Index Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Page 2 -- 6 Page 7 -- 11 Page 12 -- 18 Page 19 -- 27 Page 28 -- 33 Page 34 -- 45 Page 46 -- 54 Page 55 -- 59 Page 60 -- 66 Page 67 -- 75 Page 76 -- 79 Page 80 -- 81 Page 82 -- 91 Page 92 -- 97 Page 98 -- 99 Page 100 -Page Page Page Page Page Page Page Page Page Page Page Page Page Page Page Page -- 358 Chapter 1 The sunlight streaked haltingly into the room revealing Sandy's long, dishevelled hair sprawling haphazardly over the twin pillows. A few lonely stray strands were stuck in one corner of her softly curved mouth; the smile, long lost in a dream, had closed during the night, trapping them. Part of her face was hidden under the fluffiness of the flowered comforter which she had pulled up greedily during the night. Save for her lover Jacques' steady breathing disturbing a large mass of split ends which lay between the two pillows, she was immobile, motionless - deeply immersed in sleep. The steady rhythm of his breathing was broken now and again by the sunlight's randomly playing itself over his face. It was arriving and departing. As it passed through the leaves of the slightly swaying sapling trees that filled 'their' garden, it flickered. Then, filtered again by her snowflake pattered curtains hanging raggedly icicle -like over the dew covered window, it would finally find their faces. The cat was lying by their feet, more closely to his than to hers. This was always an enigma to her who loved it so much and a bother to him who hated it so much. It seemed to enjoy this unspoken conflict in its own proud way; it seemed to sense that she would always love it if it remained an enigma, aloof and distant. It moved a little now and again; it would twitch uncontrollably from time to time as it relived a cat adventure, and then, just as unexpectedly, it would fall back into its motionless, dead to the world, sleeping state. Its eyes were marginally closed or marginally open? No-one really ever did know. It always seemed to exist in its own dreamy carefree world. As the sunlight grew stronger, a few solitary rays managed to reach the cat's fuzzy face. It squinted, eyes still mainly closed, stretching one paw, then the other; head pushed down, eyes tightly closed or not? paws outstretched, it hesitated, as if lost for a moment, in the dawn's early light: suspended seemingly in the everlasting moment before awake. A stronger sunbeam suddenly struck its left eye, reflected off the rusty white dew covered thermometer that seemed to adorn every house in middle-class America, and, in particular, this very house in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The cat, now forced by circumstances beyond its control, repositioned its head firmly, in a flowing gentle motion, under a fold of the comforter. That done, it re-entered its dream from a new attack angle... claws out... drawing the comforter closer, ever closer.... The sunlight was slowly succeeding in dissolving the dew which lay on the windowpane. As the intensity grew, as the sun rose higher in the October morning sky, the dew began to evaporate even more quickly. A steamy mist began to rise from the window. Soon the sunlight began to splay itself over the whole of the bed. It was soon smothering Sandy's half buried face. An eye was suddenly, involuntarily open. She writhed a little, like a snake in pain: the reality of the morning piercing her consciousness. She slithered, ever so slightly, towards Jacques to try to escape from the sunlight. She moved her head gently, yet definitely onto his shoulder where there was this nook that was 'soooo nice'. She nestled into him, stealing a little security, a little warmth. Her warm gentle breathing, or her movement, convinced Jacques' hand to slide half consciously onto her breast for a few moments of lost time; a slight hesitation, a gentle pause as his mind registered the softness, the fullness, the wonderful and unique qualities of her breast -- the firm yet supple nipple in the palm of his warm muscular hand. The hand then slid softly and slowly down to her slender waist where it arched in a way that caused her to try to snuggle yet closer. It came solidly to a rest on her bare back. His arm covered her, wrapping her. He gave her a light squeeze. She sighed ever so silently as she nuzzled onto and into him. He reciprocated with another warm and reassuring squeeze which her body acquiesced to in a way which only a lover could understand, in a way only a lover could feel. They held each other, invisibly smiling inwardly, feeling a gentle glow overcoming them as they took in each other's presence. The blissful warmth of each other's presence slowly and surely penetrated their consciousness. They felt a sense of "oneness" with each other that words cannot describe, that though they tried they could never explain -- they felt so very complete, so uninhibited