had effortlessly thrown a grown woman several feet hung limp and weak, knuckles grazing the floor.

She could have killed me. The realization came upon her with ferocity. Janice coughed feebly, then forced herself to stand up. Was this a time of reckoning, of an inevitable reenactment? Absurd. Right? Resentment welled up in her at the ever-persistent undertow of the past—this particular past—which seemed insistent on pre-scripting their lives.

Yet—aside from that—the past few years were an idyll that she never knew was possible. Was there a price for that? Wasn't there always, no matter who you were?

Warily she approached the cot, mindful of that long arm's reach. But the painful, labored breathing scared her, and Janice forsook prudence for love.

Mel was staring up at her. Her eyes, so drained of color, showed some recognition of the woman leaning over her. She spoke slowly in her own accented English. "What's happening to me?"

"I don't know," Janice replied. I wish I did.

* * *

Snowflakes caught in her hair, and on her face. They melted. She could not move.

A sledgehammer blocked the sun.

Mel opened her eyes. And saw nothing. She attempted movement. But could not move a muscle. Everything—arms, chest, legs—was immobile. Oh God, it's true. It's really true. She tried again to move. She struggled in silence, but soon her feral whimpers of frustration escalated into a full-throated scream.

Her cries subsided when she felt hands on her face and a distinct sound emerged from the surrounding chaos of her distress. "Mel!" Despite the soothing touch and the commanding, familiar voice, she could not stop her body from struggling.

The sudden light—even though soft and dim—hurt her eyes. But Janice's face, paler and thinner, was before her, and her hands, cool and comforting, on her cheeks. "It's okay, it's okay. Shhhh. Shhh. Look at me. Look at me, darling. It's okay." Through her words and her caresses, Janice managed to coax her back into a lucid, calmer frame of mind, hysteria melted by this siren song of sanity. She was, however, too exhausted and confused to note the look of wild, desperate relief in Janice's eyes.

"What happened?" Mel rasped.

Janice's own emotions were now threatening to mutiny. "You're in a hospital. You've been sick. Do you remember anything?"

Her legs ached. "I—remember too much."

A nun hovered by the bed, holding a cup of cold water, scrutinizing the sick woman. Janice took it and pressed it to Mel's mouth, and she drank greedily. "Easy now.” Mel drank slower, then stopped.

The water tasted good; she could not remember water that ever tasted so good. It gave Mel the courage to ask the next question. "Why can't I move?" she whispered. Am I paralyzed? A violent surge of helplessness shook her body, and the movement would have encouraged her had not fear and illness clouded her mind.

"They put restraints on you." Janice looked to the Sister. "Per favore, rimovere

questi," she requested in her awkward Italian and pointed to the leather straps. The nun agreed with a quick nod, and left the room to fetch the doctor.

"Restraints?" Mel echoed huskily.

"Meningitis. You have—had—meningitis." Janice took the cup away from her lips.

"It was dangerous for you to move." She turned quickly to camouflage her shaking hand—too quickly. The cup fell to the floor, its clatter dominating the room. She bent to retrieve it, and paused, kneeling on the floor, as if in prayer. Tears surged and she closed her eyes tightly, every muscle scrunched and fighting surrender. Not here. Not now.

"Are you all right?" Mel's voice was hoarse from lack of use, almost unrecognizable.

Just turn around and don't be a fucking baby. Cry later.

She stood up and turned around.

"You're not sick too, are you?" But now Janice was comforted with the familiar:

Mel's face was already set in that usual stubborn, serious way when preoccupied with her companion's health.

You come back from the dead and you worry about me.

Janice burst into laughter. It was far better than crying.

* * *

Even after a week, she could smell the hospital on her skin, clinical and clinging.

Mel thought taking baths—many baths—would help. Enveloped by soft steam, she stretched out in the huge tub—an old-fashioned one with claw feet. It was big enough to accommodate her length; in fact, it almost dominated the small bathroom of the pensione where she and Janice stayed.

Idling in a bathtub, however, gave her more time to recount the sickening fascination the doctors had with her quick and full recovery from a disease that either debilitated or killed its victims. E stupefacente, the doctor from Rome had pronounced, expressing his astonishment. Acting as a medical pied piper, he led his more provincial colleagues on many a merry exploration of her body—she was thoroughly poked and prodded, not to mention violated in a manner that—well, she wasn't certain she would even let Janice touch her like that.

She could lie down in the tub if she wanted to, but shuddered at the thought of entombment in water. Instead, she dunked her head for the briefest of seconds; she sat up, gulped for air, and saw Janice shuffling nervously in the doorway, hands tucked into pockets. "I, uh, had some food sent up. Are you hungry?"

"A little," Mel admitted. The unease between them troubled her. During those awkward medical examinations Janice had always been present, her apprehension indicating a resistance to what she witnessed. You weren't expecting this, were you? To see this legacy in action. To see how my body really works. I was never sick a day in school. Bruises would disappear overnight. A broken arm from an auto accident had healed in two and a half weeks. Self-conscious and 18, Mel had worn the splint and bandages for almost another three weeks, merely to avoid the questions and the stares that she had received from the doctors and nurses at the hospital.

Was it presumptuous of her to think her illness had derailed the dig? If I hadn't gotten sick, would this have turned out better? "Could you do me a favor—"

Eager to be useful, Janice nodded and straightened.

"—er, could you wash my hair?" It was one way of getting physical contact. Like a concierge vying for a huge tip, Janice had been painfully attentive and solicitous—yet almost as detached—since her release from the hospital.

The response was soft. "Sure."

As Janice walked by the tub, Mel reached out and clasped a dry wrist in her wet hand. She felt resistance twitching within those tendons, then slackening into surrender.

"What is it?" Janice knelt down. She looked tired from days spent finishing up business with the excavation—the paperwork and dealing with the local authorities a far more wearying task to her than any manual labor. In addition to this, she was trying to locate a nefarious former contact (a man who sold artifacts for Harry in the Italian black market) who might know the whereabouts of the Venetian family that possessed the scroll they saw at Neuschwanstein.

"I—" It had always been extraordinarily difficult for Mel to ask for affection. Initiating contact was another matter, but this she was unused to. Nonetheless, her head tilted forward, as did Janice's, and they kissed with tentative tenderness. Not even the tepid bath water could deter her enjoyment. It's still there, she thought, as if desire were a pocket watch she could somehow misplace or lose.

Sometimes the best part of kissing Janice was after the fact. Mel would pull back, at first reluctantly, and watch her: eyes closed, body swaying, face divinely peaceful, lips parted in silent sensual prayer. She did this now, and noticed something new. The natural light of the room was powerful enough so that Mel saw a waning bruise, butter colored and round, along the neck, near the carotid artery. "What's this?" she murmured.

The green eyes snapped open. "What?"

"Here." Mel reached out to touch the bruise with damp fingers, but the archaeologist jerked away, like a boxer avoiding a punch. You ruined that moment, Melinda, she chastised herself.

"I dunno. Just got knocked around on site, I guess." Janice stood up quickly, then walked around the tub to fetch the small vial of shampoo, on a stand near the toilet.

Mel craned her neck to see her, but couldn't. "You don't know?" she repeated, incredulous.

"Nope." Janice was cheerfully obtuse.

She was crowned with a puddle of shampoo. Then lank wet hair was scooped off her shoulders and merged into the sticky goo on her head. Her body went limp as strong fingers massaged her temples and scalp. The pleasure continued in silence for a few minutes. "You deserve a tip for this."

"I live for your tips, baby. My favorite one was, 'Never wash silk in hot water.' "

Mel smiled at this, then frowned. She had tried to change the conversation, succeeded, but became undone by compulsion: The bruise remained a niggling question. "Were you in a fight?" she asked quietly.

The massage stopped for a second, then continued at an even slower, gentler pace. "Yeah."

"With one of the workers?"

A pause. "Yeah."

"Not that huge Sicilian!"

"No. Not him."

Mel frowned. It must have been someone strong, someone quick, to catch Janice like that. This reminded her of Tebaldi, who, despite his large size and meandering slowness, possessed lightning fast reflexes when the situation called for it. "It was Tebaldi, wasn't it?" That would explain Janice's reluctance to discuss the matter—the embarrassment of a fight with the dig's other leader.

A longer pause. "Yeah." She rubbed Mel's neck. "Rinse."

Mel did so, ducking her head. When she emerged from the water Janice was once again at the side of the tub, drying her hands briskly with a towel.

"Get outta there before that water gets too cold."

"Janice?"

"Hmm?"

"I—I don't want you to stop this excavation, if it's because of me." She wanted to take Janice's hand again, but hesitated. "I'll be fine...I could go home, if you want me to."

"Do you want to go home?" Janice drawled this out slowly, matching time with the motion of her hands, tangled within the towel.

"I want to be where you are."

"I want that too," Janice replied softly. She sighed and knelt down again. A finger flicked at the water's surface, creating lazy eddies in the water. "It was just a hunch, coming here." This is what she chose to call both the vague, relentless dreams and an equally slim lead, an obscure reference in an equally obscure 19th-century history of the Roman Empire:

In the very last day of his life, Julius Caesar finally avenged himself in a long-standing feud with a renowned Greek warrior. The name is lost to posterity; apparently the emperor so despised and loathed the Greek that he forbid recording the name in official court transcripts. Ironically, as his nemesis was crucified, all of Rome finally avenged themselves upon him.

Mel had scoffed at the obscure text and its secondary sources, its typos, its blatant misstatements of well-known facts. Who could trust a book with such a morbidly pedestrian title as Ruin and Death of the Ancient Empire? And who knew anything about its author, a Romanian scholar called Blavdak Vinomori? Yet simultaneously reports surfaced of an excavation of a Roman fort in the Apennines, and fragments of what were believed to be crucifixes. A coincidence?

It felt as if all the pieces were falling into place. Janice had arranged quickly to join the dig, and due to her affiliation with a major American university became one of its leaders.

Don't you feel it like I do? Janice wondered. You resist it so much at times, I know you do.

Why do you fight it? What are you fighting for?

She looked into those eyes, that familiar blue, and for one rare moment truly believed that she did not know this woman she claimed to love. She swallowed, and in the slithering motion of peristalsis, felt that phantom hand around her throat. She wished it would go away. But until it did—and Janice was certain she could eventually will it into oblivion—she would burrow it away, along with those things that she did not really consider secrets but merely unspoken truths. Whatever you were thinking, whoever you were in that one sick moment, it's not you. So I won't tell you.

Instead she watched as Mel stretched forward in the tub, drawing her legs up, arms wrapping about them, thoughtfully propping her chin on a kneecap. The movement—unconsciously feminine and unknowingly graceful, and in that manner quintessentially Mel—gave her back to Janice, restoring her belief and determination.

There will be no consequences.

"Janice." This was murmured sleepily.

"What, honey?" The endearment slipped out.

"Those dreams that you've had...they were about a crucifixion, weren't they? Their crucifixion."

Why can't I protect you? Why do I always seem to fail? "Yeah."

"So that was how it ended."

"They're just dreams. At this location, the Romans crucified their prisoners. It's—an odd kind of influence."

Mel looked up at her. "And you? Why did you have the dreams?"

"Because." Because I saw so many ugly things during the war, it spoiled sleep for me. Just like Catherine Stoller spoiled flying for me, the bitch. Christ, I can't let another thing be ruined. "I don't have pretty dreams. You know that."

Mel shifted in the tub, the slight agitation sending a whorl of water around her body, the water's turmoil an extension of the unease that churned within her. She stretched her wet arm along the tub, a hand held out toward Janice, almost in supplication. "But I want that for you." She said this solemnly, simply, as if speaking the wish could make it so.

Janice hesitated, then took the hand and helped Mel out of the tub. She then summoned the best of her bravado, a family skill she actually took pride in and deemed useful. "Who needs dreams?" She hesitated playfully in handing Mel a towel. "Reality is looking pretty good about now."

* * *

A day later Tebaldi was at the pensione, with official reports that Janice had to sign off on. He stood at the door of their room, scanning anxiously for Janice, then nearly dissolving into a puddle of relief when Mel informed him that Janice was out. She took a manila envelope from him with brusqueness. "I hope the next time you two work together, you will get along better with one another," she chastised him.

The hulking Italian looked appropriately guilty. "I know we have had some disagreements. I should have been more patient with her, for she was very anxious about you."

"Yes. I know she is not easy to get along with, but there was no need for violence."

He looked puzzled. "Signora?"

"Dottore, do not play the innocent with me. You were in a fight with her. I saw the bruises."

"What?" he yelled. Before she could ask him to lower his voice, he continued. "Signora Pappas, what are you accusing me of? I have never, in my entire life, struck a woman! Did she tell you that?"

Mel now realized why she felt at home in Italy: The resultant melodramas were like the backstage dramatics at a cotillion, or a debutante ball.

"I do not care if Janice Covington works for Harvard or the Vatican! I will not be slandered!"

It made perfect sense for him to deny it—the archaeological community was surprisingly small, rumors spread like venereal diseases (and such diseases were, in themselves, another story all together), reputations and egos were fragile, while memories were long and tougher than an elephant's hide.

Nonetheless, Mel believed him. His outrage felt genuine. And he had always acted with patience, kindness, honesty, and integrity—toward everyone involved in the excavation, including the temperamental Covington. I make him sound like an insurance company, she thought. Time to nip this in the bud. She placed a gentle hand on his forearm. "Dottore, please forgive me. I am mistaken then. I must have misunderstood my friend. As you know, I have been very ill, and my mind in great confusion. You have my most sincere apologies."

The tension in his arm softened. He relented. "Thank you, Signora," he replied haughtily.

What a Southern belle you would be, Dr. Tebaldi, she thought, and gave him one of her best disarming smiles.

He blushed. "Eh," he muttered gruffly. "It is forgotten. We will never speak of it again."

The Italian archaeologist accepted a glass of wine—of course—to seal the apology, then departed. He left Mel sitting alone, running a finger along a fragile glass stem, watching the gray sky finally release its burden of rain, and wondering why her lover had lied to her.

Janice appeared an hour later, breathless, exuberant, and shaking water from her jacket. "I found him." She grinned and swiped at her wet, cold face with a shirtsleeve.

"Who?" Mel withdrew a handkerchief from her purse and gently dried the archaeologist's face while she squirmed like a puppy. Her hair, however, was still wet. The translator frowned at her futile hankie. Fetching a towel from the bathroom meant relinquishing her hold on Mad Dog, whom she would have to chase around the room and who would, no doubt, leave her muddy boot prints all over the carpet.

"Falconetto. The guy who has our scroll."

Our scroll? Mel thought, amused. How proprietary we are.

"The old man—the family patriarch—is dead. The son has it." Janice gulped for air. "He was out of the country for awhile. I couldn't understand the exact word my contact used—friggin' pain in the ass language, I know you love Italian, but Jesus, they talk so goddamn fast here—I think Giancarlo called him an ‘entertainer’ or an ‘entrepreneur’ or somethin' like that. Which makes me think he's some kind of male prostitute. But he's back in the Veneto, on Murano."

Mel made a game yet useless effort to dry blonde hair with her handkerchief.

"Stop grooming me, will ya?" Janice laughed at her efforts, and vigorously shook out her tangled hair, sending off both raindrops and coppery glints. If Mad Dog really had a tail, Mel mused, it would be wagging about now.

And she couldn't bear to bring such happiness to a premature end.

* * *

Murano, Italy

Autumn 1950

Neno knew the tall woman was trouble.

He did not notice her until he galloped onto the makeshift stage, her appearance at the corner of his sight made him lose the spring in his step; she towered over almost all the men in the crowd. She was not one of the usual crowd—obviously a turista, but she did not look the type to idle away time watching a third-rate carnival act, he judged, taking in her elegant, expensive clothes. Especially a third-rate carnival act performing in an almost deserted field near a cemetery. He eyed the desultory crowd with barely disguised contempt.

He mindlessly went through the card tricks, the sneering disdain he felt thrown askance by the mysterious woman's presence. Didn't his Corsican grandmother have some saying about tall women? He couldn't remember.

He flicked an ace at the crowd. They oohed.

After ten minutes he was done; the crowd was small, and he saw no need to expend energy performing more complicated tricks—those were for the larger groups. He darted behind the stage to his motorcycle, parked near the tent he shared with the geek and the sword swallower. The crowd grew immersed in plate spinners. He was about to make his escape when he saw the tall woman coming toward him. Another woman, much shorter and dressed in men's clothes, accompanied her. A very odd pair, he decided.

"Signore? Posso parlare con voi?" she asked. She spoke Italian with the formal over-precision of a smart foreigner.

"Je ne parle pas italien," he retorted quickly, in French.

"Je parle francais aussi," she parried.

"Aber mein Deutsches ist viel besser," he shot back. Surely she is not German, he thought, despite her unnerving Reich-blue eyes.

His sense of impending victory was short-lived. "Naturlich," she responded

cheerfully. "Sollen wir fortfahren?"

His jaw stiffened. "I suppose you speak English as well."

"Yes, I do," she purred. This, he realized, was her native tongue, given the languid, sweet flow of the language. "But we can try for Greek or Arabic if you like."

The blonde woman tilted her hat back and chuckled.

"What do you want?" he snapped, spitefully reverting to Italian.

She did not miss a beat. "You are Eugenio Falconetto?"

He nodded. "Everyone calls me Neno."

"My name is Melinda Pappas. My friend is Dr. Janice Covington." She gestured to the blonde woman, who nodded. "We are scholars."

He lit a cigarette. "Studying the circus, maybe?"

She smiled graciously, acknowledging the humor in the situation. "No. We are interested in a scroll. It had been in the possession of your father before the war. Do you know what I am speaking of?"

"Signora, my father owned many things. What he did not sell to the Fascists, they took from him. Do you understand? I have nothing. Why do you think I am working here?" He motioned at his paltry tent with cigarette in hand; for some odd reason, he noticed, the little blonde was staring at his cigarette.

"Signore Falconetto..."

"Call me Neno."

"Neno, this scroll was written in ancient Greek. According to international records, your father sold it to the Germans in 1940. During the war it was in a depository at a Bavarian castle, where Dr. Covington and I first saw it. We have been informed that after the war, it was returned to your father, in Venice."

He shrugged.

His interrogator was patient and persistent. "Your father has passed away, has he not?"

"Si. Papa died. He waited until the war was over." Neno watched as Dr. Covington admired his motorcycle; the woman was circling it, looking at it from all angles. "He always had a very bad sense of timing."

"Does this mean that you have the scroll, Neno?"

"Signora Pappas, what are you asking? You want this thing, eh?"

"We would like to buy it, yes."

"And what if I do not sell?" He slid a hand into his right pocket, and felt the reassuring coolness of switchblade there.

"It seems to me a gentleman in your financial position would be willing to sell."

"The war has left no gentlemen in its wake," he said. "I am no gentleman."

His intent in pulling out the switchblade had only been to scare them away; he truly believed they had nothing to offer him but trouble. But no sooner had the blade sprung out of its sheath then he felt the steel of Dr. Covington's handgun imposing itself upon the soft underside of his jaw, the click of the gun's hammer reverberating along his skin.

Mel did not blink an eye, but sighed. "Neno, you are making my friend very unhappy."

"She is unhappy?" He choked out the words. The small woman was now close enough to him that he finally took notice of her eyes, clear and hard as glass. And if he had paid closer attention to those eyes earlier, he would not have trifled with them.

Covington mumbled something to the tall woman—very quickly and in English—which he did not understand.

Mel, of course, provided the translation for him. "She wants you to drop the knife and kick it over to me."

Reluctantly, he did.

The gun remained in his neck as Mel picked up the blade and, with a look of distaste, closed it. "Why do you do this?" she asked gently, like a schoolteacher disappointed with a prized pupil.

He swallowed. Finally, the doctor backed off, pulling the gun away, but keeping the barrel trained on him. "If it's not the Nazis, it's the Americans," he spat. "You are all buzzards, picking us apart like carcasses. You come in here, thinking that if you cannot buy something, you will take it."

"We never would have taken anything from you," she assured him.

Neno's sneer dropped when he looked at the small woman who playfully twirled the handgun and smirked at him. "I suppose I have no choice. If I do not give it to you, your friend shoots me. Eh?"

"Put the gun away," Mel said quickly, in English, to Janice.

The archaeologist hesitated, but trusted the imploring look in her friend's eyes. She tucked the .38 back in her waistband, under her loose shirt. It comforted Neno only in the slightest manner, for her hard gaze remained fixed upon him.

"We are not going to hurt you, nor force you to do anything," Mel assured him calmly. "But we are willing to pay you quite generously for the scroll."

Janice plucked Neno's cigarette from his hand, and took a long, hungry drag off it. The magician stared at her, stunned. She moved like quicksilver. A fellow thief, he thought. If he were not so afraid of her, he might even like her. Or want her. She was grinning at him now, although the broad smile did not warm those cautious eyes. She walked over to her friend and reached into the tall woman's overcoat, pulling out a substantial wad of lire. The casual toss of the packet hit him, lightly, in the shins.