yet so shy. The tender touch of her foot, of his leg, of their hands --these things kept vivid loving images dancing in their minds, attaching them, as with glue, to each other's conscious and subconscious selves. They rolled around, gently frolicking in the warmth of each other. Slowly, but surely, their intensity grew. The morning kisses always tasted so warm; they always melted her, her resistance. They always started so slowly, so gently, so caressingly. She always, always awaited them and he always obliged her. The morning was lost in a kiss that he or she started. The cat slept peacefully on the corner of the bed.... Chapter 2 This Sunday morning was starting like every other weekend morning. They always eluded them, escaped them. The weekend mornings seemed to be unreal, unconnected to the rest of the week days: days when the alarm would ring, days when he or she would roll out of bed and waddle or straggle towards the shower in the semi-darkness before dawn. The weekend mornings, especially Sundays, were free time, their time. The phone would ring unanswered; the door knockers would give up in exasperation. All the mornings in New Hampshire had a musty, mother earthy feel to them; whether they were cold or warm, they were always just a little humid, sticky humid. The sea air had an abrasive salty quality to it that kept your car clean, but despite that, it had an aroma you wanted to breathe in deeply, time and time again. And, for out-of-staters like Sandy and Jacques, it had a special quality, it was free. Living in a state where the motto was 'Live Free or Die' was only natural for Jacques. W hen Jacques had finished his 2nd tour of duty with the Armed Forces version of the CIA, Intelligence Services, he had had enough of big cities and excitement. Of the eight years he had spent `in' the Air Force, he had spent most of them out of uniform in Tripoli, Cairo or Beirut, or jetting around the world, on a secret posting, helping to coordinate an `effective' anti terrorist unit response for the allied governments of the United States, Britain, Israel, Germany and France. His major at college had been criminology. His thesis project on the legitimization of violence in the post-Khomeini Iran had more than grabbed the attention of his supervisor. Partly because of his fluency in Arabic, it made an even bigger splash at the Defence Department. In the process it also grabbed the attention of the CIA and the Air Force Intelligence Services who promptly made him a joint offer he couldn't in his heart of hearts refuse. His thesis never did get published. For both Sandy's sake and the military's prying eyes he wore his Air Force Colonel's uniform whenever he was States-side; officially he had an amorphous position: he was technically afforded the privileges of an Air Force General or a Navy Admiral yet he had a lowly Colonel's rank. This was to avoid attracting undue attention when he was in a civvy situation back home or at a military situation abroad. When he finally came home to Dupont, Iowa, a small industrial centre in upstate Iowa where they both had their roots – five generations worth, he was naturally innocuous looking. She had had a series of dead-end teaching assignments, substituting day after day, year after year, for middle-aged professionals on permanent contracts who had to use or lose their sick days. Days were wasted year after year in lunch rooms where the hot topic of the day's conversation would be the sick teacher or the grade 3 student who will be a problem child for every single teacher in the school. You could bet on it -- every single teacher heard it every single day. It had been on his first furlough, a Christmas one, that they had met at a local eatery in downtown Dupont (population 46,321). He was sitting at the counter doing justice to a plate of greasy fries and a BLT club, the house specialty, when she arrived to take the last available seat, which coincidentally just happened to be facing him. He sat there with a French fry sticking half-in, half-out of his mouth; part of it was lodged in his throat, temporarily awaiting his decision to swallow. He seemed to attempt a smile. `Maybe?' She thought. At least he said he did. He was sure on reflection. Anyway, one thing did happen -- she did definitely smile. Needless to say, lunch led to dinner which led to a drink which led to what turned out to be a new experience for the both of them. Of course they both had had their high school sweet-hearts. Since then though getting established in their respective careers had supplanted or usurped what shattered remnants of feelings they had had for significant others. Meeting as they did at the eatery seemed to open a floodgate of feelings for both of them. Whatever they desired to call it or tried to call it, it was inescapable, unavoidable, they became `hooked' on each other in some strange yet totally consuming way. Maybe they were consumed by their emotions or maybe it was a mutual loneliness? W hatever it was at first, they could not help but call it love as their first Christmas together turned into their happiest Christmas ever. After their first few days and nights together they found in each other a complement; they found that the other was like a missing piece of their self, their feelings, their emotions, their beings. Having lived and been schooled in the same town, at the same schools, having hung out at the same stupid stores, only with different friends in different years and with different ideas. They had a shared yet radically different past, a shared subconsciousness that though they thought themselves above or incapable of falling in love, quite the opposite happened. They couldn't escape from their totally mutual feelings. They tried again and again to cut their emotions off from their profession selves, but to absolutely no avail. It was hopeless and it happened in Dupont and Christmas just sort of added a special touch to them and their love. They missed each other from moment to moment those first few weeks and then with his departure in January they felt like a denuded forest, a blanket of forlornness overcame them both. The sulked about whereas previously they used to bounce about their work. Was it love? At first they had tried to deny it, but by the time his first 30 day furlough was over, they were inseparable. Chapter 3 Three years later, she had collected a book of letters from him, all postmarked Baden Baden. They had moved to New Hampshire to escape the Dupont they both remembered. She had found a nice house to rent while she worked as a temp teacher again, but importantly for her, New Hampshire was much closer it seemed to Jacques' base of operations. They could and did spend much time together. They would spend a week together, then a month apart, then a week together with a two day pause here and there. It seemed like they were meant to be always together. It seemed like she was always anticipating him. Work would drag her into a petty non-thinking world where her mind was free to wander back in time. Back in time to those thousands of shared moments in time to those moments when they breathed each other, they were so close, so loving, so intimate. The working days would meld into each other. The only thing that allowed her to continue was the thought that Jacques would be joining her soon and he always did join her – any time he could and at times when he couldn't officially. They shared their lives -- they truly loved and wanted to be with each other. It only seemed that working fate was working against them at times. They conspired together against work and against its negativism. They had one day decided to invest in her house together. After all, he was living there. It was being sold according to the letter they had received from the real estate company. Well, not really on an impulse, they just sort of did it, they bought it one day. Jacques had been saving for a while and just paid for it one day. Life, when they were together was very blissful, full, easy going. They were both just a little bit like that. Life was meant to be taken in stride. Neither of them would blink an eye at something like buying the house, a new car, "maybe marriage..." who knew. One day as Sandy came home from work though, she noticed that something was different with Jacques. What it was, she just wasn't able to put her finger on. It was towards the end of one his duty tours in Baden-Baden. He had just had a 30 day furlough: a leave without restrictions and with pay. Every six months he got one week off and then once a year he would get a 30 day furlough. Sometimes it seemed that Jacques was home more than he was away. The furlough always came by chance though: one year at Christmas time, the next year in September, when she was busiest at her school. This was a September furlough. He was just a little morose, un-talkative, out of sorts. This was radically out character for him. He even knew this. He mentioned something about work, but he didn't go into details. His grumpy mood told her not to press him for more details. Later that night on CNN there was a vivid and graphic news item about a marine unit being bombed in Lebanon. that night. He seemed to be more than just a little interested in the news "Jacques?" she asked tentatively, "Yeah", he replied flatly.... "Does that Lebanon thing have anything to do with you?" "Now, why would you ever ask a question like that?", he replied curiously. For her though, it was just a little too testily, a little off key. She was not the sort to miss details like that. This Jacques had learned over the years, sometimes painfully, he remembered. "That doesn't answer my question, you know?" She was looking at him a little sternly he felt. “Mm, hmm. I