Yes, we understand each other very well, don't we? We don't even need the translator. He knelt slowly to the ground and retrieved the money, ruffling it with a rough thumb. "Dolce madonna." He whistled, sharp and low. This sum would set him up quite nicely.

Neno looked up to see Mel smiling wryly. "Dr. Covington is feeling very generous today."

* * *

"It was a good day's shopping," Janice quipped happily as they emerged from

Neno's makeshift home. She gripped the metal tube tightly, resisted the almost overwhelming urge to suddenly wield it like a staff. And, even further, fought the strangely compelling, sudden desire to playfully whack Mel on the nose with it.

"So it seems." Mel turned up the collar of her dark coat against the brisk autumn air. She waited for Janice to make another sarcastic comment about looking like a Southern secret agent or an extra from The Third Man, but instead, Janice pounced on the seemingly innocuous—yet terribly loaded—comment.

" 'So it seems,' " the little archaeologist mimicked her to near perfection. "What the hell does that mean?"

It means I didn't really want that damned scroll back in my life, it means I don't want to know how it will end, it means I really hope that this is a forgery and a lie. It means I don't want their darkness. I don't want it foreshadowing us. "I just don't want you to get your hopes up," Mel kept her eyes riveted on the ancient cobblestones street as they walked. "This may not be a genuine artifact."

"Believe me, my hopes aren't up. My hopes are in the goddamn gutter."

Normally—and ironically—Janice was always the one walking faster whenever they were together, but now she found herself scrambling to keep up with her long-legged companion. "Wait a minute." She grabbed Mel's arm, but not roughly. "You're the one who encouraged me to keep searching. All through last year, you kept telling me that we will keep coming back and looking for them, no matter how long it takes."

Because you're the searcher. Because you'll never stop looking, and I know that.

It's what you're meant to do. And my role?

Janice took a deep breath in order to contain her ever-expanding anger. "And

now—"

To hold on and never let go.

"—you're pissing on my parade!" Janice brandished the tube with equal parts triumph and anger. "We found it again. Even if it is one of the fakes, it may point us toward the real ones."

"How?"

"Clues, baby. We're looking for clues. Archaeology is nothing if not detective work for suckers with a romantic streak a mile wide. The Sam Spades of the ancient world."

Mel arched an eyebrow. "I'm pleased you're finally willing to admit the truth to yourself."

Janice ignored this; or tried to, at the very least. "If we take the view that a forger did this for kicks, he might have written something that will lead us to the right place."

“Are you so certain it's a man?” Mel parried.

��Stop being a smart ass.”

“Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle, dear?”

Again Janice raised the tube for emphasis. "If this is the last fake, we can look at them all together, as a whole. We can look for patterns, for sequences—" Janice's tone softened. "—and that's where you come in. You're good at that kind of thing."

"I'm a linguist, not a puzzle solver."

"They're the same thing sometimes," the archaeologist countered.

"I don't quite know how to match wits with a dead thief."

"You match wits with a live one all the time, baby." Janice grinned and did not wait for her, but continued walking down the street.

Mel watched her for a moment as she strode down the old cobblestones, shoulders hunched, head ducked, hands shoved in her pockets. She always walked like that, no matter her mood—in that defensive way, her body a battering ram against the world, primed for the slightest altercation. Mel knew that walk, and felt its rhythm as deeply as she felt her own. Walking away, why is it you always seem to be walking away from me? The thought startled her. Then she remembered Anton's stroke, and Janice walking away from her in the hospital, and how she had wanted to drop everything, slip the bonds of her responsibilities, and chase after that sad swagger. How she had wanted to give up her world to assuage that hurt.

And I still do. With a just a few long strides she caught up to Janice, who peeked at her, almost suspiciously, from over the upturned lapel of her leather jacket.

"You seem pretty certain about this theory," Mel remarked, in an effort at casualness.

"It's the only one I have," Janice retorted grimly. "Otherwise—I don't know what to think. I wouldn't know where to begin to look for the originals again, except to retrace my father's steps. And that seems almost pointless to me right now. There wasn't a stone left unturned in Amphipolis when he was done with it." Her lips tightened for a moment into a fierce frown, as they frequently did whenever Harry arose as a topic of conversation.

Now there's a subject that sorely needs excavating, Mel thought. Albeit one that required the lightest and most precise of touches, and even after everything they had been through, and everything they meant to each other, Mel wasn't certain she could pull it off. She sighed.

Janice fixed her with a glare. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're thinking, and you know I hate it when you do that."

"I'm surprised you haven't concocted some manner in which to keep me barefoot and pregnant!"

"Believe me, I've been trying to knock you up for years." Janice stopped walking, thus forcing pedestrian traffic—a mishmash of tourists and artisans from the work shops returning to work after lunch—to flow around them. "Now tell me what's bugging you."

"I just—I—" Mel shrugged helplessly. Janice's thumb stroked the black cashmere of her coat.

"—you're afraid of what we'll find."

"And I'm afraid we'll find nothing."

"You'll find something in your translation, Mel. I know you will."

"I don't know why you think I'm good at this."

"You've got to be kidding me," Janice snorted. "Need I bring up Bletchley again?"

After the war, Anton Frobisher, Mel's old friend, let slip that "the boys from Bletchley"—the brilliant team of codebreakers who eventually unraveled the Germans' Enigma code—were interested in having Mel on staff. She had refused, of course, and her repeated rejections grew even more strident once she was reunited with Janice in London.

It was a sore spot—the revelation had caused a considerable row between them.

Janice believed that Mel was a sentimental fool passing up a great opportunity, and Mel thought Janice was an unsentimental fool who clearly did not understand the politics and rivalries among wartime government agencies.

"No, you needn't bring that up again," Mel retorted icily.

"They wouldn't have wanted you if you weren't damned good."

"It wasn't about how good I was, it was about stealing Anton's staff. And yes, it was about staying close to you.” Mel finally yanked her sleeve away from Janice's hand. Why did I fall in love with someone who loves to argue in public?

"Okay, fine, but don't you regret it at all?" Janice spread out her arms.

Regret? Yes. If I went to Bletchley, maybe Catherine Stoller never would have found me, and maybe she wouldn't have almost killed you. "I can't believe you're picking a fight about this again!" she growled through her teeth.

The archaeologist seemed to ponder this apparent insanity. "Yeah, but just think of all the fucking we'll have to do to make up." This time Janice did not claim her sleeve, but her hand. "I don't know about you, but that's what keeps me focused in a fight."

The situation thus diffused, Mel allowed herself to be led through the tourists, the shopkeepers, and the open-air stalls. She smiled. Covington did know how to start a fight, but she also knew how to finish them.

* * *

Back on the mainland, in Venice, Mel stared at the small envelope that the Cavaletto's concierge had handed her before they descended up to the hotel room. Thinking it another dinner invitation from the amorous and persistent Vittorio Frascati, she rolled her eyes and resolutely decided to ignore it. However, as Janice rushed into the bathroom, idle curiosity won out and she tore open the note.

You're a difficult woman to keep track of, my dear.

Meet me at the Rialto Bridge tomorrow morning.

Mark Pendleton.

Mel felt most fortunate that she was sitting when she opened the note. Nonetheless, she almost jumped out of her skin when Janice came up behind her.

"Another love note from Vittorio?" Janice asked sarcastically.

Mel quickly tore up the note and threw it in a wastebasket. "Yes." She was surprised at how quickly the lie came to her.

Janice hummed for a moment. "Will I have to kill him?" The playful threat lost even more of its edge as she placed her chin atop Mel's head.

Mel stared at the torn paper in the wastebasket. "I hope not," she whispered.

* * *

She did not recognize him at first. In civilian clothes he looked less prepossessing, the male equivalent of dowdy, the stern crewcut of his wartime service yielding to a softer hairstyle. His eyes, however, retained their bitter sharpness.

And he remained impressed with her beauty. There was an uneasy silence as he smiled, taking her in.

She said nothing; if she were anxious, it was only at this appalling failure of her relentlessly proper Southern manners.

"You probably wonder how I knew you were here," he began.

Mel's lips moved without sound. Then she found her voice. "Yes, Major. I do."

"You can call me Mark. It's no longer wartime." His reply was almost as soft.

She despised the creeping, implied intimacy of it. "How did you know I was here—" He stepped closer to her. "—Mr. Pendleton?"

His laugh was low. "Ah, let's see. When last I saw you, it was Switzerland, at the end of 1945. From there you went on to London. You—and Dr. Covington—were there until the spring of 1946. April, I believe. I think you took about three trips to Cornwall during that time as well. From London, you returned to the United States. You were in New York for two weeks, then you accompanied Dr. Covington to Cambridge. You were in Cambridge for six weeks approximately. Then you returned to your house in Charlotte, North Carolina—with a little side trip to the ancestral home in Columbia, South Carolina—sold it, and moved your belongings to Cambridge." He paused to take a breath. "A lot of moving about in one year. You really threw in your lot with that guttersnipe, didn't you?" He watched, fascinated to see a crack in her reserve—her eyes darkened, the pupils expanded and flooded with anger. "Do you want me to go on?"

Mel's empty hands ached. How easy it would be, how satisfying to feel the soft crunch of your throat. Bones and veins, unraveled in my grasp. Like pulling apart a chicken carcass. The clenching of her hands neither stilled the voice inside nor the compulsion it produced.

"I make it my business to know these things—to keep track of certain people. You must admit, you are hardly low profile in your circle these days. Being the, ah, sponsor of Dr. Covington's work, you are becoming as well known as she. Perhaps that was not your intention."

Stop it, stop it. She looked down at her shaking hands. "It wasn't," she affirmed.

"It does draw attention to the fact that you live with the woman."

"I'm hardly a stranger to gossip." Obviously, you have never lived in a small, Southern town, where there is nothing to do but talk about your neighbors. As a young woman, living alone with her father, Mel had been subject to every strain of lurid rumor imaginable, the tamest of which was being homosexual. "I've lived with it most of my life."

"So you never wonder or worry about what people think?"

She straightened. "I've gone through too much…to really care anymore what people think about me."

"Ah, my dear, but you do care about what people think of your lover, don't you?" Pendleton smiled, knowing he hit his target.

"What do you want of me?"

"I want your services." He chuckled at the look on her face. "Oh, not that. You're a lovely creature, but—" Pendleton shuddered, as if carnal relations with her would sully him in some fashion. "No, it's not that. Your proximity to Dr. Covington is what interests me."

Mel's hand tightened along the bridge. "I don't quite understand."

"The war is technically over. But the work of the OSS continues—we are still retrieving missing and lost art objects all over Europe." He paused for a moment, to retrieve a pipe from his coat. Casually, he tapped its bowl against the railing. "What is your business with Falconetto?"

"Since you seem to know everything about my life, I think there is no reason for me to tell you."

Pendleton suppressed a smile; he found Melinda Pappas an enjoyable and formidable opponent. "You're right, of course. I know. You have come to retrieve a scroll—one of those tales of that warrior woman. You know, Catherine Stoller paid old Falconetto quite generously the first time around. Almost three times its worth. She kept meticulous records of all her purchases for the Ahnenerbe." He clenched the stem of the pipe between his teeth and fumbled for matches. "She was involved with them from the start, despite what she told you. Quite an expert at playing both ends, I say. A damned genius at subterfuge." He yanked a match free from its book, then stopped and fixed her with his flinty glare. "Did she play you for the fool, Melinda? Is that how your relationship came to an end?"

Darling Melinda, surely you knew this would come. I have a fiancé. Even in the seeming anonymity of a typewritten "Dear Jane" note, Catherine's voice—cool, condescending—had bled through every word and every imagined, rackety keystroke that echoed within Mel's mind.

"She typed up a fucking kiss-off letter?" Janice had exclaimed in disbelief when Mel finally told her the Stoller story in its entirety.

The impersonality—and brevity—of the letter had hurt the most; Mel paid little regard to the part about the fiancé. Those, the Southern beauty knew from experience, were discarded easily enough—she had gone through seven in four years at Vanderbilt.

"You had seven fucking fiancés?" Janice had roared when this slight piece of information inadvertently revealed itself.

Thinking of Janice's reaction—and what she had to do to placate her—brought a serene smile to her face, and provided Pendleton with an erroneous, if puzzling, silent answer to his needling, gratuitous question, one that she felt no need to correct.

Dismayed at her lack of response, he lit a match and sucked the flame into the pipe's brown bowl. "No matter," he said between puffs. "The past is done and Stoller is dead, unfortunately."

She arched an eyebrow.

"Oh, I know you don't mourn her. I mourn what was inside her head. The things she knew—about the SS in general, the Ahnenerbe in particular, even the bloody Werwolf movement she took up with at the end of the war—the woman was a walking font of information about the Nazis. She would have made my task easier."

"I—" Mel began shakily. "I regret that things happened the way they did. It was never my intent for Catherine to die. I didn't know, I didn't imagine—that it would end as it did." So now you're finally feeling remorse?

"Of course not," he retorted coldly. " 'But the wise perceive things about to happen.'" He removed his pipe and stared at it. "You're familiar with the quote?" His sharp eyes returned to her face.

She nodded bleakly. "Philostratos." And also used in a Cavafy poem, she recalled.

They stood quietly, watching the canal. Pendleton smoked his pipe in an almost amiable silence, perhaps trying to disarm her with his casualness, so that his assault would be all the more effective. "Would you really lie to protect her? If she is cut from the same cloth as her father—"

"She's not," Mel shot back vehemently.

"All right then, let's assume that. But she must have information about her father's transactions with the Nazis. Something she is not telling us."

"Why would she withhold information?"

"Her father's reputation. Her own. Yours." He sucked on the pipe. "Find out for me. Get me some documentation."

"This could be resolved in a very simple manner. Go to her, and ask her these questions yourself. Janice will not lie to you."

"My dear, your doctor was interrogated by the OSS, before she was sent on assignment to Neuschwanstein. She refused to answer any questions directly pertaining to her father. Needless to say, suspicion was raised a few notches after that."

Interrogated? Mel was too distracted by this new bit of information to resist the hand placed upon her arm. "We are bound together by the secrets we have, whether you like it or not. Work with me, Melinda. I think you would be of great use to the intelligence community." Oh, what a euphemism. Even in her muddled mindset, she couldn't fail to see the humor in that phrase. "In return....Perhaps I could help you."

She stared at him incredulously.

"I may be able to help you locate the scrolls."

"You know where they are?" Her voice was tinged with menace.

Pendleton raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say that." He tapped out the remains of his pipe bowl into the Grand Canal as she winced. He smirked, amused at her disgust, and nodded at the water. "Don't you know how filthy that canal is already?" He buttoned his coat and turned to her; something remained of his military bearing and he looked as if he were standing at attention, even with his hands tucked in the coat's pockets. "I must go now. Do think about what I've said, will you?"

"Go to hell," she said softly. Then she walked away.

2. Recognition

Does the ancient book instill a quiet fear because its language is dead or

because, on the contrary, it communicates a recognizable voice? Which is more

terrible, death or resurrection?

—Geoffrey O'Brien

Cambridge

Spring 1951

The fountain pen drew a line, a savage gallop over the page, a border of black that glistened until the page drank it in. Once drained of liquid life, it stood there, solid and dull, yet indelible.

Mel had awakened before dawn, an act strangely familiar to her. She blamed an odd dream—she was drowning, literally, when a small rowboat came along. Miss Cantrip, her old high school Latin teacher, was in the boat, and instead of throwing out a life preserver, she threw a huge Latin grammar instead. And Mel was clinging to the book and going under when she woke. The blue shadows of pre-dawn and the murky dream sea were almost indistinguishable at first, and she panicked until realizing that she held in her arms an extra pillow and not a Latin grammar, and that it wasn't an undertow but Janice's legs that pinned her down. We sleep so close together that our skin becomes entwined. The illusion broke with the tickling sharpness of an unshaven leg scraping against her smooth skin. Mel sighed; if only the wartime practice of leg-shaving—a very civilized practice indeed, the translator thought—had caught on with Covington. The little savage.

From there she padded down to the study. The transcription of the scroll in its original Greek (the original too fragile to be handled extensively) lay beside her own vellum notebook—a languishing, laughing tabula rasa, and the fountain pen lying in its crook—an antiquated weapon, charming and useless.

She allowed these instruments to torment her only briefly. You just have to not think about it and do it, as Janice would say to her when confronted with an unpleasant task (and Mel so loved to throw these words back at her when Janice dreaded going in to class). And so she picked up the pen and, as if it needed a warm-up, drew the line at the top of the page.

The pen, guided by her hand, idly copied a few Greek characters just above the thick line. The serifed strokes formed a word.

Waters. I have traveled over many rivers and seas. None I regret more than those I crossed to Britannia.

After uncharacteristically dooming Pendleton to the underworld, Mel had walked through the city—her city, she thought of it so protectively—winding through the narrow streets, along the Riva Degli Schiavoni and into the less crowded Castello district. She had sat at a cafe, staring into the water of the San Marco Canal, fluttering under the soft gold of weak autumn light. Had she made the right decision? Should she tell Janice? She didn't know. All she knew was that the serenity, the bliss she consigned to this city was under threat of implosion from an aspect of her past that, she had hoped, was completely,

utterly dead and buried. Don't taint this place for me, she had silently implored the absent Pendleton, as she sat at the cafe. Because she believed that in Venice she could immerse herself in a history of her own construction, one that she devised with Janice. One that she thought she could control.

What made me think I could control it? Any more than I can control this act, or what it will reveal? She watched, almost detached, as the pen skated over paper. The words came, as they always did, cloaked in that strange garb of a dead language, like ghosts. Then, gradually, they were stripped by her ministrations until the meaning was bare. Any erotic component to this intangible craft fled her mind as she awkwardly cradled the huge Liddell & Scott dictionary in both arms, as if it were a burdensome baby.

Morning had tilted its light along the walls and the bookshelves, and suddenly she felt Janice's presence—sleepy, sweet-smelling, showered, a hand depositing a coffee cup on the desk, damp copper tendrils brushing her cheek in a kiss of their own devising.

When she reached for the coffee, she discovered an oily film of age floating on top of the black liquid and the porcelain mug downright cool. She was about to curse her blonde coffeemaker when she noticed the square of sun from the window had climbed even higher on the wall. Close to noon? She stared at another new object on the desk, cold toast, once slice dark with absorbed butter, the other topped with marmalade, just the way she liked it. Shanghaied once again by her overwhelming sense of propriety, Mel left the study in order to wash up and put on real clothes. When she returned, chewing on a hairpin and still ignoring the cold food on the desk, she could hear children playing outside (did I leave that window open?), the clatter of tools in the driveway (what on Earth is she doing to that car?) and tuneless whistling (isn't she sick of "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree" yet?).

But once again the words drew her in, and everything was forgotten.

* * *

The wrench slid out of Janice's grasp. "I give up. I fucking give up."

The Packard's death rattle continued to mock her.

"Turn it off," she called to Paul, who sat behind the wheel of the abysmal vehicle.

He turned the key, and the car convulsed, sputtered, and died. At least for the time being.

"Packard 1, Mad Dog 0," Paul decreed the winner. He opened the door of the car but remained sitting there; the seats were terribly comfortable. He put a foot on the dash, and looked toward the open front window of the house, where the study was located. "Did you chain her to the desk?" he asked Covington.

"No, asshole," she grunted as she tossed tools back into their metal chest.

"Keep sweet talkin' me, Janice. Weave your spell over me."

"Asshole, asshole, asshole." She punctuated this mantra by consigning the wrench to the clutter.

"Come on, spill it. What's wrong?"

“Nothing," she muttered—just as he knew she would. But then, surprisingly, she glanced at the window, and reneged on her stoicism. "I just worry when she gets like this." Janice shut the toolbox.

Paul was surprised at this rare revelation. Oh, so you do worry about her, you do love her, he thought sarcastically. Asshole! he berated himself. You know she does. God, it's been too long. I need a woman. His gaze wondered over Janice's body. Not exactly his type, compact and too muscular, but she certainly had curves in all the right places—

"What the hell at you staring at?" she barked.

"I just realized something," he said.

"What?"

"You have great tits." Unfortunately, the excitement regarding this epiphany had negated any common sense.

Janice could not have looked more stunned if he had hit her. And for a moment he thought she would. Silence dragged, she contemplated his observation, and thus spake Covington: "It's no wonder you can't get a woman. Your social skills are even worse than mine."

"We'll see about that, buster." Paul gave a quick warning whistle. "Geezer at 3 o'clock!"

Janice looked up. "Huh?"

"The Dean," he hissed.

Sure enough, the Dean and his walking stick were meandering in their general direction. Pompous old idiot, she thought. Never trust a man who wears a bow tie.

The wiry old man smiled and tipped his hat as he entered the driveway. "Janice." He nodded to Paul. "Mr Rosenberg! I'm pleased you'll be teaching for us this fall."

Paul jumped out of the car, nervously wiping dirty hands on his trousers. "Yes sir, I'm looking forward to it." They shook hands.

The one social amenity out of the way, the Dean turned his attentions to Janice. She folded arms across her chest, leery of further examination and potential commentary on her breasts. "I don't have to see you for another couple weeks, old man. What brings you to my door?"

"Is it wrong of me to check up on you, Janice? To see how your dig went? How Miss Pappas is feeling?"

"You know how the dig went. I filed the report at your office. And Miss Pappas is fine."

"She went to the Medical School as requested?"

"Yeah." Albeit very reluctantly. The team of Roman physicians was curious to see what their American colleagues thought of Mel's rapid recovery. The Americans were just as impressed, and just as unsuccessful in finding anything that would explain the healing powers of one seemingly unremarkable myopic Southern woman. Janice cleared her throat. "There's a report on that too, you'll just have to bug the damn doctors, and not me."

"Is she about?" The Dean made a show of looking around, as if Mel might have set up office under a hydrangea bush.

"She's working."

"Has she given any further thought to my proposal?"

Paul noticed—with some measure of dread—that Covington's eyes glistened with malice.

"She is giving it thought, and we will discuss it." The words slithered out between clenched teeth.

"Ah, she's a good girl!" the Dean grinned again. "And so are you, Janice, even though you pretend otherwise."

"Who's pretending, old man?"

Paul nibbled at his lip, wondered what Mel did in these situations other than discreetly kick her in the shins with pointy shoes. He also wondered if the Dean was not the most masochistic man within the town limits.

Nonetheless, the old man laughed, shook his head, and tipped his hat once again. "Very well. We shall speak again soon. Good day to you both."

As the Dean walked away, he thought he heard a word—"mother"—followed by a strange, muffled cry of pain. He turned around. Janice was bent over, as if examining something on the ground, and Mr. Rosenberg was tucking a pen into his shirt pocket. "Uh, Janice was just reminding me—to send regards to your mother."

The Dean arched an eyebrow, momentarily amused himself with the thought of what kind of regards Covington might actually send to his mother, then continued on his way.

Once he was well down the block, Janice was on the move, clutching her leg and hopping more frantically than an extra performing an Indian war dance in a bad Hollywood western. Wisely, Paul placed the Packard between himself and the homicidal archaeologist by half-climbing, half-leaping over the car's hood.

"You had to stab me with a pen!" she cried.

"I'm sorry! I wanted to shut you up before you did anything stupid."

"Fine, but why did you have to pick the same spot where that goddamn Nazi bitch nailed me?"

"Oh. It just looked like the chunkiest part of the thigh—"

"Shut up!" She rubbed her leg. "Christ, I think you broke the skin."

"Ya big baby." Nonetheless he jumped in genuine fear as she lunged for him across the Packard's hood. Growling in frustration, she resigned herself to sitting down in the driver's seat. He approached her cautiously. "What's this proposal the Dean was yakkin' about?"

The rubbing slowed considerably. "He wants Mel on faculty."

"Huh," he muttered, impressed. "You mean like the whole nine yards—a professor, and not a part-time hack like me?" She nodded. "I thought you needed an advanced degree to teach on that level."

"She has one. From Cambridge."

"You mean Harvard?"

"No, I mean Cambridge University in friggin' England, knucklehead. Well, she almost has one. Didn't finish all the coursework. But she could do that here in a flash." She glared at the ground. "It's all part of his deal."

"You made a deal with him?"

"Sort of. He'll continue to grant me sabbaticals and fund my research if he gets Mel on his staff."

"Does she want to?"

"I dunno," Janice mumbled.

37 Hours Ago

"No," Mel said firmly.

"But—"

"No."

"You might—"

"No."

"—like it—"

"You said that about baseball."

"You're not still sore about that, are you?"

"I'm still sore, period."

"Not everyone gets hit with a DiMaggio foul ball. It's like getting a Purple Heart. Anyway, this is different. I know you hate—"

"—talking in front of groups, especially adolescent boys—"

"Yeah, I know you hate that, and there is all the bullshit—"

"Academic politics."

"They should just shorten it to a four-letter word, shouldn't they?"

"When I agreed to this arrangement—"

"'Arrangement'? And you bitch about me not being romantic."

"—it was with the understanding that I would serve a supportive role. I would type your lesson plans, update your schedule, make your appointments, wash your stockings, make your lunch, bake cookies—"

"I'm still waiting for the cookies."

"Stop joking. You realize that if this happens, I won't be able to come with you on all your digs. In fact, I would probably be lucky to accompany you on any of them."

A pause. "I know."

"Of course you do. And you're glad of it."

"What the fuck do you mean by that?"

"It means that you still have this foolish idea of protecting me, that I will be safer if I'm not out of the country. If I'm not with you."

There was no response to this.

"It's not your fault that I—got sick. It doesn't mean that something bad will happen every time."

Another long pause.

"Well?"

"All right, dammit, I won't deny it. But...it's not just that." A sigh. "Don't you see it, Mel?"

"See what?"

"You told me once that you left your home to find adventure—and to find yourself. You said you didn't want to end up being some sad small town spinster or some rich man's wife. Well, I'm not rich and I'm not a man, but goddamned if I don't wonder sometimes if you're wasting your talents and your skills. It's not that I don't appreciate all the stuff you do for me. I do. But—"

"What?" This rhetorical prompting was uttered gently.

"I want you to be you," Janice said.

* * *

And it had been left at that: Unresolved and with the promise of cookies still lingering in the air.

How much time do we got? Janice wondered. How many times will we be separated, if you take this gig? Maybe it was time to stop “fixing” the car.

"I'm really sorry about the leg," Paul apologized, fearing that the sudden silence might have something to do with him.

"It's okay, buddy boy." She raised her arm and sniffed. Ah, just the right amount of sweat and motor oil. Top it off with a little bourbon, and voila, we have eau de Covington. She'll be helpless! At my mercy! And she might even do that little trick of unbuckling my belt with her teeth. A cunning linguist, indeed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an obsessive to distract."

* * *

Mel desperately wanted to remove her glasses and rub her tired eyes, but one hand was more or less sat on by Janice, the other fending off the archaeologist's persistent advances.

They were both crammed into the leather chair at the desk. Janice was sitting in her lap, and Janice’s Mouth—indeed, the organ was so talented it warranted capital letters—was at her neck, composing a symphony out of kissing, nipping, and licking. Janice's intrepid hand—oh, all of your body deserves capital letters, and in big bold 72 point type, too!—flicked open two buttons of her blouse, and plunged in, cupping her breast.

Mel momentarily regained her senses, however, and snared the hand by its wrist.

No you don't, buster. Although she had to admit fending off Janice was, without question, the best bad date she'd ever had. She maneuvered the hand away from her breast and placed it on her knee.

It was a tactical error that her ancestor would've despised. Janice's hand shot up her skirt and lodged itself happily between two thighs. Like an Olympic swimmer, the hand was going for the gold.

Mel's vision blurred to such a degree that, for one delirious moment, she thought she was reading ancient Greek again and not her own English translation. She heard a gurgling whimper and recognized it as the sound of her own surrender. Oh, all right, I give up. It's not like I'm getting anywhere here. I don't even think I'm doing it justice, some of it sounds so pedestrian, so pedantic: "I intend to show." Why on earth would she begin a section with such a pompous, self-important phrase? It’s not like Gabrielle as a writer. Of course, we are assuming these are not originals, but a good forger would not tamper with an original unless—Janice, please stop biting my neck—unless there…is…some… significance….

Mel sat forward violently, dislodging the bundle of blonde archaeologist in her lap. Janice landed upon the floor with an undignified thunk. "You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Stretch," she growled as she sat up, rubbing her back. "Ow."

The translator was frantically flipping through her notebook.

"Ow," Covington restated petulantly, emphatically.

Mel uncapped her fountain pen and began scribbling on a fresh piece of paper.

"Goddamnit, OW!"

The roar caught Mel's attention, but failed to produce an apology. Janice knew something was up when those relentless Southern manners did not engage.

"I-I think I figured out something," Mel stammered breathlessly and, in her excitement, stood up.

The spurious injury was forgotten. Janice too jumped to her feet. "Really?"

"This phrase, i-it's repeated several times in the scroll...." She pointed to the words in her notebook. " 'I intend to show.' At least that was the best possible translation I could come up with. It's very prosaic and sometimes even awkward when it's stuck in the middle of all this purple prose. You might even call it inorganic." Janice raised an eyebrow. "You know what I mean. I think it's foreign, that someone other than the writer inserted it. And I think that's why I had such difficulty with it. If we look at the text surrounding it...."

Mel pointed at a sentence: I intend to show here that the sun was far from rising when Xena set out for Chin.

The pages fluttered wildly, like in a Walt Disney cartoon and Janice felt like the hapless hero of The Sorcerer's Apprentice. "And here's another." The translator pointed at another clumsy beacon within the text: I intend to show that the gate near the northern pass could not be broached.

"You're right, it's not like her usual style," Janice conceded.

Mel's finger struck the page with another triumphant thump. "Here's another." It is my intent to show the moon, glistening beyond the woods, was the only thing illuminating my path. Her eyes skipped the remainder of the painful passage: For it was the only thing that shone for me in that dark time. I wondered if the light she had so loved in me was forever dim.

And then the dignified Melinda Pappas did something she had not done since her

12th birthday, when her father bought her a horse: She clapped her hands and jumped up and down. I've got you now, my pretty!

She grabbed Janice's head with both hands and bestowed a sloppy kiss on messy hair. "My lucky charm," she breathed, and took a moment to mesmerize Janice with blue eyes and a secondary smooch, hard and hungry, right on the lips.

Janice was falling into the kiss—and preparing to drop her pants—when contact was broken, and a large hand gave her a substantial shove.

"Now y'all go away." Mel sat down and resumed copying out Greek sentences.

The archaeologist's hands were frozen on her belt buckle. "What?"

"Go fix the car."

"It's fixed."

"You're lying."

"I'm lying, but shit, baby, I need—"

She was silenced by two fingers thrust in her face—index and thumb, barely touching. "I'm this close," Mel said, with quiet urgency.

"Really?" Janice was slack-jawed.

Mel nodded.

She returned the nod. Helpless, anxious, yet happy, Covington felt like an expectant father as she wandered out of the study. And like generations of expectant fathers before her, she paced in front of a closed door for a while, and when the wait proved too much, she sought the comfort of alcohol at the closest bar. There she discovered anew the agony of waiting, the thrill of possibility, and the fact that her shirttail was peeking out of her unbuttoned fly.

Several hours later she returned home to find the lamp still burning in the study. But Mel was not within the penumbra of light at the desk; she was sprawled on the couch, one hand shading her eyes, the other loosely curled around her glasses. Each breath was a low, crouching rumble, ready for the great leap into full-fledged snoring.

Janice gazed at the open notebook on the desk. What she saw reminded her—unpleasantly—of algebraic equations. Lines of Greek were written on the page, one after another. She was helpless in deciphering their meaning even under the best of circumstances, let alone after two beers and three shots of bourbon. Show your work, Janice's mathematics professor had always chastised her. And in this instance, that was precisely what Mel had done. But the translator had found something. Characters had been underlined and a new Greek phrase scribbled out below the block of text. And below that was a phrase in English: Gate of the Sun, Gate of the Moon.

Unlike other useful homilies, the ever-skeptical Covington never quite believed the hyperbole behind the saying my blood runs cold. But, taking in the words of the notebook, something did freeze within her. She recoiled at first, then extended a hesitant finger to the page, as if to smite the meaning out of the words. But there they remained. Indelible.

Alexandria.

A sigh unfurled from the general direction of the couch. Janice blinked, the corners of her eyes now damp and aching. Fuck.

"You're back," Mel was stretching, catlike, on the sofa.

I've never wanted to go back to Alex. Will I? It figures that this search would take me there again. It just fucking figures. Janice swiped at her eyes. "And you found something." Her shaking voice easily tumbled the attempt at casual retort. She tapped the notebook for emphasis, then walked over to the couch and sat down carefully on its edge.

The translator propped herself up on elbows. The effort, however, proved too taxing and she flopped back down on the couch, delicately pressing the pads of her fingers to her throbbing temples. "I've found that staring at ancient Greek all day can make your head explode." Black-framed glasses slid from their temporary perch on her stomach and headed toward the floor.

Janice intercepted them. "You're so goddamn stubborn. I tried to stop you."

"Hush." Mel groaned. "You know, I don't even know what that means—the Gate of the Sun, the Gate of the Moon."

"How did—"

"It was an acrostic. I wrote out all the sentences that included that phrase—'It is my intent.' or 'My intention is' or any variant on it. And there it was: A character from each sentence, in a simple linear pattern, spelling it out." The translator chuckled. "That's the long story short version of it. I would stare and stare at those lines. Then I'd try something else: I would change the order of the lines, or write them all backward…. Then I would go back to the lines I had originally written. The sentences themselves were like foreshadowing, since they all spoke of the sun and the moon. Sometimes, you just have to go back at look at it from a different angle. " She rubbed her eyes. "Do you remember that painting I once showed you at the National Gallery, in London? 'The Ambassadors,' by Hans Holbein?"

Janice shrugged. "Vaguely."

"The one with the anamorphic skull. When it's viewed at a certain angle, you see the skull depicted at the bottom of the painting."

"Oh, yeah. That was nifty."

"A 'nifty' memento mori. Renaissance painters were fond of doing that—inserting a vanitas skull or something similar—to remind even the richest among their patrons and admirers that they too will die. As do we all."

Silence filled the air between them as the archaeologist took in what Mel, in her usual oblique way, was trying to tell her. "So you're saying you did the same thing—with words?" Janice proffered the theory with caution. "Just kept looking at them in all different kinds of ways, until something clicked?" Translation was a downright spooky practice, she decided. Didn't Mel say she had kin down in New Orleans—the American cradle of voodoo? The skull beneath the flesh, the meaning beneath the words.

Mel was smiling, and staring into some imagined distance. "It's a beautiful thing. I felt—" she trailed off, raising her hand as if the continuation of that phrase—perfectly expressing the beauty and wholeness she felt—rested there tangibly, within her grasp. Sometimes I think it's better than making love. So maybe there is an erotic component to it. Which explains how I could do without a lover for such a long period of time. She looked at Janice—or rather, her pants. "Your fly is unbuttoned."

"Yeah. I know. The boys at Mickey's thought it was funny. Delmar bet me ten bucks I couldn't leave it that way all night." Janice flashed the greenback with pride.

I could certainly do without this boorish behavior. Mel's mortification manifested itself in a groan as she covered her face with a hand. "This isn't helping us figure out—"

"—the Gate of the Sun and the Gate of the Moon? It's in Alexandria," Janice replied. "In the ancient city, along the Canopic Way. There was a gate at its east end—the Gate of the Sun—and one at the west end—the Gate of the Moon."

A bleary blue eye peeked at her from between two fingers. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around."

"Aside from fucking and keeping that stupid car of yours running, you mean."

"It's certainly not your eloquence, or lack thereof." Mel now managed to sit up.

"So you think they may be in Alexandria?"

Janice busied herself with massaging a callus on her palm. "I suppose it's possible. It would explain a lot. The duplicates are dated in the early 1500s. Venice was a major port city at that time, a gateway to the east—including Alexandria. Trade flourished then between the Venetians and the Ottoman Empire. It's possible the originals were traded for something, and ended up in Alexandria."

Mel nodded vigorously. "That's a good theory."

"I need more, though. I need more to back it up."

"I understand. But it might not hurt to do a, er, fact-finding mission."

"Yeah." Janice laughed nervously.

"Is something wrong?"

"No." She shrugged. "I get scared about it sometimes. One day I want it more than anything, the next it's like—it's like a whole other world. It's a little overwhelming." I wonder if it will change me. I wonder if it will change us.

Mel fingers tangled with her own. "I know."

"Somehow I figured you would." Janice's response sounded perfunctory to her own ears and she quickly stared down at the floor. But do you know how afraid I really am?

If she did, Mel opted to change the subject instead. "I've never been to Alexandria," she said, wistfully.

"Let alone Egypt?" Janice retorted.

"Not true. Daddy took me to Cairo once. I was 14. He did keep me entombed in the hotel the entire time, however. I did nothing but swim in the pool and read." A certain fact floated dismally to her consciousness. "The Davies live in Alexandria, don't they?"

"Yeah. Along the seafront, like all the rich bastards. I, uh—" She cleared her throat. "I usually stayed there when I was in Alex. Although before we met them, Harry and I had this lousy flat there."

"Hmmm," said Mel.

“Don't give me 'hmmm.' I hate that. I slept with her. I can't change history. But your jealousy is kind of touching, Mel. A small frailty. It makes me feel better about my shortcomings." Janice blew out a weary breath. "I thought we got over this particular hump, so to speak. I ain't interested in Jenny."

"I know, but she is still interested in you."

A shrug. "There's nothing you can do about that."

"True." Mel conceded this with reluctance.

"Then what are you worried about?" An angry, green-eyed glare fixed itself on Mel like a sniper's rifle. "Do you trust me?"

Mel blinked in surprise. "But—yes. Yes. Of course."

Janice scowled at an innocent Persian rug until her expression softened.

"It's her that I don't trust," Mel continued. "So if we do go to Alexandria, I'll need a new outfit." Save me, Madame Schiaparelli! she prayed to her own personal saint.

"You need a new outfit like London needs more rain."

Mel squared her shoulders. "You don't understand. This is a battle for you, on the field on sartorial elegance. If I show up looking like some ragamuffin—"

"In other words, like me," Janice interjected.

"—she will think me utterly unworthy of you."

"That's absolute bullshit. Besides, I don't give a rat's ass what she thinks—it's not a social occasion. And you could wear a goddamn sack cloth and still look like royalty."

"Your faith is very touching, but nonetheless, I will need new clothes."

Janice took a more common road in appealing to help from a higher power: Jesus help me. "I still didn't say we were going anywhere. The Dean may think we're outta our minds."

"Don't underestimate the man. There are two things in our favor. First and foremost, he admires you. Better yet, he trusts you, and he knows you have good instincts."

Doubtful, Janice grunted and folded her arms. "How do you know all this?"

"I have tea with him every week." The archaeologist looked impressed at this. "The lot of a faculty wife is busier than you think."

"You got my wholehearted respect. So what's the second thing here?"

Mel smiled triumphantly. "He simply adores acrostics."

[faveficarchive]

All the Colors of the World: Part 3

The Angelic Contemplation

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice, Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: After meeting once again post-Macedonia, Mel and Janice come to terms with their feelings for one another, while also coming to terms with who they are individually.

Her prey was in sight. And upside down at that.

Gabrielle was sprawled on her back in the bed, head lolling over the edge, looking at Xena through a rolled-up scroll; with one eye squeezed shut, the other saw a circled tableau of a sitting warrior. She attempted to lower her voice in a deep, rumbling, lascivious chuckle, not unlike the men on Cecrops' ship who directed similar noises to her during her tenure on the doomed ship. "Bwaaa hah hah..." she began.

The Warrior Princess, stretched out in a chair, wearing leather but sans armor, seemed oblivious to Gabrielle as she pensively studied an unfurled scroll.

"Aye, matey...I spy me a fine warrior wench up ahead...and she's mine, all mine..." Again, another raspy laugh, then, "Aye, 'tis true, and I can see up that little skirt of hers."

A smile curled the warrior's mouth. "Gabrielle..."

"Hmm?" The bard responded in her normal voice.

"Ephiny will be here any minute. Don't you think you should be acting a little more...Queenly?"

"What?" Gabrielle said in mock horror, dropping the scroll. "I'm not being adult enough? She should be thankful I'm dressed...well, that we're both dressed." She grinned at Xena but did not stir from the bed.

"Mmm," Xena murmured in agreement. "True enough." She looked at Gabrielle, who rolled over on her stomach, thus righting both her head and vision. Then she smiled at the bard, who suddenly looked serious. Oh gods...please don't let it be time for some big heavy discussion, she thought. "Is something wrong?" she asked as gently as she could.

"Uh, no, not at all. I guess I just can't believe this has happened to us. At last."

"I know," the warrior replied. She rolled up the scroll she had been reading and placed it on the table next to her.

"Well, I know you hate this...but we need to talk at some point..."

"I know."

"I mean, I don't want to push anything, I just want to know what you're feeling, and what direction we're going in..."

"I know."

"Xena!!" Gabrielle spat in exasperation. She slapped the bed with frustration.

"What?"

"Please say something other than 'I know'!"

"Okay, well, how about 'I love you'?"

"I know you know everything..." the bard began sarcastically. Abruptly she stopped when she realized what had been said. Her hands gripped the blanket underneath her. "Did I hear right?" she whispered.

"Uh, I think so, if you heard me say that I love you." Xena felt her jaw twitch. She bit the inside of her mouth, her only concession to nervousness. When I have I ever said that to anyone? Even my mother?

Gabrielle said nothing, but just stared with slack-jawed awe at her. The silence stretched. The muscle in Xena's jaw threatened to spasm in agony as her teeth clenched.

"Gabrielle," Xena began.

The bard continued to stare at her as if she were lavender-colored minotaur.