know." He looked at the blank television screen, oblivious of her ostensibly. "Well?" She needled just a little. "Does it?" She planted herself in front of him. "Why would you ask anyway? You know that curiosity killed ...." She cut him off with her next comment. "You've been awful touchy today ... and..." "Sandy, I'm sorry ... But I just can't answer that...." "I just knew I was going to hear something stupid like that..." "I'm not allowed to answer any questions about my work to anyone for any reason at any "time." "Does this include even me?" She said this with a lump in her throat. A silence ensued. Cutting it as with a knife, feelingly he said: "Sandy, maybe, just maybe”, he paused thoughtfully, it could be especially for you, for your sake." He paused for a moment, reflecting on the situation. Anticipating her confusion at his words, he grasped her hands. The tension was rapidly filling the air. She felt the heat of his hands, the sweating palms and realized that it was not the time to continue. Changing moods suddenly, he started: "Can we do something? She looked at him, her face a total question mark. He suggested-- "like a drive?" She acquiesced quickly to his suggestion, giving up in an attempt to try and ease the tension. Thereafter, neither she nor he ever really mentioned anything about his work again, except in very general terms. Even then, when they would, it was always a strained conversation. He would generally try to steer the subject somewhere else. She would resist mildly when he did, but she'd always allow him to avoid it. That same night of the news broadcast about Lebanon, as if to confirm her previous suspicions, the telephone rang at 2:30. Jacques answered quite hastily, `as though he had been expecting the call' she thought. His side of the conversation was very brief: "Yeah." "Yeah." "Yeah!" "7:45, OK!" He turned to Sandy who was by this time wide awake. She knew that a 2:30 am phone call meant that they were to be separated again and she was a bit anxious about it. He understood this and so he explained that he had to go back to Germany ASAP; precisely, at 7:45 `they' were going to pick him up. more "I sorta figured it out Jacques" she started, pausing significantly, "but when will you return?" "Really Sandy, I don't know. I really don't know." They held onto each other for the rest of the night, snoozing, waking, sleeping, starting suddenly, then sleeping again. Both of them were keenly aware of the forthcoming morning and what it meant for `them'. Even the cat had a fitful night's sleep on the bed. Chapter 4 At the sound of the 6:00 am alarm, Jacques started what was always a very long stretch. Firmly, but very slowly, he contorted himself, entwining himself with and over Sandy's sleepily, inert body which moved lazily but accordingly. His stretch seemed to her to be a teasing, an invitation to her body to influence her mind instead of the usual other way round. He paused in his stretching and gave her a gentle but noticeable hug. She was ecstatic, until in the next moment he rolled unthinkingly, automatically, out of bed and most disgustingly away from her. She reached hopefully yet hopelessly for and after him. A small moan escaped from her into his pillow which she was hugging very tightly. A few minutes later Sandy, becoming very lonely for his warmth, crawled out from under the covers and partly fell, partly climbed out of the bed. In the process, feeling both a little cold and more than just a little bit frustrated, she yanked the comforter off of the bed to wrap herself in. This threw the startled sleeping cat onto what was now to fast become a cold barren corner of the now empty bed. The cat was very noticeably annoyed at this nocturnal interruption. It quickly scurried, quite ruffled looking, to the living room sofa where it squeezed itself onto its small soft cushion. Now, feeling secure from interruptions, it wedged itself tightly into the space created between the cushion and the sofa back by falling lazily, sleepily into it. It fell back into `the' dream--with clenched teeth showing slightly between black gums. Sandy meanwhile dragged herself, along with the tent-like comforter which was wrapped around her, to the front of the bedroom closet. She looked and felt much like a little lost child might look wandering about a large empty house on a Christmas morning -- up too early for the rest of the world and just too awake and too excited to go back to sleep. Her eyes though told a different story. They would tell anyone watching that she had really had very little or nearly no sleep at all. She exchanged her comforter for a heavy white terry cloth cotton housecoat with what was a very well-practiced movement, one which she had perfected over the years. When she was a child, it had been a flannel sheet or a big bath towel. The robe was usually on before the comforter had