"I don't want you to feel obligated to say you feel the same way," the warrior went on, the painful spasm traveling down her neck and anchoring into her shoulder. "But I wanted to be honest with you...and uh, that's where I stand with this." She grabbed her sword, just to have something in her hand, then the whetstone, and began to sharpen the blade. Rather furiously.

Still nothing. Well, now I know what shuts her up, the warrior thought grimly. Gabrielle continued to stare at her. It was very unnerving.

Ephiny stood outside their door, fist poised to knock, when she heard Xena roar, "The gods be damned, will you stop that???" Trouble in paradise, she thought with a sigh. For three days since the party, where warrior was literally swept off her feet by bard (or, more specifically, the bard's guards), Ephiny had been treated to mushy, lovestruck glances (mostly Gabrielle), conspiratorial smiles (mostly Xena), and sudden kisses (the both of them acting in tandem).

Gabrielle jumped out of the bed. "I'm sorry, Xena, I didn't mean to stare, but...wow, you really surprised me. I wondered if I would ever hear that from you." She paused.

Angrily the warrior pointed at her with the sword. "But you did," she affirmed.

"Yes, I know, and—Xena, would you put that thing down?"—the blade was reluctantly lowered—"I want you to know that I feel the same."

The blade was raised. "Don't toy with me, bard."

"What? What makes you think I'm toying with you?" Gabrielle said, outraged. "And I said put that damn sword down! Who d'ya think I am, Ares?"

"Who knows? Maybe he's pretending to be you today!"

From outside the Queen's hut the shouts continued. Solari sidled up to Ephiny. "What's happening?" she whispered to the regent in a gossipy tone. At this juncture they heard Gabrielle shout, "You big stupid idiot, I love you too!!"

"What's happening is that I think our meeting with the Queen should be a little later," Ephiny replied. "C'mon, let's go get a drink."

They were back about a candlemark later, both with the rolling gaits of drinkers who have had just enough to experience a loosening of limbs and a dulling of senses. Approaching the door, neither woman heard a sound from the hut. Solari reared back, fist raised as if she were going to hurdle something into space. Ephiny grabbed her arm, and the dark-haired Amazon lost her balance and crashed into her friend. "Shhh..." Ephiny chastised. "We can't go in now either..."

"Why not?" Solari slurred.

"It's too quiet."

*****

January, 1944

Mel sat, exhausted, in the desolate lounge of her New York hotel. She was waiting to meet Jack Kleinman, the man whom she first met, along with Janice, on that fateful day almost two years ago. That day changed everything for me...just as a night last summer did, Mel thought.

She had not heard from Janice since the night they spent together, over six months ago, when they had consummated their relationship. She had awakened alone in her bed. Her search of the house yielded no Janice, no note, merely her somber housekeeper. "I got here just as she was leaving," Alice had told Mel. "She was waiting outside for the cab to come. She had called for one, she said, to take her to the train station."

"How did she seem?" Mel had asked.

"I'd say she looked a little down, like she didn't want to leave, but she had to."

In her bathrobe, Mel sat there at the kitchen table numbly. "Why?" she whispered to herself.

Alice placed a thin hand on her shoulder. "She did say one more thing, Melinda."

"Eh? What?" she asked softly. The joy she had felt during the night, the sense of completeness, of rightness, broke under the weight of loss.

"She said, 'Tell her I'll be back, when I'm ready to take her on.' "

And what did she mean by that? Am I supposed to wait around to find out? I'm not willing to wait. Her letters to Janice had remained unanswered. She had no phone number for the archaeologist, although, she discovered upon her arrival, the New York phone book had a listing for a J. Covington. So finally, after the holidays ended, she decided it was time to come to New York and track down her friend. Did I scare her off? Was I too intense? I did say "I love you"...she recalled the surprised look on Janice's face when she said it: They laid together in bed, legs entangled. She had been propped on her elbow, looking down at Janice, whose hair was burnished orange in the candlelight. She might not be ready for that. But it's true. God help me, I don't know why.

Mel scanned the drab lobby. The only people in New York seemed to be soldiers. And sailors. In the half-hour that she had waited for Jack, she had been accosted by two soldiers, both of whom wanted to ply her with drinks. She stood up, then bent at the waist to adjust the back of her stockings. Who invented these things? she wondered irritably when she heard a male voice behind her, "Pretty good caboose there, sweetheart."

Indignantly she drew up to her full height and looked down on Jack, who was startled to see that the woman responsible for the nice caboose was Mel. He turned visibly pale. "Uh...hi Melinda," he said sheepishly. "Sorry, I didn't think it was you, I mean, I don't remember you being so...it's been a long time, and...gosh, you look swell!" he concluded lamely. He wore a private's uniform; as he told Mel when she contacted him, he had managed to be placed in the Army Reserves even though initially he had been 4-F.

She raised an eyebrow and noticed his discomfort at that gesture. "Hello, Jack. How are you?"

"Pretty good. The army life, it's a tough one. Uh, even stateside, that is." He nodded toward the bar. "Shall we have a drink?"

"Fine."

Over rum and cokes, he asked her, with all the delicacy he could muster, "Have you heard anything?"

"No," she replied. "You?" She couldn't keep the hope out of her voice, even though she knew his answer.

He snorted. "You kiddin'? If she hasn't contacted you, she sure as heck wouldn't have contacted me."

"There was always a chance, Jack." Mel opened her purse and dug around for the address. "I found a 'J. Covington' in the phone book. Luckily, the only one." She pulled out a scrap of paper. In the times when she had corresponded with Janice, the only address she had was a New York P.O. Box. "It's Cornelia Street...do you know where that is?" she asked tentatively, not sure if she wanted to trust Jack's knowledge of New York.

"Sure, it's in Greenwich Village. Figures Janice would live down there."

Mel frowned. "Why?" she asked.

Jack scrunched his lips together to stop his initial response (Because that's where all the weirdos live) from leaving his mouth, and also to buy time while he thought of something more appropriate. "Well...that's where all the, uh, career girls live."

She seemed less than satisfied with the answer, but nonetheless a determined look crossed her face. "Let's go."

"Now?" he asked with alarm.

"Jack, it's Sunday afternoon, not the middle of the night. You don't have to come with me if you don't want to." Clasping her purse, she stood up and headed for the door.

"Wait!" He scrambled behind her, as she gracefully exited the hotel.

*****

Cornelia Street was narrow and sedate in the late afternoon light. A tiny café was the only sign of life, the windows heavy with steam. Checking the fragment of paper one more time (God, what if I wrote it down wrong? she agonized) Mel and Jack stood in front of a drab, dilapidated brownstone. As they entered the stairwell she noticed that Covington was scrawled on the mailbox of the third-story apartment, along with some other name she couldn’t quite make out. They mounted the bleak staircase. At the door of apartment 3, they heard lazy, swaying big-band music from a radio within. Mel gave a brisk knock, and stared into the peephole, not knowing she wouldn't see a thing.

The door swung wide open. A voluptuous young woman, with dark brown hair and preternaturally gray-blue eyes, stared at them. More specifically, at Mel. She wore nothing but a man's white oxford shirt, which hung down to her knees, causing Jack to blush. She gave Mel a once-over. Then a twice-over.

Mel twitched with discomfort, but put on her best manners. "Excuse me ma'am," she drawled pleasantly, exaggerating her accent for maximum "charm the Yankee" effect, "I'm sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but my name is Melinda Pappas, and I am looking for Janice Covington..." Before she said anything else, the woman in the doorway started to chuckle.

"What," the woman said, taking in Mel's neat blue suit, eyeglasses, and black hair in a bun, "does she have an overdue library book?" She snorted at her own joke. Jack guffawed as well. Mel silenced him with an icy glare.

"I'm a friend of Janice's. We've done some collaborative work on the Xena scrolls she discovered in Macedonia. I've been trying to get in touch with her for months."

"Oh yeah...the Xena scrolls," she growled. "What a bunch of crap." She walked away from the door. "C'mon in." The woman flung herself in a chair, and gestured to the sofa. "Sit down. Wanna drink?"

The hallway was a good indicator of the apartment's look: it was small, dirty, and bare. Nothing in the room indicated that Janice had ever been there. Mel and Jack exchanged a look of horror before they sat themselves down on the soiled couch, neither one sitting back into the foul cushions. "Er, no thank you," Mel said.

"Who's he?" The woman pointed accusingly at Jack.

"This is Jack Kleinman. He's a friend of Janice's as well," Mel replied.

"Hi," Jack said meekly.

"May I ask your name?" Mel inquired.

The woman took a drink from a glass by her chair. "Mary Jane Velasko." Her eyes lingered on Mel. "Well, I gotta hand it to Jan, she's got good taste. The bitch." She took another drink. "She stuck me here to pay the rent. Just took off."

"Where?" Jack and Mel asked in unison.

"She joined the WACs." Velasko stared into her glass. "Or so she told me."

Mel was too stunned to say anything. Jack watched her with concern, then asked Velasko, "When did she leave?"

"Oh, 'bout three months ago. She put all her stuff in storage. Then boom, she's gone."

"And you haven't heard anything from her since?" Jack continued.

"Not a goddamn thing." Velasko noticed Mel's deathly pale countenance. "Sorry, Scarlett." She paused. "You got it bad for her, don't you?" She looked at Mel with not exactly sympathy, but something in her strange eyes was understanding.

Jack looked confused. Then upset. "Just what are you implying..." he began angrily.

"Let it go, Jack," Mel said hoarsely. Jack frowned, but said nothing else.

"Yeah, I could say the same thing to you, Scarlett," Velasko said. "Forget her. She'll screw you over like she did me."

Mel stood up stiffly. "Thank you for your help," she said in a strained voice. If I don't get out of here I'll throw up, she thought.

"Sure. You know the way out," Velasko said sardonically, not moving. "Oh, and Scarlett?"

Mel, with Jack behind her, paused by the door.

"If you ever do find Janice Covington, tell her I'm going to kill her."

*****

As it turned out, she did throw up, in a trash can outside the apartment building. Jack was too surprised to say anything, but he did offer her a handkerchief. "Thanks," she said softly, dabbing at her mouth. She slumped against the building for support.

"Melinda, you look awful," Jack said with alarm.

"Thanks," she repeated in a daze.

He clapped a hand over her forehead. "You feel clammy," he said.

"Are you sure it's not your hand that's clammy?"

He scrutinized his palm, and tentatively poked it with the other hand.

Mel rolled her eyes. "God, I need a drink," she moaned, more to herself than him.

"Ha! You sound just like Janice." A miserable look crossed her face, and he was instantly sorry he said it.

She looked at him curiously. "Did you see her much? While she was living in New York?"

"What? Naw." Jack's examination of his palm continued; with absentminded nervousness he started to rub it with a thumb. "We went out drinking a couple times...I wish I'd seen her more, but..." Mel studied his hangdog expression; obviously, he'd had a crush on the archaeologist.

"I know how you feel." She'd said it before she realized what she was saying.

He looked at her. "Huh?" he said. Thank God, he didn't understand. Another wave of nausea swept over her; the only thing that prevented her from falling to the ground was the side of the building she was leaning against.

"I've got to get back to the hotel," she said feebly. Wearily she pushed herself away from the building. "I don't feel very well." She started to walk, heading toward Sixth Avenue in hopes of catching a cab, but she didn't get far. The world darkened as she hit the ground, and she heard Jack yelling her name.

*****

July 1944

"Covington!" the voice shouted.

Janice recognized the voice, but decided to ignore it for as long as possible. But she could not ignore the soft yet steady kicks that Blaylock gave the soles of her shoes. She forced her eyes open and looked up blearily into the face of U.S. Army Captain Daniel Blaylock, her commanding officer and friend.

Dressed from head to toe in regulation army khaki--shirt, pants, even her undergarments were khaki-- Janice was stretched out in the spare cot that Blaylock kept in his office. She had arrived in London six months ago, in January, after completing her training at Fort Oglethorpe. The very first day at HQ, as luck would have it, she ran into Blaylock, an old friend from college; he immediately put in a request that Janice be assigned to him as an assistant. Officially she was his driver, but her seemingly unlimited energy compelled Blaylock to give her as much work as she could handle.

Blaylock shared Janice's passion for archaeology, but his field had been the emerging one of Egyptology, which he taught at Dartmouth. Another thing they shared was a romantic past; Blaylock had been the first (and only) man she'd slept with. It wasn't bad, Janice thought in retrospect, but something was missing for me. She didn't know what it was, until one night she and her roommate consumed an inordinate amount of sloe gin and ended up in bed together. And Blaylock found them the following morning. He was terribly hurt, which she regretted immensely; I love you, he had said. And I love you, she had responded, just in a different way. Can you accept that?

He did. Or so it had always seemed.

He stood in front of her with some of the dreadful English coffee from the canteen downstairs. Handing a cup to her, he said, "Thought I'd find you here."

Tentatively she sipped the bubbling hot sludge. "Yeah. I wanted to finish that report."

Luckily Blaylock did not insist on military formality, except in front of other officers.

"You didn't have to," he chastised her. "It would've waited." He smiled, wondering if he should spring the news on her now or later. "But I'm glad you did." He decided he couldn't wait.

Puffing on the coffee, she looked at him suspiciously. "You're being very cheerful, Blaylock. I don't trust it."

"You should. Because I have the news you've been waiting for. In a week we're being sent to Normandy."

She almost dropped the cup, so she sat it down on the table. "We?"

"You got it. If all goes well, a contingent of WACs will be sent to France. Mainly to handle the switchboards and mail, things like that. But they need some drivers too, Janice. Sometimes for ambulances. And you're gonna be one of them. I recommended you myself."

She exhaled slowly, and leaned back against the wall. "Son of a bitch," she mused aloud. "I'll finally be doing something useful." She was too immersed in thought to notice the slightly hurt look on Blaylock's face.

*****

"Influenza," the doctor said to Jack curtly.

"Jesus! How?" Jack replied, mystified. "It's not goin' around, that I know of."

They stood in the hospital corridor at St. Vincent's, where Jack had brought Mel after her collapse.

The MD shrugged. "You're right, there's no epidemic. But there are a lot of folk in the city right now who have been exposed to all sorts of viruses overseas. So it's likely your friend caught some strain that she has no immunity to."

Mel ached dully, tossed between delirium and the tantalizing edge of clarity. But clarity and consciousness, however appealing in their own way, were not as pleasant as the oblivion of the fever. She knew the conscious world contained no Janice. The fever gripped her and for the time being she surrendered to it. The part of her that knew Xena, however, was aware that this fraudulent bliss was temporary. Despite it all, she would survive.

*****

In the Amazon council chambers, Xena stood rigidly behind Gabrielle's seat at the head of the table. Council members, including Ephiny, started trickling in from breakfast. The regent sauntered up to the Warrior Princess. "Are you gonna stand there like that for the whole meeting?"

"Yes," the warrior replied simply. Ephiny groaned and walked to her seat.

"Maybe you should sit down," Gabrielle piped up to Xena.

"No, I'm fine." The reply was terse.

Gabrielle and Ephiny shared a look. "All right, fine, but try not to look so menacing," griped the bard. "Why don't you smile or something?"

"Yeah," Ephiny agreed. "Give us a smile, one of those big old, shit-eating Warrior Princess grins."

Gabrielle collapsed in laughter. "That's it, Eph! That's exactly what they are! The kind that says, 'I just kicked your ass big time!' " Ephiny too laughed.

Xena let a dour look hang on her face as the remaining council members came in, and the gigglefest of the Regent and the Queen died down. After a moment of silence, Ephiny, garnering all seriousness, spoke. "Our scouts on the north ridge have confirmed a large buildup of troops in Herrara."

A murmur went through the group.

"Wait, that's where those brothers live...the ones who helped Solari with my Test of Courage," Gabrielle said.

"Right," Ephiny replied. "Solari?"

Everyone turned their attention to Solari. "Yesterday I had a meeting with Aramis, the village reeve. He's told me that a warlord named Petrus has set up camp outside the town. Basically, Petrus and his troops have taken over. They've demanded tribute from every merchant. Aramis says that the rumors are flying fast and furious."

"What is being said?" asked Gabrielle.

"That he's planning a war with the centaurs. And with us."

More murmurs. Gabrielle turned in her seat to look back at Xena. "Xena, do you know who this Petrus is?"

The warrior's face frowned in thought. "There was a Petrus who was an officer in the Athenian army. Draco had dealings with him. He was rumored to be very corrupt; he dealt in stolen goods and arms trading. Who knows, he may have been drummed out of the corps and decided to lead an army of his own."

"I must meet with him," Gabrielle said.

Xena fought her rising panic. "Yes, you should, but you should get more information about him first."

"I don't know that we have the time for that. If we let this go unchecked any further, we may have a full-scale war on our hands," the Queen responded firmly.

"I agree," added Solari. "We've already lost our informant. Aramis had arranged for one of his servants to join the army and report back to him with information. Unfortunately Petrus caught on. The man was killed; his head was placed on the city wall."

Gabrielle turned to Ephiny. "Send a messenger to Petrus's camp. I want to arrange a meeting with him. And have a treaty drawn up. A nonagression pact, specifying that he is to avoid any act of war against us, the centaurs, or Herrara."

The regent nodded. The Warrior Princess brooded, wondering if a piece of paper would hold back stupidity and ruthlessness. In the old days, if such a message crossed my path, I would've killed the messenger and sent the body back.

*****

"Shit," Janice said.

"No, Janice, ship," Blaylock retorted playfully.

They stood on the dock surveying the huge ship that would take them, and 40 other WACs under Blaylock's joint command with a senior officer, to France. The group also included several intelligence officers and British women recruited as ambulance drivers.

"I'm dead," she moaned. "This will be hell on earth."

Blaylock smiled grimly as he recalled the time when they were in college and he took her aboard his father's yacht. No sooner had it pulled out of the harbor than Janice spewed her breakfast into Cape Cod. "Look, you'll be fine," he assuaged her. She glared at him. Triumphantly he pulled a small vial from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She questioned him with a look. "The latest thing. Pills that prevent seasickness. The Army doctors recently perfected the formula. It should do the trick."

She glanced skeptically as the bottle, then pocketed it. "Thanks."

"Well," he sighed, "everyone else is aboard, so we should get up there." They picked up their rucksacks. "Ready to deal with a ship full of horny sailors?" he teased.

She smirked into his too-pretty face. "The question is, are you?"

*****

Janice stood alone on the deck of the transit ship. It was, as they say, "spitting rain." An earlier fog had dissipated. They would be in France by daylight tomorrow morning; normally it would not take so long, but report of enemy activity off the coast forced them to go slow and delay their arrival as much as possible.

It was frustrating to her. I've been a coward most of my life, she thought. I ran away from my father because I didn't like the way he did "business," I hurt Daniel because I was too gutless to tell him how I really felt....And I did basically the same thing to Mel. She may hate me by now. But I just couldn't let her love me the way I am. Maybe it's too late now. Maybe this war will kill me. Still, I need to know what I'm made of. If I'm worthy of her. Even though I've probably lost her.

She saw a figure come up from below deck. Her eyes narrowed in increasing disbelief at the figure: tall, wearing a British uniform and a thick leather bomber jacket, with long black hair whipping around her face. Janice squinted. A hand brushed back the dark hair from the woman's face, a face that, even clutching a cigarette between lips, mirrored that of Melinda Pappas.

She could not take her eyes off the woman. It can't be...she thought. Janice knew she was right: Even though she looked exactly like Mel, this woman carried herself differently, even surveyed her surroundings differently than Mel: these blue eyes were narrow as they suspiciously scanned the horizon, as if daring the skies to rain more. She moved awkwardly, as if she never got used to the tall, broad-shouldered body that she inhabited. Her face had a stoic, veiled cast to it, a chip-on-the-shoulder look. And that look was directed at Janice, who, even as the woman angrily glared at her, could not stop looking at this carbon copy of Mel.

The woman unfurled her body from its hunched up position over the railing. She threw the cigarette down on the deck, and in three easy strides was towering over Janice. "What the bloody hell do you think you're lookin' at?" she snarled. Her thick yet pleasing accent was not a London one; north country, perhaps, Janice guessed.

"What? Nothing," Janice stammered. She tried to step back from the woman, but a large strong hand seized her arm, its crushing grip painful.

" 'Nothing,' eh?" the woman retorted mockingly. "You fucking Yanks are all the same. Think you can come over here and act like you run everything."

Ah, a woman who swears more than I do. How refreshing. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare at you. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just that you look a lot like someone I knew back home. A really good friend..." Janice trailed off in a whisper. And what if you lost that really good friend by treating her the way you did? Sleeping with her, then abandoning her?

The woman squinted at Janice, reading the archaeologist's face, and decided she was truthful. She relaxed her grip. "I'm a sucker for a sob story, I am," she muttered, more to herself than Janice.

"I truly am sorry," Janice repeated. I hate it when strong, beautiful women are angry at me.

The Englishwoman released Janice's arm. "All right, then. Forget it." Another dark mood crossed her face though, and Janice panicked. "Goddammit!! I threw away my last cigarette!!" she cried. She looked back at the railing where she had stood, but the wind had already swept her cigarette out to sea.