finished fully settling on the floor. Still a little bit sleepy though, she started moving very habitually towards the kitchen. She wrapped and tied her robe tightly about her as she walked, shaking her hair to one side, then to the other. On her way down the hallway, she wavered momentarily in front of the open bathroom door. Jacques was in the shower now; the steam cloud had already totally fogged up the mirror rendering it useless for the rest of the morning. A small motherly Mona Lisa smile was visible on her tired-looking but radiant face. `He never ever puts on the fan.' She thought. She flicked it on deliberately lingering a little to hear it start, then she restarted her kitchenward trek. The warm blast of steam laden air from the bathroom had made her feel the cold just a little as she stood in the hall. She paused at the thermostat and cranked up the heat: `New Hampshire might be beautiful in the summer,' she thought, `but it sure had some very cold September mornings.' They ate their breakfast in the dining room on the family sized oak table that her parents had given to her and him when it had become more than obvious that they were an `item'. Her parents had used the flimsy but time worn excuse about not really having enough room for the table themselves. As if Sandy's and Jacques' teapot sized house had more room, Jacques had argued unsuccessfully. They had finally accepted mainly to appease her parents need to give "them" something and partly because they did `sorta' need a table anyway as Sandy had argued successfully. W hen Jacques had first seen it though he had had some suspicions. He made Sandy literally swear that it did not mean her parents could come over for more meals or anything like that. He was thinking back to the day her parents had moved to New Hampshire from Dupont, following them it seemed to him. He also remembered or dreaded the days she spent moping around the house after that fight. He suspected that there was more of a story about the table or more ideas associated with it but he was really quite reluctant to investigate it more. She agreed with him readily, almost too quickly he had thought about her parents visiting. She had reasoned inwardly that `Mom and Dad could come over when "he" was not at home, which seemed to be most of the time it seemed.' It was a simple light breakfast of toast and coffee which they ate. Neither of them was really interested in it, they just did it. It was their rote. What they were really interested in seemed to escape them. They sat silently sipping their coffees a little. The sun shone onto the linoleum floor, cutting a swath into the cold room, cutting a line over the sink, like a giant sundial the faucet shadow moved in the minutes they sat. After trying to see the unseen in the coffee, on the wall, and in the jam, their eyes finally met and they started talking, at least a little. Jacques started re-stirring his coffee, slowly but obliviously: every few seconds though there was a noticeable clink as the spoon hit the side of the cup, again and again. They just sort of continued to ramble on about the weather, the shopping, the laundry, the yard, looking and sounding as if they were `normal'. They `talked' in half sentences about their house, their common friends, -- the clink of the spoon always audible in the conversation -- her parents, his parents, last week at the cinema; they talked about anything at all, but not at all about the impending parting or about their feelings. She noticed, and he noticed too, that he did not mention even one word about work or about going away. This was just a little bizarre, even to him. She knew, and frankly he knew too, that it would be up to her to broach the subject, but when? The trite conversation seemed to last for hours to both of them. She just seemed to be lacking the wherewithal to say anything which could start anything negative. This was not new for them though. They had had many 'good-bye' breakfasts before. Neither of them wanted something negative or sad. They had had many awkward moments like this before. `Was it meant to be like this always?' she thought. "Jacques," she started as she placed her hand compassionately over his now stifled cup stirring hand. "We had so many plans for the next 2 weeks." A tear was becoming visible, just beginning to swell in the corner of her right eye; her voice faltered as she continued. "Movies to see, places to go, friends to visit, my parents... I..." Jacques interrupted her. "Sandy!" Her tears were now starting to flow down her cheeks. He held her hand. "Sandy,I'm sorry, I know that this is sudden and all and I just hate the fact that it hurts me and you both.... I know that." He squeezed her hand. "Please don't cry. Not now.... " She grabbed a napkin with her unoccupied hand and blew her nose, wiping her tears away. She held the napkin partially over