Quickly Janice pulled out a pack of Caporals. In England it was next to impossible to find the cigars she usually smoked. Blaylock, who had some black market connections, kept her supplied with cigarettes instead. She offered one to the woman. "Ta," the woman grunted, unwilling to feel gratitude toward this strange American woman. Janice lit her cigarette with the silver lighter her father had given her years ago. "Nice lighter," the Englishwoman commented.

"Thanks," Janice replied. "I'm Janice Covington," she said, and extended a hand.

The woman enfolded Janice's hand with her larger one. "Meg Edmondson," she said.

*****

It was late in the mess hall, almost midnight. Everyone was in bed except Janice and two of the WACs, Porter and Lang. Porter possessed a large flask of whiskey that her boyfriend, a British intelligence officer back in London, had given her for the trip. They were passing the flask among themselves, and feeling pretty good. Janice felt relaxed for the first time in months as the whiskey coursed through her blood.

They had launched into a giggly, gossipy session about Blaylock when Porter motioned to someone standing in the doorway. "Psst! C'mere!!" she called.

Janice's back was to the door, and Lang, sitting beside her friend, did not recognize who Porter was beckoning to: "Who's that?"

"One of the limey girls. Edmondson, I think."

Janice's head snapped around so fast that she was almost surprised her neck didn't break. Sure enough, Meg strode over to them. "Hiyer," she greeted everyone as she loomed over the table. She seemed more shy around groups of people.

"Sit down, have a drink with us," Porter said.

"Ta," she said, and sat next to Janice.

The warmth Janice felt increased as Meg sat down. It's been a while, hasn't it? You haven't laid a finger on anyone since...well, since last summer. She studied Meg's handsome profile: the riveting blue eyes, the jet black hair, the chiseled cheeks and full, soft lips. Ah, Meg, your name a mere consonant's difference from my beloved's.

This is not the time to indulge in cheap affairs, a voice protested inside her. There is a war going on, after all!

"We were talkin' about Blaylock," said Porter. "Jan said she knew him in college." Janice hated being called Jan, but she let it pass. She had not told the women any more than more than that about Blaylock, did not want to cheapen her relationship with him. Besides, such conversation would inevitably lead to why it ended.

"Really?" Meg asked. She arched an eyebrow at Janice, whose resolve to behave crumbled even faster.

"He's a cutie, isn't he?" threw in Lang.

Meg shrugged. "I suppose so," she said.

"Not your type, eh?" Porter asked with a grin.

"Not quite," Meg said mysteriously. Her blue eyes flickered in Janice's direction. Is that a sign from God? the archaeologist thought hopefully.

The two women continued to wax poetic on Blaylock's looks. Janice took a swig from the flask and handed it to Meg. Here goes nothing, she thought. If she slugs me, hopefully she won't tell them why. She let her hand stray over to Meg's thigh and with a delicate, slow, sensuous stroke ran her fingers along the muscular leg.

Meg sputtered and coughed as she drank from the flask.

"Want some milk instead, honey?" Porter laughed.

Janice grinned. "Well girls, it's been swell, but I should go..." She stood up and indulged in a full body stretch, her eyes catching Meg’s. "I think I'll get some air on deck first, before bed." She hoped the others didn't take it as an invitation to follow her up. They didn't, thankfully, and they bade Janice goodnight.

Once again she was on deck, near the entrance. The night watch was far away, near the stern of the ship, and luckily he wouldn't be back around for another quarter hour.

Ten minutes later, Meg stood in the portal leading up to the deck. Spotting her, or rather her long, shadowy figure, Janice jumped down to greet her. In the dim light she saw the Englishwoman's face, confused and wary. Carefully she cradled the face in her hands and gently brought it down to her own, where their lips met. As the soft kiss expanded over seconds, Janice's hand brushed Meg's face, then her neck, where she felt the woman's erratic, throbbing pulse. With a gasp for air Meg broke the kiss. "Jesus Christ all mighty," she murmured.

Janice left a hand on Meg's cheek. "You've never done this before, have you?" she asked gently.

"No."

"If you don't want to, I'll stop. And I won't bother you again."

The tall woman gulped. "That's what I'm afraid of."

*****

They ended up in a supply room. Groping through the darkness, Janice found a blanket and placed it on the floor; there was just enough room to lie down.

Hours later, the gray light of morning filtered through the room. Janice, awake, was sitting against a wall. She knew they should get back to the barracks area immediately, but Meg still dozed in her arms and was sprawled over the archaeologist's lower body. Her nude form was covered haphazardly with both their coats. It felt good. There was no denying that. She stroked Meg's shoulders, the skin smooth and taut over the muscles. Overall, the Englishwoman was broader, heavier, more muscular than Mel was. Not that Mel had a bad body; no, not at all. You have the lean look of an underfed academic, she had teased the Southern scholar during that night they spent together. Well Janice, if you don't like what you see, you should go. Mel had replied with her aristocratic hauteur. If you do, then I believe you should just shut up and kiss me. Needless to say, Janice had opted for the latter.

This isn't good, to think of Mel while I'm holding another woman, Janice chastised herself. But why else did I sleep with her, other than she looks like the woman I'm in love with? She squeezed her eyes shut upon admitting this truth. Simultaneously she tightened the embrace around the slumbering figure, wishing for all the world that the woman in her desperate grasp was Mel.

*****

In the mess that morning, Blaylock stood in line with Janice for breakfast. "What happened to your finger, Covington?" he asked casually, looking down at the white bandage covering the middle finger of Janice's right hand.

"I caught it in a door, sir, " Janice replied uneasily, since she was, as Mel put it, the world's most inept liar.

"I see you've had it taken of, Covington. Good," Blaylock said perfunctorily. Then, under his breath, he whispered to her, "Why don't I believe that for a minute?"

"Because you know me very well," Janice hissed back. Shaking his head in mock resignation, Blaylock headed for the officers' table, and she toward a table of WACs including the terribly hung-over Porter and Lang. The Brits sat by themselves. As she sat down with her comrades, Janice caught Meg's brilliant blues boring into her, as the Englishwoman sipped tea.

*****

Chaos. They were unloaded off the ship and immediately ushered into trucks; Janice barely had a moment to orient herself. Blaylock and the other officers, however, were stalled, waiting for radio dispatches. The women were restless, and many got out of trucks to stretch their legs, talk, smoke cigarettes, and stare at the jagged cliffs of Normandy.

With a cigarette drooping from her lips, Janice scanned the area for a sign of Meg. She headed toward the truck which carried all the British ambulance drivers. No Meg, she noted, as she nodded greetings to some of the familiar faces. With a sigh she walked away, and past an empty truck. She did not notice Meg jumping out of the back of the truck as she walked by. The large, handsome woman snagged Janice's arm from behind, rough yet friendly, and spun the smaller woman into her arms. She plucked the cigarette from Janice's lips.

Janice started to laugh but was silenced by a kiss, the soft yet imperious lips crushing into her own, her mouth yielding to a gentle warmth. "Wanted to say so long," Meg said, when she withdrew her lips from Janice's.

"Hell of way to say goodbye. Not that I'm complaining."

"Yeah, well, take care of yourself." The laconic Meg paused, at a loss. "Uh, I'm sorry. About your finger." She blushed. Last night in the supply room, as Meg continued to grow louder and louder, Janice had clapped her hand over the woman's mouth at the crucial moment, and Meg savagely bit into a finger. Luckily no stitches were required, so she had sneaked into the infirmary that morning and put disinfectant and a bandage on the wound.

Janice returned the blush. "It was worth it, don't you think?" she said.

*****

Gabrielle was roused out of a light sleep by the shouting and cries outside. She jumped up, grabbed her staff, and went outside. Ephiny was running toward her. "Come quickly," she said tersely. With the regent in the lead, they ran together to the healer's hut. A crowd of Amazons were outside the hut, but made a pathway for Ephiny and their Queen.

Opening the door, Gabrielle saw Xena and Lydia, the healer, standing over the broken and bloodied body of Ilona, one of the scouts, which lay on a table. She had been chosen to deliver the message to Petrus, requesting a meeting.

Gabrielle closed her eyes at the sight. Then opened them. "Is she...?" she asked quietly.

Both Lydia and Xena nodded.

"What happened?"

"The others scouts found her a few miles west of here. Right at our border," Ephiny said.

Xena approached Gabrielle. "This was attached to the body," she said, handing the bard a torn scroll fragment, stained with blood.

Gabrielle read it silently. "It's a declaration of war," she said flatly.

Ephiny exchanged a glance with Xena. And both looked at Gabrielle. "Well, what do we do, Gabrielle?" the regent asked calmly. "This is not a test. It's the real thing."

The Queen's moist eyes lingered on the dead woman before them. "What choice do I possibly have?"

*****

"I'm not a soldier."

"I know."

"This goes against everything I believe in."

"I know."

"I'm not even sure why I'm doing this."

"I know."

"Xena!" The bard raised an angry finger. "You're doing it again..." she growled in a warning tone.

"I...know." The warrior could not help herself. The tension broke, and they grinned at each other.

They were in the hut. A frantic day of preparations had passed: meetings with the centaurs, the villagers in Herrara, discussions of military defense and strategies where, for the most part, Gabrielle felt utterly lost. She did suggest immediate evacuation of children into the mountainside, where, she hoped, they would be safe. They would meet Petrus and his men on the field of battle in two days.

The Queen halted her pacing of the hut, and regarded the warrior, who sat, loose-limbed and slightly tired from the day's exertions, in a chair. My lover, she thought. Earlier in the day she watched Xena, on Argo, gallop past a lineup of warriors, inspecting them, talking to them, inspiring them. How ironic, I pick a true warrior as a mate. She should be leading the Amazons, not me. Although it was true Xena was officially in charge of the Amazon army for this battle.

The warrior noted the thoughtful look of her lover. "What is it?" Xena prompted.

"Nothing...I'm just glad you're on my side."

The most famous blue eyes in the known world held a warmth few had seen. "Gabrielle, I will always be on your side."

*****

June, 1944

Jack sat in Mel's hotel room, watching the tall, elegant woman carefully pack her bag.

"Tell me again," Jack said, "who is this guy?"

Mel drew a deep breath. She had grown fond of Jack in the past several months. He had been enormously kind and caring during her illness; he brought her books, flowers, newspapers while she languished in the hospital, and upon her release in the late spring, proudly told her that he found out where Janice was stationed: in London. But sometimes he was like a giant child, and one had to tell him the same information over and over again, as if it were all some fantastic story to him.

"His name is Anton Frobisher, Jack. He's an old friend of my father's. He's an army colonel running a civilian intelligence unit in London." She had sent a telegram to Frobisher weeks ago, asking if she could stay with him in London, and if he could find work for her. His response came by courier from the Embassy: He had arranged a flight for her to London, lodgings of her own, and a job.

"Okay, right. And you're going to translate stuff for him?"

"Yes, for the military," she amended.

"London's a crazy place to be right now, Melinda." D-Day had transpired only a mere two weeks prior. "The Germans are bombing the hell out of London."

"I know."

"You could get really hurt. Even killed."

"I know."

"And Janice might—" he swallowed.

"Jack!" she cried, a little too sharply. Yes, she might be dead for all I know. She took a moment to regain her composure, and shut the lid of the valise. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

"It's okay. Look, it's bad enough I have to worry about Janice being there, but now you..." he sighed.

"I understand, Jack. But believe me, I have no intention of being killed. And I'm sure Janice doesn't either." She paused. Although I wonder sometimes...given the way she left. She shook the thought from her mind.

"Yeah, well it was a stupid thing, her running off like that."

As if he were reading my mind...well, he loves her too, in his way. She smiled. "I won't argue with you on that." She started to pick up her baggage, but Jack jumped up to help her. "Here, lemme..." he started to grab everything at once, then remembered something. "Hey, wait!" He dropped a suitcase, narrowly missing Mel's toes, and pulled something out of his shirtpocket. "I wanted to give you this before I left. Thought you might like to have it." He smiled shyly and handed it to Mel.

It was a photo of her and Janice in Macedonia, taken, in fact, minutes after they had escaped Ares' tomb. Jack, ever the tourist, snapped the photo before either one of them could protest. They both looked like hell; Mel's hair was loose and tangled wildly about her head, her clothes were torn, sweaty, and dirty. And, she remembered, although the photo chopped them off at the waist, that she had been barefoot. Nonetheless she faced the camera, with a feral yet genuinely happy grin. Janice too was dirty and disheveled, her dusty fedora perched on her head. But her gaze was directed not at the camera but at Mel; it was a strange, contemplative smile, as if she were seeing Mel for the first time. It was, Mel thought, a look she had never seen on the moody young woman's face. That's a Mona Lisa smile if I ever saw one, Mel thought. Or rather, it's more like an angel's, a sculpture atop a church doorway. Full of mystery, love, and promise. The smaller woman's arm was around her, and Mel swore she could still remember the sensation of Janice's hand pressing into her back. It was at that moment in Macedonia that everything started to fall into place: why she was so compelled to travel halfway around the world to meet a stranger, why she was fascinated by the Xena scrolls, and why she instantly felt drawn to Janice Covington. It was an ancient bond.

She let herself laugh for the first time in a year. She hugged Jack, who almost seemed to swoon at the contact, and they headed for the airport.

*****

A vast field, which formed the border along the Amazon and centaur territories, served as the arena where the battle would be fought. Petrus's troops were coming in from the north. A line of Amazons and centaurs, united, gathered along the southern slope.

Gabrielle was perched atop Argo. "You are the Queen. You must ride a horse," Xena had insisted earlier in the day; Argo, the one horse with whom Gabrielle was most familiar, was the obvious choice. The Warrior Princess herself had found, in the woods, the untamed horse named Beast that once belonged to Solari. When she had rode the black steed bareback into the village, tied a rope around him, and led him to the stables, Solari's curses knew no bounds.

Now Solari stood with the others, as they all waited. A light breeze tantalized their senses. Gabrielle stroked Argo nervously, shifting under the weight of the sword strapped to her waist ("You must carry a sword, too," the laconic Xena said.) "Perhaps he changed his mind," she said to Xena.

"I think not," the warrior replied grimly.

"How can you be so sure, Xena?"

"I smell them." Within minutes the army had crested the horizon and faced them.

Gabrielle contemplated the group facing them. While it was true that the Amazons and centaurs outnumbered the warriors, Xena's scouting reports indicated that these men were not all rag-tag wannabes. She suspected that many of Petrus's men had followed him when he left the Athenian army (for Xena had correctly identified him).

I have one last chance.

She stretched over the space that separated her mount from Xena's and caught the warrior's lips in a kiss. This sensual bribe did not fool the warrior: Xena's hand gripped her arm. "What are you going to do?" she asked Gabrielle in a low voice.

"Talk to him," the Amazon Queen replied, hoping that calm pervaded her voice. "It's worth a chance, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose." Xena scanned the opposing army again, just to give her worried eyes something else to look at.

"You're afraid." Gabrielle said simply, softly.

"Of course."

The bard was rather stunned. "I never thought I'd hear you admit that. About anything."

"I don't want to lose you. Not now." She still pretended to examine her opponents.

"You won't ever lose me, Xena." She paused. "I love you."

The warrior nodded, squeezed her eyes shut for a second. Then opened them. "Go," she said. "Go quickly."

Gabrielle spurred Argo into motion. The butter-colored mare galloped across the field. From the other side, a man on a horse was riding out to meet her halfway.

Slowly he came into view. She had expected him to look larger, more imposing, and purely evil. Instead he was merely another man, another warlord. Average height and build, with a neatly trimmed graying beard. His colorless eyes lacked expression as well, and he regarded her coolly as she slowed Argo to a halt. "You're the little Queen," he said dryly.

"And you're the big bad warlord. Greetings." Damn that annoying tendency to be flippant.

"Have you come to surrender?"

"No, I came to see if you would surrender."

He laughed. "You have guts. And I'll probably see them spilled all over the ground before the day is over."

"I don't think so." She paused for a breath. "I don't want to see anyone's blood on this field. Not mine, not yours, none of my people's. And none of your men's. Take your troops and turn around. Go away from here and leave us in peace."

"You are an admirable woman, my Queen. I expected you to be more foolish." He smiled at her; it was sad and bitter. "But your way is not my way. I want this land. I shall take it."

"You'll take nothing. I have a valuable ally." I might as well play the trump card.

He looked at her expectantly, with amused tolerance, as if he were playing with a child. "Yes?"

"The Warrior Princess."

"Ah, you mean that dark beauty you were kissing?" His lightheartedness, under the circumstances, was nauseating to her.

She was impressed. "You have good eyesight."

"And you have good taste. I envy you, having a woman like Xena in your bed. I hope your goodbyes were satisfying." He placed a hand on his sword hilt. "Now, shall we get on with it?" He drew the blade; before he could aim a blow Argo wisely skittered out of his reach. As the mare nimbly backed away, Gabrielle turned to her troops. She drew the sword at her side, and held it aloft. With that signal given, the battle began.

[faveficarchive]

I’ve Been to Pocatello, but I’ve Never Been to Me

Another White Trash Tale of Depravity, Soul-Searching, and Potato Chips

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: This is the fourth installment in the White Trash Series. Gabrielle learns all about Zina’s dark past when a few unwanteds wander back into her girlfriend’s life.

1. An Interlude in the Manner of Pinky and the Brain

"Gabrielle, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I think so, baby. I'll go get your fire helmet and the nacho cheese dip."

"No, I'm not thinking about that."

"Okay. Let me try again." A hopeful pause. A batting of fair eyelashes. A comely pout. "Your fire helmet and the vibrator?"

Zina sighed. Her fire helmet—the penultimate symbol of her profession, a badge of pride, a lifesaving device—had been reduced, by Gabrielle, to both a fetish object and a receptacle for foodstuffs. She was just grateful that Gabrielle had decided the helmet was ill-suited for use as a pitcher for margaritas (her hair had smelled like tequila for weeks). "I'm thinking…"

"Always a bad sign, baby."

"…like maybe we should go to the movies."

Gabrielle regarded her skeptically. "Really?" She loved to go to movie theaters, but since Zina found the entire experience stressful—dealing with large, inane groups of people was not the firefighter's forte—they did not go very often.

Zina cleared her throat. This "being sensitive" shit is really hard. "Listen, Gabrielle, I thought, you know, you deserve a night out, a night where we do something different…'cause, uh, I know your finals were hard."

"I agree, absolutely. So like I said, let me go get your helmet and the vibrator…"

"Now, how is that special? We've done that plenty of times."

"Well, this time I'll let you wear the helmet, stud." With a wiggle of her eyebrows, Gabrielle ran upstairs. Grinning, Zina followed. She was more than willing to do whatever it would take to make the little poet happy…especially when it involves sex, thought the firefighter, as she took the steps two at a time.

*****

Cyrene stepped out of her Volkswagen, humming the crazy violin part of "Baba O'Riley," her head bobbing up and down, and approached the front door of the farmhouse. She lingered on the porch as she peered into the daunting recesses of her macramé purse, looking for the house keys, something that was hard to do in the evening light. A full fifteen minutes passed, during which she found some Chiclets from 1977 and the results of an VD test from 1990 (Hey, I'm negative! Cool!), before she finally found the keys. Still humming, she entered the darkened home that her daughter shared with Gabrielle. She wound her way through the black hallway to the kitchen, where she snapped on the light. She clapped her hands together and rubbed them briskly. Okay, I've got a half an hour before the meeting, just enough time to make hummus…

"Ayiyyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyi!" The strange cry ripped through the room and, not wasting any time, Cyrene grabbed the nearest butcher knife and, with a less exotic shriek of her own, jumped on the kitchen counter. Her daughter was crouched in the doorway, nude, ready to pounce, wielding a baseball bat…and with a fire helmet ever so slightly askance on her head.

"Jesus, Zina!" Cyrene cried, as her adrenaline rush subsided. "What the fuck was that?"

Zina grinned. "Just a little something I picked up from the Discovery Channel," she said proudly. "Didn't know you could still jump that fast, Mom." She rose to her full height and leaned the bat in a corner. "Sorry. I thought you were a burglar or somethin'."

"I didn't think you were home, honey. Gabrielle said I could use the house tonight for an LPN group meeting."

"LPN?" Zina echoed. Her mother wanted to become a nurse?

Cyrene sighed. Another disbeliever. "Legalize Pot Now."

The firefighter snorted. "Oh, for Christ's sake."

Cyrene jabbed a finger of maternal authority at Zina. "Yeah, man, scoff all you want. All I can say if it weren't for pot, you wouldn't be here right now!" Somehow a Chevy van, a bottle of Boone's Hill strawberry wine, an 8-track tape of Badfinger, and a draft dodger with a droopy mustache had appeared all the more erotic and alluring under the influence of a fat joint.

Footsteps on the stairs announced Gabrielle's arrival. The lithe poet had taken a minute to make herself presentable for dangerous felons, and had thrown on a t-shirt and shorts. But her mussed hair, reddened lips, and flushed face announced, louder than a Siegfried and Roy show at Vegas, what she and her hunky firefighter had been up to. "Cyrene? What the hell—"

"You forgot, didn't you?" Cyrene accused gently.