her face. They sat in silence for a few minutes. She looked at him with an innocent questioning look on her face. It was a look Jacques loved and hated as it made him turn into no more than a pile of limpid lifeless jello; it made him incapable of thinking, of acting in or of speaking in the right way, of saying the right things...especially at times like this when the right thing mattered so much.... "Sandy, this time is very different..." She cut him off with her response: "You said that last time, too, you know...." Her voice was starting to gain strength as she spoke. "Yeah, I know...." dejection was sounding in his answer.... He knew he was losing a lot of ground and very quickly. She moved in for the kill: "Jacques, it just doesn't seem fair, you know?" He took her hand and squeezed it again, acknowledging her truth. They sat there holding hands in silence -- him in his Air Force uniform looking so strong, so macho, so much that he wasn't at this particular moment in time; her in her housecoat looking so sad, so weak and so lonely, things that he was. There was an awkwardness that pervaded, overcame their personal unfolding drama which was reflected by the chandelier which was casting a bright, glossy, yet very cold and stark light over the entire scene. The daylight had not yet had enough strength to penetrate the room. The sun's outline glow was just starting to become visible above the horizon; the sun was slowly changing the half light of the early morning into day as they sat there. Jacques gave her hand a hard squeeze. "It's time!" He said this very sharply. His military tone was unmistakable. He jabbed her and even him with his sharpness. "I'm sorry to be like this Sandy. I'm really sorry and for so much. This thing today is an especially difficult thing to do: I'm jumping into it and it seems too big, too overwhelming, too much. It is a little scary and I can't, I just can't tell anyone anything about it.... It frustrates me incredibly." In a few minutes I have to change into a different sort of person. I don't want to and I especially don't want to leave you, not now, not ever. I want you to understand that one day, not now, not soon, but one day I will be able to explain all of this to you. Aw, let's go...." He stood up from the table, a little quickly, a little awkwardly. For a few moments after and for a long time thereafter, some strange and unfathomable reasoning overwhelmed her; she assumed that her intuition was correct, yet when she questioned herself about it she knew that she wanted to be wrong, dead wrong. She just knew though that the Lebanon thing and Jacques were somehow, very related. This made her feel cold to him even though she felt so totally warm inside. They held each other tightly as they walked down the hallway to the front door of the the house. They knew each other well enough and trusted each other well enough to forego any questions for now. She understood enough for today and her warm, loving hug told him that. At precisely 7:45 am a sleek black car with military plates and mirrored windows pulled up to the front of their condo. Jacques, who had been standing on the verandah with Sandy, quickly hugged and kissed her. "I'm going to miss you so much." He said this very softly as he held onto her. She responded in much the same way, only in a simpler tone, heartfeltedly stating, "Me too ... me too!" One more quick kiss and he grabbed his kit bag and ran quickly to the waiting car which obliged or recognized him by opening a rear door at the precise moment it should be opened. An Air Force officer's uniform in the back seat was visible to Sandy but there was no face attached to what she thought was a middle-aged physique. The windows were mirrored reflecting and in the process making the whole small town scene seem a little plastic and unreal to Sandy who was focusing her life's energy on trying to see Jacques' face for one more moment in time. At this early hour of this Saturday morning everything seemed surreal. The sun was rapidly rising on the horizon. A giant reddish orange hue soon enveloped the car and condo in one incredibly, beautiful moment as the sun fully crested the horizon. As Jacques disappeared inside the car, she started to wave at him. The mirrored windows of the car though made it feel as if she were waving at herself. An incredibly cold and lonely feeling overcame her as she sensed the more than slight absurdity, the slightly unreal sight of her waving at herself. It transfixed her. She listlessly retreated into the house as the car pulled away and disappeared down the street. She went directly to the sleeping cat in the living room. She picked up its inert body and in a hugging wrapping movement she pulled it towards her neck. She carried it to the bedroom, stroking it gently with her face as she walked. It purred automatically, too sleepy to fight back.