"Oh…shit! I did! I'm sorry." She apologized to two generations of bad-ass chicks at once. Both scowled at her. "Uh, Zina, didn't you say you wanted to go to the movies?"

2. Mrs. Peel, We're Needed

The trip to the movies also involved babysitting Purdy, who was having a fight with Lila. He had called up Gabrielle a few minutes before they were about to leave for the theater, to see if she wanted to get drunk at the Saddle. Soft-hearted little poet that she was, she invited him along. "Is that okay?" she sheepishly asked Zina after the fact.

Zina shrugged. "Sure."

"Zina, you're so nice to Purdy. It's sweet."

"I figure anyone who dumped you for your sister needs some special treatment, if you know what I mean." She waggled a finger in a circle alongside her head.

They met Purdy at the theater. He stood, sulky, in the parking lot, leaning against his Ford pickup, John Deere cap pulled low in an attempt to make his babyfat face more menacing. "Hiya, Gab, Hiya Zina," he greeted. "So, what movie are we seeing?"

Gabrielle smirked with pride. "The Avengers."

Purdy made a face. "Gab, you always pick these artsy-fartsy foreign films!"

Zina nodded in agreement. "Yeah! With these snooty British people or something," she piped up.

"Knock it off, both o' you. I'll have you know that things blow up in this movie, and that Uma Thurman chick runs around wearing leather. It can't be bad."

A skeptical grunt issued forth from the firefighter as they headed into the multiplex. After they bought tickets, Gabrielle immediately took off in the direction of the concession stand. But she didn’t get very far before Zina snagged her arm. "Don't do it," her companion purred in her ear.

Such a suggestive, seductive tone made the blonde poet want to do it even more. "I don't know what you're talking about," she protested, lying, trying to squirm out of Zina's grip.

"You know what I mean, Gabrielle. Don't do it. Don't give in."

Gabrielle stopped thrashing and met Zina's eyes. "Okay, okay. I won't. I swear."

The blue eyes held her gaze for a moment. "All right, then." The firefighter released her. "Get me a Coke, okay? See you down front." She headed for the theater.

As Gabrielle waited patiently in line, she drank in the smell of rancid popcorn and butter. Popcorn. I'll just get some popcorn. With feigned casualness she surveyed the boxes of candy in the display case; the green eyes flickered and hesitated for a nanosecond at the Raisinet boxes, but then continued their thorough scan of the candy. Okay, that was fine. I didn't feel a thing.

Nonetheless she turned away abruptly and studied the faded wallpaper. Oh my…that's a nice pattern. I never thought green and brown could work together like that...Then she turned her attention to a new movie poster: Weekend at Bernie's 3: "This Time It's Personal…Hygiene."

Then the voices began.

Gabrielle.

No! She clutched her forehead. "I'm not listening," she muttered aloud, causing a glance from the burly gentleman in front of her wearing a cowboy hat and a Charlie Daniels Band t-shirt.

Gabrielle! It's us. Please listen!!!

"Stop it!" Gabrielle growled. The large cowboy shifted away from her slightly.

You must listen. Only you can set us free. Gabrielllllllllllle…

"No!"

Look at us.

She shook her head savagely.

Come. Look. Or do you fear us?

Timidly the poet turned, slowly, and looked.

The box of Raisinets glowed with a preternatural beauty, even more striking than Zina in full firefighter regalia (or buck naked for that matter), and the voices of the Raisinets, blending together with mellow effervescence and sounding precisely like the two midget women in that little box from the Mothra movies, sang their siren song of freedom to their golden-haired liberator: Gabriellllllle…buy us, eat us!

"Ohhhhh…all right!" screamed the poet, scaring away not only the Charlie Daniels guy but also the couple in front of him, and thus effectively shortening the line.

Arms cradling the Coke, the popcorn, a bunch of candy bars, and the evil Raisinets, Gabrielle waddled down the aisle to where her companions sat. She tossed a giant Kit Kat bar at Purdy and thrust a Coke at Zina; both firefighter and mechanic noted the Raisinets lying in her lap.

"Don't say anything," Gabrielle snarled at them.

A long silence ensued. It was finally broken by Purdy's guffaw. "You'll be on the can all night long, then havin' bad dreams," he chastised her. "Man, I am so glad I don't live with you anymore!"

She gave a lunge toward him, sending popcorn flying, but was restrained by Zina's powerful arm. "Down, girl," said the firefighter.

"They…they…" stammered Gabrielle.

"Yeah, I know, honey bunny, they were talking to you…" Zina replied, as if Gabrielle were a reject from the Special Olympics.

"They were!" wailed the poet, as the previews began.

Twenty minutes later, as Zina snored through a trailer for a Brad Pitt film, Purdy, arms folded, threatened once again: "This better be good."

"It can't be bad," assured Gabrielle, whose childlike faith in Hollywood, while tremendously touching, was sorely misplaced, misguided, and plainly retarded.

*****

It was bad.

"How stupid could I be!" cried Gabrielle, as they left the theater for the lobby. "To think that anyone else could be Mrs. Peel!"

"Well, duh," Zina agreed.

"But things sure blowed up pretty good," Purdy said. Zina nodded in assent.

It was all that mattered, really.

"Hey, isn't that Callie over there?" Gabrielle asked apprehensively, grasping her beloved's arm and nodding to a small, poorly dressed group that circled the front of the multiplex and carried strange signs: "THE AVENGERS" PROMOTES UNNATURAL CLOTHES, one said. LEATHER IS FOR BOOTS ONLY, proclaimed another.

Sure enough, the crazed blonde was in the eye of the protesting storm. However, upon spotting the movie-going trio of Zina, Gabrielle, and Purdy, she bore down on them like a bulimic toward a toilet bowl.

"Well!" sniped Callie by way of greeting, "I can guess what sick film you three have been seeing."

Zina rolled her eyes. "Callie, you are pathetic. There was nothing weird in that film. Hell, it was so boring I fell asleep who knows how many times."

"Five," supplied Gabrielle, with some measure of irritation.

"It figures you wouldn't notice the fine details, Zina," Callie sneered haughtily. "The clothing was scandalous and suggestive. It was perverted." Even speaking of the dreaded film caused Callie to grip her jumbo-sized Sprite a little tighter, even though her hand could barely get around it as it was.

"So I take it you actually saw the film?" Gabrielle asked coolly.

"No, of course not! I'm not spending money to see such filth!"

"Lady, you are bonkers," Purdy mumbled.

"What?" hissed Callie.

"You heard me!" he retorted defiantly.

She threw her drink at him, drenching him with sticky carbonated coolness. "You crazy bitch! This is my best flannel shirt!" he cried as she stalked away from them.

"Yeah! You get back here, you bitch!" Gabrielle shouted. She tried to take off after Callie, but found Zina's restraining arm around her midriff.

"What the hell's gotten into you?" Zina asked, perturbed that Gabrielle would get so upset over such a matter—of course, it would have been different had Callie thrown the drink on her, then it would be acceptable for Gabrielle to flip out. But over Purdy? She makes absolutely no sense when she's PMSing, thought Zina, who nonetheless enjoyed the sensation of the wiggling Gabrielle pressed against her.

"She's pushed me too far, Zina! I can't have her throwing drinks at my ex-boyfriend! I got my pride!"

"Yeah, and it's pretty warped, I'd say."

"Lemme go!" demanded the angry poet.

"Gabrielle, don't you remember once…you told me the cycle of violence and hatred must be broken…."

Finally Gabrielle slipped out of the firefighter's loose grasp. "For Christ's sake, Zina, I had four shots of tequila when I said that! Now lemme go kick that twat's ass!" She stomped over to Callie for a Meeting of the Blondes. A brief interaction ensued: Callie, motionless, with eyebrows raised, watched Gabrielle gesticulate all over the place.

It ended with one punch.

Zina was amazed at how quickly Callie could run in heels. The minister was in her Camaro and tearing out of the parking lot before she and Purdy reached the prostrate poet.

"Gabrielle?" The firefighter gently shook the unconscious form. Her frightened blue eyes locked onto the anxious Purdy. "Quick, get some chocolate!"

*****

"Mrs. Peel?" The voice, with its clipped British accent, was vaguely familiar to Gabrielle. Nonetheless her eyelids refused to open until she felt something soft tapping her cheeks.

Willpower pried open her eyes, which could not believe what they were seeing.

It was Zina, kneeling in front of her, grinning, wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit and a bowler hat, a white carnation gracing her lapel. "Mrs. Peel, are you all right?" Zina asked again, in impeccable, more-upper-class -than-thou English tones.

Those goddamn Raisinets!!!! She tried blinking several times in hopes of dispelling the hallucination. No go. "Is it Halloween again?" she whispered timidly.

Zina frowned. "I say, my dear, you simply are not yourself. You even sound different, Mrs. Peel."

Why does she keep…Gabrielle tried to move and her body, which felt taut, tense, and immobile, made a strange, flatulent noise. She looked down the length of her form. She was clad in a tight black leather bodysuit and boots.

…calling me that? She was attired just like Mrs. Peel. "Oh, God," she moaned. She looked at Zina, who was still looking ever so concerned in a restrained, British kinda way.

"So. You must be Steed." Gabrielle ventured the guess nervously.

The tall, dark-haired woman smiled at that. "Verrrry good," she replied with imperial condescension. "Now, do you remember anything else?"

Gabrielle gritted her teeth as she attempted to sit up again, which elicited a protracted farting noise from her leather outfit. This time she was successful. "Like what?"

"Ohhh, let's see," Zina sighed in thought, "The Cybernauts? The Hellfire Club? Castle De'Ath?"

"Uh…yeah. I do." Except I wasn't Mrs. Peel, I was only sitting on the floor in the living room eating Screaming Yellow Zonkers and wishing I were her.

"Encouraging!" replied Zina/Steed.

And they were off, driving through the countryside, drinking champagne, listening to Petula Clark…. Downtown!

She held out her glass for more champagne (and how did Steed manage to pour and drive at the same time?) but when she brought it to her lips there was a telegram inside the glass. "What's this?" she asked.

"Good news, Mrs. Peel. Your husband, Purdy Peel, has been found in the Amazon…"

In an Amazon? Surely not Effie! "My husband? But I—I was never married!" wailed Gabrielle.

"So I'm afraid it's time for all our glamorous adventures to come to an end…"

"They can't!"

"But you must do your duty…"

"No!"

The Bentley entered a tunnel. All was darkness….

….and Gabrielle opened her eyes. She was back home, in the bedroom she shared with Zina, and the tall firefighter was sitting on the bed, watching her with concern. Fortunately, sans the bowler hat.

"Sugar booger!" she cried, sitting up. She flung her arms around Zina.

"Gabrielle! How are you feeling, honey?" Zina gave her girlfriend a squeeze, a kiss on the cheek, and rubbed her back.

"Better. Baby, I had this crazy dream—"

"Didn't I tell you not to eat the Raisinets?"

"I know. But this was different somehow...."

"You mean you have diarrhea this time?"

"No! Zina, listen. I was going through a tunnel, and you know that usually means—"

"Sex!" Zina's sapphire eyes lit up like a gas grill.

"Yeah, but it scared me a little. Like I feel the tunnel represents something else. 'Cause I was afraid to go through it. You know how I hate change…like I was ready to kill you when you got a different kind of toilet paper. But I think this is something serious, something I gotta think about. Like what I'm gonna do with my life. And what everything means. I feel like this dream was trying to impart some important message to me about my life, my writing…but what the bowler hat represented, I have no idea…" Gabrielle trailed off, and so had Zina's infant-like attention span—the baby blues were focused on the switchblade she pulled out of her pocket. With a flick of the wrist, Zina began to pare her nails. Gabrielle cleared her throat loudly. "Honey, do me a favor. Would you get that big book out of the bathroom for me?"

Zina nodded. Still fiddling with the switchblade, she shuffled into the bathroom. Five minutes passed. The toilet flushed. "I don't see anything!" she finally cried.

You damn—"It's under your copy of Guns and Ammo!" Gabrielle yelled.

A pause. "Oh." Zina returned, with a large hardcover tome. It was titled The Woman's Dictionary of Symbols, Signs, and Secret Meanings: Dream Interpretation for Quasi-Feminists. The book had been a Christmas gift from Cyrene. With the book splayed in her lap, Gabrielle flipped pages until she reached this entry, nestled between "Bowl of Oatmeal" and "Butane Lighters":

BOWLER HATS: Traditionally seen as a symbol of male bourgeoisie, the bowler hat takes on subversive meaning in dreams when it is worn by a woman. Its black color represents power, and the round, curvaceous shape calls to mind the feminine form. Nominally the dream figure wearing the hat is seen as powerful, a person whose acceptance of self is something that you strive for.

Gabrielle looked at her companion skeptically. Zina was flipping the switchblade in her hand, then, with a sudden growl and a cry of "Hee-yah!" flung the blade across the room until it landed, bull's eye, in a decrepit dart board. She smirked with pride.

"Zina, I'm having a spiritual crisis kinda thing going on. Least you could do is leave the switchblade alone."

The firefighter blinked and looked at her girlfriend. "Oh. Yeah, sorry, Gabrielle." Like a scolded puppy she returned to the bed.

"Maybe this is why I'm having a writer’s block, too," mused the blonde.

"Don't worry, honey, you'll get your groove back." Zina admired her neatly trimmed nails, then shot Gabrielle a sly, lusty look. "We could have sex—that usually helps you write."

"Yeah, but I usually end up writing epic poems about your thighs. Not that that isn't a worthy subject, but…no. I gotta work this out. It's like a…quest. A spiritual quest, you know?"

"No." No, of course not. For Zina, a spiritual quest would be finding the perfect hunting knife.

"Well, it is. I have to discover who I am, and what my life means, and find inner peace."

They were quiet for a long minute. "I still think sex would help," Zina finally said.

Gabrielle pondered this. "Better safe than sorry." She peeled off her shirt.

3. Anything that Moves

The following day found Gabrielle answering a fateful knock at the door.

She blinked at the tall, dark stranger on the doorstep. "I am looking for Zina." He spoke heavily accented English.

Mentally, Gabrielle pulled out the Zina Ex-Lover Checklist (Male Version):

1. Does he have overstyled facial hair? Yes! Not as weird as Artie's, though.

2. Long and/or dark hair? Uh-huh.

3. Muscular and/or dangerous looking, like he just got out of prison? Absolutely.

4. An obvious death wish? We'll soon find out.

The Male Version of the Checklist did certainly help narrow the field a bit, unlike the Female Version, which was:1. Blonde?She leaned in the doorway. "Okay, man, I got your number. Welcome to Zinaholics Anonymous. I'm Gabrielle, and I can't sponsor you, because I'm a happy addict."

The man scowled at her. "A simple 'hello' would work just as well."

"Who are you?"

This did not erase his look of displeasure. "My name is Boris. I have come to see Zina about…" He paused melodramatically. "…our puppy."

"Puppy?"

"Da. We had puppy together…many years ago."

"A puppy?" Gabrielle gasped. Talk about commitment! Zina never wants us to have a pet! Every time I bring it up…"Too much responsibility, Gabrielle." She stomped over to the foot of the stairs. "Zina!" she roared up into the air. "Get your ass down here now!"

Various curses filtered down from the second floor of the house. "All right, all right, goddammit." A clunk emanating from above indicated that a barbell was threatening to come crashing through the ceiling. Sleek, sweaty, and pumped, Zina trooped down the stairs. And stopped just before hitting the last step. "Boris," she snarled. "I thought you were dead!" Great, another ex for Gabrielle to deal with. I'll never hear the end of it.

He looked blank for a moment, then threw up his arms. "Can't you read? The telegram said Dagnine killed me in the chess tournament. Not in real life, you eeediot!" He shook his head, dismayed, then gave her a less severe scrutiny. "But…Stolichnaya!" he murmured. "You still look fabulous!"

The firefighter ignored this. "What the hell do you want?"

A hurt look crossed his face. "What a greeting! Zeeeeena, I have not seen you for…what? Ten years?"

"Seven."

"I thought that was when you met Julie Caesar," Gabrielle interjected.

"Ummm, maybe five."

"Who is Julie Caesar?" Boris said.

"Maybe it's closer to eight…" Zina mused.

"Or nine," added Gabrielle.

"Maybe I should ask Mom…"

"Zina, every other week your mother thinks it's 1972. I don't think so." Only a few days prior Cyrene had traipsed up to Gabrielle and said, "Hey, man, they're starting this cool thing called Earth Day! Wanna go?"

"Who is this Julie Caesar?" Boris demanded again.

"Look, dickhead, I'm the main squeeze here, not you, so stop acting jealous. Okay, Zina," Gabrielle pointed at Boris, "let's hear all about this one. I'm ready for another long, crude story about your past. I just bought a jumbo-sized tub of potato chips, so I'm set. Spill it."

"Gabrielle, I can't—it's just too damn ugly." There were few things Zina was truly ashamed of doing…but this part of her life, with Boris, was simply too painful and hideous to contemplate. And if she couldn't deal with it…what made Gabrielle think that she could?

"Come on, I know everything else, baby. The drug deals, the stolen cars, setting Callie's house on fire—"

"You set somebody's house on fire?" cried Boris, aghast. The Russian's eyes widened in horror.

"—the shoplifting, picking up a Girl Scout—"

"She told me she was a troop leader!" the firefighter blurted in feeble defense.

"—beating up your parole officer, all the ABBA albums you had—"

"Why won't you admit 'SOS' is a great song?"

"—so the point is, Zina, I know all the bad stuff, so…trust me. I love you. I married you. I wash your t-shirts. Tell me."

"You want the truth? You can handle the truth!" Zina roared.

A stunned silence followed.

The firefighter shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry. I always wanted to say that."

"Tell me," demanded the poet quietly, folding her arms.

The firefighter sighed in defeat, and her beautiful countenance hardened into a spiteful sneer. "You wanna hear about it? All right, Gabrielle, you asked for it…" Her jaw shifted defiantly. "Boris and I were semi-professional ice skaters. We spent years—well, I guess maybe only one—trying to make it big at the Pocatello Ice Follies."

"Pocatello…?" echoed the poet.

"Da," Boris affirmed. "It's a town in that—ahhhh, what do you Americans call your potato state?"

"Idaho," Zina supplied curtly. "Anyway, the Ice Follies….It's like a dry run for the Ice Capades."

Gabrielle backed up away from her beloved, and gripped the arm of the decrepit couch. No. Totally uncool! My big, tough macho dyke girlfriend…a figure skater?

"And we made Tonya Harding look good," Boris added glumly.

"Yeah, Boris is right. We were the worst of the worst. The lowest of the low. I wore a pink chiffon bodysuit. And Boris made Rudy Galindo look butch." The Russian scowled at this. "We performed to 'You Light Up My Life'…"

"And that cute song from Cats. What's it called, Zina?" Boris started to hum "Memory." Without thinking, Zina picked up the melody and did the same.

"STOP!" shrieked Gabrielle. Pink? Ice skating? Debby Boone? Eyes staring blankly, she sank numbly into the depths of the couch.

"Zeeeeena, I think she's in shock," Boris said, waving a hand in front of Gabrielle's glassy, fixed stare.

4. Another Obligatory Flashback

Practice ended badly; a poorly executed triple axle landed Zina on her ass and ripped her costume. Boris was supposed to catch her, but he was not on his mark, where he should have been, but was at the edge of the rink with Alti, their coach, indulging in a prolonged smoke and discussion about various brands of vodka. Furious, she stomped over to her oblivious lover, cold-cocked him (eliciting an evil cackle from Alti in the process), and stalked back to their trailer, which was parked outside the rink

She didn't hit him too hard—he was only unconscious for half an hour—and, as she anticipated, he skulked back to the trailer, apologetic, and they proceeded to make up by screwing frantically under the canopy of the fuzzy, musty panda bear blanket they had bought from Woolworth's a few months ago.

Afterwards, while she snored he threw on a pair of jeans and hunted for another bottle of vodka. Bah! She hid it again! Greedy bitch! He returned to the bedroom, determined to wake her up and find out where the vodka was. However, sitting down beside her, he was overtaken by a moment of tenderness as he watched her sleep. Softly, he called her name. "Zina."

She sputtered, drooled, and grunted. He smiled. How he loved her! Gently, he shook her naked shoulder. "Zina, my beloved. Light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul, Zeeeena—"

A bleary blue eye cracked open and glared at him. "We're outta condoms, so don't even think about it."

He laughed merrily. "My darling, your crudeness is so charming. No, I just wanted to tell you…" His dark eyes were solemn. "I think I love you."

Like a cultural Pavlov's dog, all Zina could think about was the Partridge Family. The big yellow bus! Danny Bonaduce! Susan Dey in all her bitchy glory! "I think I'm gonna puke." She rolled over.

"This was not the reaction I had hoped for."

"Too fucking bad."

"It's all this…stress, all this nonsense that's making you act like this." He disregarded the fact that she had always been like this, even when they were trying to open up the Chinese/Tex-Mex restaurant with Lao Ma. He still shuddered involuntarily at the thought of it; he loved her, without a doubt, but he was damned if she didn't have the weirdest ideas when it came to food. And why Lao Ma indulged her…Well, I know why Lao Ma indulged her, he thought darkly, reflecting upon that miserable day when he caught them together. She was just washing my hair, Zina had said, and then we both got all wet, so we took off all our clothes to dry, but there weren't any towels, so we were just rubbing our bodies together—just to get dry!

But oh, Zina, if that's true, then why were you still…so wet? He wanted to cry, the pain of the betrayal was still so fresh. But he forced back the thoughts. "Zina, please," he continued. "I mean it. We could be so happy if we only stopped doing this…crap. Let's face it, neither one of us can skate to save our own lives."

Her body rippled with a sigh.

"You know I'm right," he pushed.

"Yeah, I guess you are," she conceded. "We should talk to Alti later and tell her it's not workin' out. Right now, I wanna sleep."

Unfortunately, a banging commenced upon the semi-sturdy door of the trailer. "Go the fuck away!" Zina shouted, pulling the blanket over her head.

He sighed. Apparently the Big Love Discussion would have to wait as well. He padded over to the door and opened it. It was Alti, a Pall Mall dangling (as always) from her lips, her mascara heavy and smeared, making her look like a cross between an aging Cure fan and an insomniac raccoon. "Boris, is she all right?" She nodded toward the bedroom.

"Is she all right?" he spat, incredulous. "She's the one who hit me!" Furious, he pointed at his swollen nose.

"Whatever," Alti grunted. "Can we come in for a moment?" It was at the mention of "we" that Boris noted a lithe blonde woman, wearing a short coat and a skirt, hovering inconspicuously behind Alti.

He frowned with suspicion. "I guess." He stepped aside to let them in, and

shouted in the direction of the bedroom, "Zina! We got company! Get dressed!"

A minute passed and the sullen Zina sauntered into the main room, wearing black underwear and a tank top.

"Now that's what I call dressed," Alti rasped with approval in her Brenda Vaccaro voice.

Boris, who had pulled on a sweatshirt, folded his arms and scowled. Ignoring them all, Zina headed for the kitchen and returned with a Heineken.

"What, you don't offer our guests anything?" Boris snapped at her.

"Fuck you. What am I, a maid?"

"Why, I ought to—" he raised a hand. She hissed at him.

Alti groaned. "As fascinating as I find this, we need to talk."

"About what?" Zina asked.

"Schedule change. The first performance of the Follies this season is next week at the Shriners' Arena, so we gotta pick up our pace."

"A week?" Boris gasped. "I thought it was in three weeks."

"It was. But the Militia Job Fair is all that week, in downtown Pocatello, so they moved it up to this week."

"Bastards!" snarled Boris.

"Look, Boris, what does it matter?" Zina said impatiently. "We might as well tell her now." She turned to Alti. "We were just talking about this whole thing a few minutes ago. Alti, we're sick of the skating. We're no good at it. So we're quitting."

Rage contorted the visage of the Mascara'ed One. "What? You can't quit! We have an agreement!"

"Screw the agreement," Zina retorted. "I'm not doing it anymore. I'm sick of wearing pink chiffon and skating to Whitney Houston."

"Should I let you pick the music?" Alti growled. "If I did, you would be banging your head on the ice to AC/DC."

Zina groaned. "Look, I just want out."

Alti looked to Boris, who was quiet, his face expressionless. "What do you think, Boris?"

"She speaks for us both," the Russian proclaimed.

"I see," Alti rumbled. She turned her head slightly, catching the attention of the blonde woman, who stepped out from behind the skating coach. "Well, I guess if that's your decision, Zina, then it's done. Oh, by the way, have I introduced you to my…new assistant?"

With a sensual shrug, the Blonde's short jacket fell away, revealing creamy bare shoulders above a halter top, followed by a firm, flat tummy and a short skirt. She pursed her full lips, winked at Zina, and purred a hello.

With delight Alti noted that her star skater's blue eyes were glazed with lust and her jaw shifting with the barely suppressed urge to devour the woman on the spot. So predictable, Zina, the coach thought. She smirked and watched as Boris fumed silently, figurative steam shooting out of his ears like a busy laundromat.

Eyes not moving from the Blonde, Zina groped blindly for her wallet, which was sunk into the pocket of her Levi's, draped on the couch. "Hey, Boris baby, why don't you an' Alti go down to the tavern for a while, have a couple rounds…" Absentmindedly she pulled a twenty from the pocket and tossed it in the general direction of her Russian companion.

Alti intercepted the flying money, and gently grasped Boris's arm, relieved to see that he was not protesting as she steered him toward the door. "We'll talk later about next week. All right, Zina?"

Like a bird of prey in a cocktail lounge, Zina took a few steps toward the Blonde, who tittered. "Sure, Alti, sure."

"See you at practice tomorrow?"

"Yeah, yeah, go on." Impatiently, she waved her coach away.

With a final shove Alti scooted Boris out the door and closed it behind her. Immediately, in rapid succession, she heard a low growl, a playful shriek, a giddy giggle, and a tortuous moan.

Boris heard it too. Oh great, now I really have to cheer him up, or else he'll spend all evening talking about Dostoevsky. She threw an arm around him. "Come on, Boris. Nothing but Stoli for you," she said. If we can find some in this Godforsaken town.

"Really?" he asked with timid hopefulness and puppy dog eyes.

"Really." Ah, as long as there's no shortage of blondes and vodka….

*****

Gabrielle glanced at the empty bottle of peach schnapps on the kitchen table. After Zina had begun the sad tale of her skating days, Boris had taken over the narrative, trying to explain the hold that Alti, their evil coach, had on them. In the interim Zina had wandered into the living room to watch a football game. It had taken him two hours and the empty bottle of liquor to complete his tale…which, unfortunately, had led into further discourse on the larger theme of the evening: Zina was an Evil Bitch Who Could Not Be Trusted.

He drained his glass of schnapps and slammed it on the table. "I put up with a lot of crap from her. First she dumps me for Lao Ma, then we're back together again and I thought everything was okay, then all of a sudden she's doing this blonde bitch…" A sob escaped him, and Gabrielle, cursing her good nature, found herself patting his arm.

"There there," soothed Gabrielle. "It's all over now, baby blue." Damn Cyrene, making me listen to Dylan over and over and over….

He sniffled into his shirt sleeve. "She'll do the same to you! You're better off without her," he said sullenly.

She stood up to stretch. "Boris, trust me. Zina's not like that anymore. She's a good person now. She's changed. She really has."

"WOO-HOO!!!! BUCKEYES!!!!!" came a scream from the living room. A few seconds later Zina strutted out, cocky and proud. "Goddamn forty-five yard TD! Sonofabitch!" She playfully slapped Gabrielle on the ass, grabbed a Rolling Rock from the fridge, then ambled back to the TV.

"Changed, huh?" Boris grunted.

Gabrielle rubbed her tingly butt and smiled. She hoped the strangely named football team would win, because it would put Zina in a really good mood afterward.

*****

Indeed, the fortunes of Zina's favorite college team held, and Gabrielle awoke the next morning with a sigh that signified blissful satisfaction. She wandered downstairs to find Zina in the kitchen, making one of her "power shakes": raw eggs with Tabasco sauce and seaweed.

"No good morning kiss for you," mumbled the sleepy poet as she padded into the kitchen.

The firefighter unleashed her evil laugh. "That's what you think," she growled happily, and swung Gabrielle up onto the counter, so that she was sitting among cracked eggs and dried bits of ocean gunk. Then Zina's lips fused with her own. And that burning sensation…was that the raven-haired woman's intense passion sizzling against her with tactile abandon, or was it the Tabasco?

Several minutes passed as they engaged in swapping heated spit, but as Gabrielle opened a lazy, lustful eye, movement from the living room, quite visible from her perch on the counter, caught her attention. Intrigued, she pulled away slightly from her partner, only to have the firefighter attach her lips to Gabrielle's neck. "Zina?"

"Mmmmm?"

"Why is Boris still here?"

The dark head flew back. "What?"

Gabrielle nodded toward the living room. "He's in there…" She and Zina peered intently in that direction. "…and he's eating my Cocoa Puffs!" shouted the poet.

"And he's wearing my pajamas!" Zina added with outrage. Disengaging herself from Gabrielle, she stomped into the living room and sat down on the couch beside Boris, who was watching "Donny and Marie" on TV.

"Good morning!" he said.

Fucking bastard. Always a morning person. "Boris, what the hell are you still doing here?"

"Zina, I told you last night…I am not going anywhere until you turn over our puppy." Boris did concede to himself that he could have picked his moment better. It was right after the Buckeyes won and the postgame makeout session was in full swing. ("Yay, Butt-Thighs!" Gabrielle had cried triumphantly as she was chased up the stairs.)

"I don't have our goddamn puppy! And another thing, he's probably a dog by now!"

"He will always be a 'puppy' to me, Natasha," Boris replied, letting slip the pet name he had sometimes called Zina when they were still together. They were Boris and Natasha, out to destroy Moose and Squirrel, and take over the world…."Well," he continued, with an exasperated sigh, "where is he?"

The firefighter stared guiltily into the distance.

"I, uh, gave him to Lao Ma."

He did an abortive Danny Thomas: instead of spewing milk and cereal all over the place, it only dribbled all over his beard. "You gave OUR PUPPY to Lao Ma??? Are you mad?"

She moaned. "Look, I'm sorry. We had broken up, and you left to play chess in Geneva, so…I didn't think I was fit to take care of a dog, Boris…"

"But…Lao Ma??? She probably turned him into a lunch special with an egg roll and choice of soup!"

"Cut that out. That's just some…whaddya call it…urbane legend," she replied nervously, chewing her lower lip. At least it better be, Lao!

"How could you?"

"Believe me, I didn't want to, Boris. I feel bad that I had to."

"Ha!" he shouted. "You felt bad about something. That's only slightly more amazing than the fact that some TV executive thinks that these eeeediots"—he pointed at the mugging Osmonds—"still have careers!"

In the interim Gabrielle had entered the living room; she too was munching

on the ambrosia of the lower classes, Cocoa Puffs. "Hey, who's that dopey guy who looks like Purdy?" she asked, gesturing toward the TV with her dripping, milky spoon.

5. Enter the Dragon

"This is stupid," grumbled Gabrielle, as she followed Zina into the Green Dragon. "Why can't he track down his own damn puppy?"

"Look, it's like a debt I have to repay," Zina muttered as they were underwhelmed by the dim lighting and the Orientalia of the restaurant: blood red and gold tones saturated the murals of Chinese characters and temples, and little figures dancing with giant peaches….

"Debt my ass," retorted the poet.

Just inside they were greeted by the surly visage of Ming Tien, Lao Ma's son, who, as usual, was manning the cash register. His skinny arms were folded over his Sailor Moon t-shirt. He sneered at them, adam's apple bobbing furiously. "Ah, my mother's erstwhile seductress dares to bring shame to our dwelling once again."

Zina snatched up a pair of complimentary chopsticks from a large bowl in front of the register. "I'm telling ya, kid, one of these days…" She mimed jamming the sticks into his head.

"Like I'm sooo afraid of you!" he taunted. She lunged at him and he skittered off his chair, seeking refuge behind Gabrielle.

"Stop it, both of you," Gabrielle chastised them. "Look, Zina, let's get this over with, okay?"

"Is she in the kitchen?" Zina barked at Ming Tien.

"Yeah," he replied, sulking.

The two women walked through the nearly empty restaurant to the kitchen. They found Lao idly stirring a huge cauldron of egg drop soup, which sat next to a metal table covered with a mini-army of little wax paper bags filled with dried noodles. "Ah, Zina. I knew you would come," she murmured with serene confidence.

Lao Ma's mystical side always fascinated the ex-con. "Yeah? How'd you know this time? A vision? Reading tea leaves? A talking eggroll?"

"No. Boris called me."

"Lazy bastard," muttered Gabrielle.

"Your jealous heart reveals itself, Gabrielle. Like a dumpling hiding spinach…soon, the truth is wedged bitterly between one's teeth."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes.

"Lao, baby," Zina began, folding her arms so that her supple biceps were highlighted, then tossing her black hair and grinning seductively, "you'll remember a few years back I gave you a puppy…"

"Ah, yes. A most unexpected gesture. Touching and beautiful."

"Thanks, Lao."

"Until you demanded money for the wretched creature."

"I just thought of that as a loan. Anyway, Lao, honey..." Zina stretched to emphasize her broad shoulders and perfectly rounded breasts. Lao's stirring of the egg drop soup grew agitated. And Gabrielle's blood simmered hotter than the most potent of Tabasco sauces.

"...I need the dog back. I'll buy him from you, even."

"Yes, I know. That's what Boris was calling about. He said he was sending you over, and that you would either seduce me or kill me for the dog."

"You know Boris. Loves to exaggerate. 'Cause if I kill anyone, it would be that bratty kid of yours."

Lao Ma sighed. "Ming Tien is so misunderstood....you see, I had to get rid of the dog for him."

"Whaaaaat?" Zina asked, with a growl building in her throat.

"Ming was the allergic to the animal. And it kept attacking him. So I took it to the local animal shelter."

"Attacking?" echoed Zina. "Lao, it's a dachshund, for Christ's sake."

"They have many sharp little teeth..."

"Yeah," drawled Gabrielle facetiously, "who can resist the raging dachshund?"

Lao Ma's cool eyes flickered to the angry poet. "A sarcastic bitch is like a Barbra Streisand CD: It yields unpleasantness for all within hearing range."

"Oh, yeah? Well, a bitch who drowns in a pot of egg drop soup is like…"

Zina and Lao watched, with anticipation, as Gabrielle struggled to find a metaphor. Both women raised eyebrows.

"…like….like…a bitch who drowns in a pot of egg drop soup!" In sheer frustration, Gabrielle kicked at the stove. Poor baby, Zina thought, she really is blocked.

A flicker of alarm crossed Lao Ma's face. "Gabrielle, do not kick my stove. Unless you want to find extra MSG in your next Szechuan Chicken." She turned to Zina. "Please, remove your dangerous girlfriend from the premises."

"C'mon, baby, let's go," Zina tugged gently on her companion's arm.

"Don't you threaten me with acronyms, you!" roared Gabrielle.

With a sigh, Zina flung the poet over a broad shoulder and exited the Green Dragon.

6. Of Pussies and Puppies

When Boris was not contentedly watching Sally Jessy Raphael, he pondered his ex-lover, Zina. It amazed him to see her so utterly under the thumb of this little blonde person, Gabrielle. The dark, dangerous woman who excited him so, who defied the law and good taste, well, she was now…what do they call it? Ah…pussy-whipped!

Now she knows what it's like, he thought spitefully.

The door of the farmhouse burst open, interrupting any further Russian ruminations. Zina stomped in, with Gabrielle on her heels.

"Did you have to hit the guy at the pound?" the strawberry blonde was complaining.

"Don't you give me any lectures, missy! You were about ready to cold cock Lao Ma at the restaurant!" the firefighter retorted angrily.

"Well, the difference here is that I didn't hit anyone, Zina. Besides, Lao Ma is a bitch."

"You're jealous."

"And you're practically homicidal!"

"I know I am! I've admitted it, Gabrielle! Whaddya want me to do, tell the world I'm gay? I'M GAY! I'M GAY!" Zina shouted to the heavens.

Gabrielle rolled her eyes in defeat. It's not even worth telling her.

"And you…you're a fine one to talk about us being homo-cidal. You haven't even told your parents yet!"

The poet flushed. "They're not ready to know!"

Boris decided that the ridiculous bickering had gone far enough, and it was time for a man—a force of reason—to intervene. "Did anyone bring 7-Up?" he asked calmly. "We're all out."

The two women stared at him. "What the hell are you still doing here?" Zina snarled.

"Zina, I told you…"

"Yeah, yeah, the dog. Well, I got news for you, Boris. The dog is in the pound and they won't let me have 'em unless I pay $1000."

The Russian's dark eyes swelled with emotion. "A thousand—but, they can't do that! Why is it so much money?"

"It's some stupid county law," Gabrielle said. "Zina was registered as the dog's owner, and since she 'abandoned' him and he ended up in the pound…well, they're fining her. It's a misdemeanor."

"Miss Demeanor? I once knew a drag gentleman by that name."

"Drag queen," Gabrielle corrected.

"Da." Boris looked over at Zina, who was slumped in the recliner, looking defeated. He squirmed—instinct told him something else was wrong. "What?" he prompted.

Gabrielle bit her lip nervously. "It's also a violation of Zina's parole, and if we don't pay the fine she'll go to jail."

Zina tried to convey indifference with a shrug. "I don't have that kinda money," the firefighter muttered. Damn. And I swore I would never go back….All the money they recovered from the sales of Barbecue Salsa Mayonnaise was gone, spent on their vacation and on fixing a dent in the Impala—Gabrielle's lone attempt at driving the fabled car having gone seriously awry when she accidentally ran over Crassus, one of Julie Caesar's dogs. The contrite poet had cried a river of tears on Zina's Black Sabbath t-shirt, but had eagerly agreed to the firefighter's plan to bury the dog in Farmer Draco's backyard and not tell Julie.

"I don't either, Zina," Boris implored, "but if we don't pay the money…they kill him."

"And you'll go to jail," Gabrielle added softly.

"Maybe they should just kill me and send the dog to prison," Zina grumbled darkly.

"Can they do that here?" asked the Russian, a mite too eagerly.

7. You Don't Need Pants for the Victory Dance

Gabrielle found the prospect of connubial visits at Shark Island Correctional Facility quite unappealing, and quickly decided upon the best approach to earning quick cash to keep her beloved out of the pen: She applied for employment at the Shimmy Shack.

Sid Moskowitz, the chubby, engaging proprietor of said establishment, was quite pleased when Gabrielle called him to inquire of job opportunities. Sid had an eye for natural talent, and ever since he had spotted Gabrielle in the supermarket, wearing Daisy Dukes and bending over to pick up a rather large box of detergent, he knew her assets would do well on his stage.

Nervously, Gabrielle walked into the dark, empty club. In the light of day, such an institution is rather like a gutted animal—hollow, smelly, dark, and dead. Nonetheless, Sid's cheery disposition did its best to dispel this impression. "Hiya, sweet pea!" Sid greeted her happily. "Glad you came!"

"Hi, Sid."

"How's that old psycho girlfriend of yours, baby?"

"She's fine."

"Yeah," he sighed wistfully. "I still remember the first time I met her. She was dealing dope in my club and I had her kicked out…later that same night, when I was closing up, she beat the crap out of me." He smiled nostalgically. "The very next day, I hired her as a bouncer. She was the best ever. I've never seen anyone inflict pain and humiliation the way she did!" Tears welled up in his eyes.

"That's a beautiful story, Sid. It gets more beautiful every time you tell it."

"Yeah." He moaned. "Ach, such memories! Now, honeycakes, before we get in too deep here….Zina does know about this, doesn't she?"

The blonde twitched. "Well, not yet. But I swear, Sid, she'll be cool with it. I mean, I'm doing it for her. We need the money to pay off all these fines and stuff about the dog."

"Yeah. Poor Killer."

"Killer?"

"That's the dachshund, sweet cheeks."

Gabrielle shook her head sadly. No wonder they never call him by his name. "It figures," she muttered.

"Okay, angel muffin, shall we get on with the interview?"

"Sure." Gabrielle slipped out of the long raincoat she was wearing, revealing a body clad in a lovely two-piece bikini.

Sid sucked in as much air as he could, as several blood vessels in his head threatened to burst. Having done so, he found himself unable to exhale—he was afraid that if he did so, this woman of sheer perfection might vanish. Or simply run away at the smell of his breath.

"Well?" demanded the poet impatiently, hands on hips.

"Are you kidding, honey?" he wheezed. "Just looking at you takes five years off my life span."

8. Benefits of the Missionary Position

The ritual began.

The lights were dimmed, candles were lit, and empty cans of Rolling Rock were lined up on the floor. Mentally, Zina counted them again. Twenty-four. Yes, that should do nicely. As usual, Gabrielle had requested that Zina play the softest music she had, which, unfortunately, was a tape of Joni Mitchell's Blue that Cyrene had left behind one evening. As the guitars tinkled gently and Joni mumbled something about the wind from Africa, Gabrielle entered. She sat on the bare floor near the cans and assumed the lotus position, while Zina wished that she were watching women's volleyball on ESPN. It wasn't that she really minded helping her girlfriend, once everything got started, but getting there just took so long. The firefighter suppressed a sigh….

…But apparently not well enough. A green eye opened and peered at her in annoyance.

"Sorry," she mumbled. She stretched out along the floor, waiting.

A few minutes passed while Gabrielle continued to meditate. The firefighter was about ready to fall asleep when the poet announced quietly, "I'm ready." The blonde unfurled her body from the yoga position and laid down on her back.

Zina, on her knees, loomed over her beloved. She reached for the first beer can. "Okay." Gently, she placed the can on its side against Gabrielle's bare midriff. It sat there precipitously, its green sheen merely the reflected glory of the poet’s eyes, until the young woman's body jackknifed with amazing speed and power….Zina had seen it happen many times, but it never failed to amaze her: The can was now flatter than the topography of Kansas.

"The Amazing Abs," Zina whispered in reverence. She removed the flattened can.

Gabrielle smiled proudly. "Plus the recycling people love me!" she crowed. "Next!"

Zina placed the second can on the poet's tummy. "Can't wait to see you at the club tomorrow night."

Crunch! "I'm really nervous, baby. I'm so glad you'll be there." Another innocent Rolling Rock can was placed in the abs of death. "I still can't believe"—Crunch! —"you're cool with this. I thought you'd be all pissed and everything."

"Are you crazy? It's like the dream of every red-blooded American dyke. To have a girlfriend who is an exotic dancer! I can go up to any slob in the crowd while they watch you dance, point at you, and say, 'That's my chick, man.' Ha!" she cackled in triumph.

"You're so fucked up," concluded Gabrielle with a sigh. Crunch!

"But you love me anyway," retorted Zina smugly.

"Like the way I love pork rinds: I know they’re bad, but I just can’t resist." The poet affirmed this with another crunch.

Zina pondered this. "That’ll do," she observed, as she selected another can. 9. Thanks for the Mammaries

Sid leaned against a wall in the club. He plucked at his black polyester shirt, which shimmered in the low light, and sighed. She simply isn't getting it, he thought. Such potential—I mean, oy! That body! But…. He had spent the last half an hour watching Gabrielle dance, or do something resembling dancing, and it was about as erotic as watching a spastic have a fit. He stopped the tape deck, and ZZ Top's "Gimme All Your Lovin'" once again died in an abrupt fashion, which mirrored the disjointed style of his private dancer. As silence filled the room, the young woman stumbled in her heels and fell onto her ass. She looked up at Sid helplessly.

"Sweet cheeks," he began warily, "hasn't Zina ever asked you to shake your titties, eh?"

Gabrielle blinked. "What the hell kind of question is that?" she asked, irritated. "It's none of your damn business." Carefully she stood up, hoping that no part of her skimpy bikini was askance; I'm not showing flesh until the meter starts running, she thought.

"Honey thighs, the name of this joint is the Shimmy Shack. You don't have to be goddamn Ginger Rogers to dance here, but…you need to shimmy. You need to shake it up. C'mon, stick 'em out, and vibrate. And later….when you latch onto that pole, you gotta hump it like hell. Okay?"

She stared at the dismal aluminum pole stuck in the middle of the stage. "But…it's a pole."

Sid sighed again, in utter exasperation. "Babycakes, aren't you a writer or somethin'?"

Gabrielle nodded furiously. "Do you need me to write—"

"No, I don't need you to write anything. All I'm saying is—use your imagination. Pretend that pole is Zina's thigh. Pretend all the guys you're dancing for are, like, a big lesbian soccer team or something."

The poet frowned skeptically.

"All right, a big, smelly, drunk lesbian soccer team."

Gabrielle's frown deepened. "All right, Sid. I'll do my best."

Sid smiled; he wasn't buying it. "Shit, sweetheart, I'm sorry you're having a rough time with this. Maybe Natalie can help you."

"Who's Natalie?"

"My best dancer, baby. Look, take a load off, go back in the dressing room. She'll be here soon."

*****

So Gabrielle went back into the bowels of the club, into the tiny dressing room she was to share with about three or four other women. She pulled on her t-shirt—the chilly air had made her nipples so erect and prominent that they could hail a taxi of their own accord. She sat down in front of a mirror. Scattered on the table in front of her were various accouterments of femininity: lipstick, rouge, baby powder, eyeliner, tampons …and a book. She picked it up, curiously—it was entitled A Separate Reality: Further Conversations with Don Juan.

As she started to page through the book, someone quietly entered the room.

"It's a great book," said a woman's voice.

Surprised, Gabrielle gave a little jump, then turned around. A woman with short blonde hair stood in the doorway, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. Red alert! Red alert! Lesbian in the vicinity! Gabrielle's gaydar screamed. Nervously, the poet placed the book back where she found it. "Was this your book?" she asked the woman. "Sorry, just curious."

"No, no, it's all right," replied the woman. "It's nice to have someone around who's interested in the same thing." She walked over to Gabrielle and offered a hand. "Hi, I'm Natalie. Sid said I'd find you back here." Natalie's grasp was warm and tingly; Gabrielle felt a thumb brush lazily over the veins in the back of her hand. She squirmed slightly, partly uncomfortable and partly…aroused. "Gabrielle, is it?"

"Yeah, that's me." Natalie wouldn't let go of her hand. With a little tug, she finally reclaimed it.

"Cool. Sid said you're a student at the community college."

"I'm majoring in English."

"Wonderful! I used to teach there, you know."

Gabrielle brightened. "Really?"

"Yeah. I taught ethics. But then they got rid of the philosophy department. Cheap bastards. So I'm reduced to doing…this." Natalie waved her hand around the dismal dressing room.

"Sorry."

Natalie unleashed a dazzling smile. "Well, it's certainly not your fault." She began to strip rapidly, tossing her clothes over a lonely chair and revealing a thin, bikini clad form. "Okay, I guess I should show you some moves, like Sid said."

"Uh, sure, that'd be great. And, um, maybe afterward you can tell me all about this book," Gabrielle replied, picking up the Carlos Castaneda tome again.

"Oh, I'd love to!" responded the blonde stripper enthusiastically. She knelt down in front of Gabrielle, between the young poet's legs, and gazed at her with shining eyes. What the hell is she on? Gabrielle wondered, all the while fighting the delicious chills that turned her thighs all goose-pimply. "It's such a wonderful book. One of my favorites. It helps you see the world in a totally different way…"

*****

The blue Volkwagen sputtered to a halt in front of the Shimmy Shack. Cyrene took the keys out of the ignition, and looked over at her daughter, whose knees were pressed uncomfortably against the dash; she had forgotten that cramming Zina in her tiny VW bug was like putting Michael Jordan on a tricycle: It was not a good fit.

"Y'know, this is the kind of place I used to picket in the 70s, Zina," Cyrene grumbled.

"Look, Mom, don't start. She's just doing it for the money." Zina's muscular forearms were folded. While the firefighter was quite happy to show off her lover's body to the world, she was rather concerned that the look, don't touch policy firmly entrenched in her mind—and echoed by Sid's frequent admonitions to the crowd—would fall apart within the reality of the Shimmy Shack. She had been a bouncer too long at the dump to think otherwise. It made her tense. And a tense Zina was a hairsbreadth away from punching out anyone who dared annoy her.

Cyrene sighed. "You owe me for this, honey."

"The White Russians are on me, Mom."

*****

"I-I think I'm getting stage fright," Gabrielle stammered.

"I think you're just nauseous from eating three Snickers bars," Sid rumbled at her.

They were standing backstage. Natalie was on, dancing to "You Spin Me Right Round (Like a Record)."

"Oh shit, Sid…what if I bomb?"

"Honey, you're not gonna bomb. Just remember, you got the bod. You're halfway there. Shimmy the T, wiggle the A, hump the pole, and you'll be fine."

Wild applause and wolf whistles followed the sweaty Natalie as she left the stage. The number of $20 bills stuffed down the enticing pouch of her g-string made her look like she was packing in an odd kind of way. "Whew!" she said to Sid and Gabrielle, pushing damp strands of her blonde hair away from her face. "Those boys are primed now. They'd go nuts even if Shelley Winters went out there and danced."

Gabrielle gave a look of despair.

"Aw, Gabrielle! I'm just kidding!" Natalie hugged her impulsively. In her nervous state, having an attractive sweaty female body rubbing up against her own was almost too much. Almost. Natalie pulled away and all parties present noticed that the poet's nipples were harder than bullets.

"Well, somebody's ready to perform," Sid noted wryly. He patted her behind—Gabrielle resisted the urge to deck him—and headed onto the stage, in order to announce her.

"Just remember your mantra, Gabrielle," Natalie reminded her.

The young blonde nodded. "Yeah…shimmy the T, wiggle the A, hump the pole…" she mumbled.

"Actually I meant the other one we came up with. You know, your personal one: 'love, pop-tarts, and peace.' "

"Oh. Right. But hey, Natalie, like, aren't you supposed to not say it out loud?"

"Aw, shit!" the former professor winced.

"Gentlemen, we have a new performer tonight…I'd like you to give a warm welcome to…GABRIELLE!"

The poet stumbled toward the stage, and hesitated; her nerves felt so exposed that she imagined them—and not her body—bathed in lurid swaths of multicolored stage lights.

"Go toward the light!" Natalie shouted.

And which fucking light was that?

*****

"Wow, man, that was awesome," Cyrene babbled as she and Zina wound their way through dark hallways to the dressing room. "I mean, I never knew that she was so—" Cyrene's hands cupped imaginary breasts.

"Mom, shut the fuck up. You are seriously freaking me out," Zina retorted, while pondering the closed door in front of her. Her blood seethed with lust…who knew Gabrielle could dance so seductively? Zina had only ever witnessed the pogo-like maneuvers of the poet as she did the "Blitzkrieg Bop" to her favorite Ramones song. But now, she wanted nothing more than do ravish her companion…after that.

She kicked open the door. Cyrene rolled her eyes. Drama queen.

Zina's baby blues were greeted by the sight of Natalie painting Gabrielle's toenails while the poet pored over the Castaneda book. She did not miss the adoring look that the strange blonde woman was giving to her scantily-clad girlfriend, even though Gabrielle was clearly clueless to the attentions of the ex-professor. Indeed, if Oblivion were a town, Gabrielle would be mayor.

Nonetheless, at the startling sound of the door bursting open, both women turned their attention to the dark-haired firefighter.

"Baby!" Gabrielle squealed. "What did ya think?" She jumped up and ran over to Zina. The furious exchange of saliva prompted Natalie to read the label on the bottle of Dangerous Pomegranate nail polish and Cyrene to examine a selection of tassels hanging from the wall.

Zina broke off the kiss. "You were fantastic, baby. The best ever."

"Thanks…hey, I made almost $25 in tips!" she pointed to the bureau, littered with crumpled currency.

"That's great!"

"Yeah, I mean, I can't believe it…couple more weeks, we should have your fine paid off."

"Er, Gabrielle, why don't you introduce me to your—partner?" Natalie piped up unctuously.

" 'Partner?' " echoed Zina. "We don't work together. We sleep together."

She glowered at Natalie.

"Oh, uh, Zina, this is Natalie…she, uh, used to teach at Olympus." Nervously, Gabrielle looked from one woman to the other. Her new "mentor" and her beloved were not getting on well at all. "Honey, Natalie taught me how to dance. Ain't it great?"

Zina arched an eyebrow. Natalie smirked. "Yeah, great," muttered the firefighter.

"Well, I'm off…" said the blonde stripper breezily. She sailed past the three women, giving Gabrielle a wink. "See you tomorrow, Gabrielle." And she was gone.

Gabrielle disentangled herself from Zina. "You coulda been nicer, you know," she chastised sullenly, as she slipped on a t-shirt.

"I never said I was a nice person," Zina shot back.

In the interim, Cyrene had noticed the book lying on the bureau. She picked it up. "Oh man!" she cackled. "I haven't seen this used as a seduction technique since 1972!"

"Whaddya mean, seduction?" snarled Zina. Her blue eyes snapped to Gabrielle. Who looked away.

"Don't be silly, Cyrene," scoffed Gabrielle. "Excuse me, I have to go see Sid about my schedule for next week." With a cultivated, haughty air borne of careful examination of Joan Collins in Dynasty, the exotic dancer left the room.

Zina half-leaned, half-sat against the makeup table, looking defeated. "Shit, Mom."

Ah, my articulate child. "Look, honey, who knows what this chick is all about. But I'm sure Gabrielle is happy with you…and doesn't want to look elsewhere."

"I'm not so sure," mumbled the firefighter. "Maybe she needs to be with someone…like that. You know, who reads and stuff. Who understands poetry."

"…And who doesn't sit in an open pot of rouge." Cyrene concluded, nodding at Zina's behind. Zina jumped up, cursing. Her mother patted her arm affectionately. "I'll wait outside, in the car." The older woman ambled out the door.

*****

After confirming her schedule with Sid for the following week, Gabrielle was about to return to her dressing room when she was intercepted at the bar.

"Sweetie!" shrieked Chad, her fellow homo student at OCCC. He hugged Gabrielle. "You were fabulous!" Gabrielle was relieved to note that Chad wore no incendiary t-shirts, like I'M NOT GAY BUT MY ACADEMIC ADVISOR IS (an advertisement actually true). Although sporting a lilac-colored Ralph Lauren Polo shirt among the Shimmy Shack crowd was asking to be noticed.

"Aw, Chad, you came! I'm really glad."

"Oh, mary…" He took her face in his hands. "You have no idea how many screwdrivers I had to get through this…"

Vodka-influenced breath wafted over her. She blanched. "Yes, Chad. Yes I do."

"But Good God, Gab. I didn't know Natalie Hood was strutting her stuff here too."

"Hey, so you know her?"

Chad's eyes widened. "Oh yeah…man, I'm so glad they fired her."

"Fired? She told me they closed the philosophy department."

"Oh. that little liar!" Chad exclaimed petulantly. "No, she was canned for sexual harassment. She would pick a student she liked, and try to seduce them. You know, say she'd give them a higher grade." His thin lips trembled. "She even tried it with me once!"

"Duh, can't she tell you're gay?"

"That's what I said!" Chad wailed.

Gabrielle frowned in thought. Maybe Zina was right not to be suspicious of her. I mean, the big dope is right about some things…I should give her more credit. "Chad, I gotta go…I have to finish dressing" –the collective eyes of the bar were devouring her bikini'ed bottom, making her nervous—"and Zina's waiting for me."

" 'Kay, sweetie…Tell Zina I said hi, and that I want a date with a firefighter real soon."

When Gabrielle returned to the dressing room, Zina was swatting her Levi-clad butt with a towel.

"Baby, what the hell are you doing?"

"I got…stuff on my ass." Upon closer examination, the poet saw that some reddish powder clung to the denim. She chuckled. Zina scowled.

"I swear, you're like a big kid sometimes…" Gabrielle took the towel from her companion's hands. She dampened a corner with some bottled water left behind by Natalie, then successfully removed the powder. "Maybe this'll teach you not to sit on things a body shouldn't be sitting on."

"Yeah, right," grumbled Zina.

They were quiet for almost a minute.

"Do you…like her?" prompted the firefighter quietly. To mask her nervousness—which only emphasized it even more—she toyed with a stray cosmetic applicator…what it was exactly, she had no frigging idea.

"Who? Natalie?"

"Well, yeah."

Gabrielle shrugged. "I guess I did at first. I thought she was kinda cool…"

"And you thought she was cute."

" Yeah, she's cute…but so what? I just saw Chad outside, and he told me she's really an asshole."

"Really?" Zina frowned. "I had a bad feeling about her."

"You were right, honey. I'm sorry." The poet wrapped her arms around Zina's waist and propped her chin on the firefighter's broad shoulder. "So, um, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you jealous or anything. I love you, you big jerk."

Zina grinned. "And I love you too, you little bitch." She exhaled with relief. "Wow…so I was right about her, huh?" Gabrielle nodded. "I'm glad I'm right about something."

"You have good instincts, Zina. Except about your own strength."

"Huh?"

Gabrielle nodded at Zina's hand. Which was covered in inky black stuff. "You just crushed my eyeliner."

*****

Three weeks passed and the appropriate funds were procured, upon which Killer was sprung from the pound. Now, Boris was sprawled happily in the backyard with his dog. "There's my boy," he cooed, as Killer charged at him, the dachshund's ears flopping merrily.

"Your move," Zina grunted. The firefighter sat at the picnic table, where a chessboard lay before her. She had spent 20 minutes pondering how to put Boris into check. Having failed this particular objective, she opted for rearranging some of his pieces.

With a sigh, Boris stood up and returned to their chess match. Tomorrow he was off to Brussels for another tournament, with Killer in tow, and had decided to get in some practice with Zina before leaving. She was a good player, he admitted to himself, but her endgame was a weakness: She would grow impatient and then, ultimately, lose.

He sat down in front of the board and frowned, glaring at her. She simpered. He restored his knight and queen to their original positions.

Meanwhile, inside the farmhouse, Gabrielle was fending off Sid's advances, such as they were: "But, honey tits, are you sure you wanna hang up your G-string? You're my most popular dancer now!" the club owner protested as he stood in the kitchen and watched the lovely blonde make chocolate chip cookies.

"It's tempting, Sid…"

"I'll say."

Gabrielle stopped mixing cookie dough. "What do you mean by that?" she demanded.

"I got a good look at that car of yours. Oy, baby. An Escort? And it's gotta be rustier than Jesse Helms's dick."

A new car would be nice…Her lips twitched, but she said nothing.

Sid stroked his beard thoughtfully. He knew she was tempted. He decided to try another offer. "Look, sweetie, you know…I make movies too." He sidled up next to her. "And the money for that is even bigger than the dancing!" he whispered gleefully.

Gabrielle dropped her wooden spoon, covered in yummy cookie dough gunk. "You want me to be in porno?" she sputtered.

"Baby lamb, just one film will net you close to ten thou. You could buy yourself a Saturn, for God's sake!"

Her expression remained doubtful.

Damn. I almost had her. "Look, Gab, it's not really porno. It's erotica. There's a difference, y'know. Smart girl like you should know that." Still, she looked less than convinced as she rinsed off the wooden spoon. "This film that I want you to be in…it's ground-breaking, sugar cake. It really is. I can honestly say that there is no other film like it in existence. It touches me on a deep, religious level—in fact, I consider it a service to my people, because it's the first of its kind." Her green eyes fluttered with intrigue. He grinned. "You wanna know what it is?" he said eagerly.

"Yeah!" she exclaimed, caught up in his enthusiasm.

"The first ever Orthodox Jewish erotic film: Rabbi or Not, Here I Come."

Gabrielle groaned. "Jesus, Sid."

"Now that's one personage who will not be in this film." She shook her head and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. "Come on, Hasidim deserve to have lively sex lives too, you know."

Through the back door Gabrielle saw a flash of movement: It was Zina, pinning Boris to the ground and trying to jam a rook into his ear. "Poor baby, she lost again," the poet murmured.

Sid noticed this too. "Ah, good old Zina. Making the world a little more dangerous," he sighed appreciatively.

"Yep, good old Zina," Gabrielle agreed happily.

"Who's that fine-looking fellow, babycakes? I think he would make a good rabbi."

Gabrielle flung open the back door. "Zina! Boris! Both of you knock it off, or no cookies!"

"She started it!" shouted Boris.

Zina sulked from her position, sitting on Boris's chest. Angrily he slapped her muscular thigh. "Get off me, you eeediot! I want cookies!"

She raised an eyebrow in disdain, and stood up.

Sid bustled past Gabrielle. "Zina, baby, what do you think of your girlfriend starring in a porn movie of her own? Eh?"

The blue eyes froze. Sid raised his hands in hapless self-defense. "But sugar lump, I got this great idea...maybe you could play the rabbi who seduces Gabrielle..." Sid brightened at his own idea. "This is great," he murmured to himself. "It increases the kink factor!"

"Rabbi?" Both dark eyebrows lifted, and a strange expression came over Zina's lovely face. With a shock, Gabrielle realized her lover was...thinking.

"Zina!" she cried. "You can't be serious!"

"Well, why not? You were real good in that home video we made—"

From his position on the ground, Boris nodded vigorously. "I agree! It was a wonderful performance!"

The blonde poet went pale. "You showed him...the tape?" Many months ago, a rainy Sunday and a borrowed video camera had yielded a long-playing tape filled with about five hours of frenetic sex, fifteen minutes of arguing, twenty minutes of eating pizza, and twenty-five minutes of Gabrielle napping and snoring between orgasms.

"Well, when Hank and Effie saw it they both thought that you were faking it in that one scene, you know, the one with the"—the firefighter made a vague hand gesture which could have represented anything from a kumquat to a plastic water gun—"and Ed wasn't sure, so I wanted another opinion..."

"For myself, I must say I was very convinced!" Boris declared solemnly. "A scream like that, it comes from the heart. Or someplace, um, similar."

"That’s what Mom said too." Zina replied, feeling affirmed.

Sid, hands on hips, whined, "Now why haven't I seen this?"

Zina recognized the fury in her companion's green eyes and, throwing down the gauntlet of a shit-eating grin, took off running.

"Oh, you better run!" Gabrielle shouted after her. "'Cause someone's gonna be on the receiving end of the strap-on tonight, and it ain't me, missy!" Which is probably exactly what she wants anyway. As she dashed into the twilight, leaving the menfolk alone with the cookie dough, Gabrielle felt her anger dissipate as she followed the unmistakable laughter of the firefighter.

THE END