Notes for Harassed Reviewers

Who have no Time to Read Entire Novels  

This is the story of Dan Richards, a once happy teacher living in Mystic, Connecticut.  In his spare time, Dan is writing a novel on Thailand but is lured by a clever mother (Julia Willeford) and her two, fabulously fetching teenage daughters (Deborah and Babs) into degradation and humiliation.  And it is also the story of Stephen Avery, a mild-mannered insurance actuary living in Bangkok, or rather who lives inside the novel on Thailand being written by Dan Richards.  It is also the story of the Bangkok bar manager, West Texas Andy, who also exists inside Dan’s novel; and – unable to resist an appearance – it is the story of and apparently by Dean Barrett who is writing a novel (this one) about this teacher supposedly living in Mystic, Connecticut, and so on, and so forth. 

Other characters include a Catholic priest who may or may not have done something rather reprehensible (but certainly, given their wanton natures, completely justifiable) with Deborah and Babs; several wacky, lust-filled nurses and nutty, lascivious surgeons – the type whom you would definitely not want operating on you; Colonel William Ledyard, who fought the British during the Revolutionary War and is still at it; and, of course, last but not least, this being a novel set mainly in Thailand, there is Lek, the obligatory (but quite unusual) go go dancer.  Lek, as we shall see, not only tantalizes Stephen Avery to the point of near-insanity, but is so alluring, so enticing, and so incredibly sexy, that even Dean Barrett takes her to bed which may be the first time in literary history that an author has slept with one of his characters.  As a patient reader will discover, Lek not only uses her intelligence and sexual power to manipulate chapters and events, but eventually criticizes the quality of the novel she is forced to be in to such an extent that the author is obliged to use footnotes to defend himself. 

The novel seems to be about the nature of existence and delusion and states of consciousness, and suggests that non-sequential distorted versions of reality are all that we may be experiencing, indeed, all that we may be able to experience; but in fact the novel may be nothing more than a sex-crazed writer’s overpowering need to write erotica.   

Finally, the reader must also take into consideration the chapters set in Florida dealing with a stressed-out family living with someone with Alzheimer’s.  Perhaps the author intends to suggest that much of the novel exists only inside the atrophied brain of the Alzheimer’s patient; and that the plot twists and turns are no more than the plaques and tangles of a badly damaged and rapidly deteriorating mind. 

Be that as it may, it should be understood by one and all that these characters are not bad people; nor did they ever set out to do bad things.  Of course, by the end of the novel, there may be those who disagree.

***********************

Chapter One

At this point in my life, with the knowledge I have gained from often painful experience, it might seem surprising that I have finally abandoned my Catholicism and yet without reservation embrace an even more fervent belief in God than before.  But the omnipotent being in whom I now place my faith is not that of either the Old or the New Testament but rather a playful, mischievous, roguish, impish, even devilish type of misanthrope, one who came more and more into focus as I began to realize that the abrupt surprises and sudden disasters and delicious ironies of what is mistakenly referred to as our lives could never be brought about merely by chance or determinism in a godless universe.

Because when one has read all the greatest philosophers and wisest thinkers and plowed one’s way through their often arcane and perversely illogical systems, a sane person will eventually realize that if we are to make any headway in comprehending our true condition, we must rely on our own experience and intuition.  Not to mention common sense.  And one will then come away with the inescapable belief that a being with enormous power, a wanton and whimsical sense of humor and possessing unlimited time to play painful jests and hurtful pranks simply enjoys fucking us over.  Because to believe otherwise gives far too much credit to chance.

I had been brought up a devout Catholic and had been an altar boy, attended mass regularly, and seldom missed confession.  My wife had been a Protestant but seldom attended church.  Even after my divorce, and even as a divorcé living alone in Groton, Connecticut, I had continued to confess my sins to a Catholic priest because, if nothing else, the structured ritual offered comfort and familiarity.  And St. Patrick’s priest was a priest of the old school who had little use for modern changes in the Church.

But that day when I left the road and drove past the perfectly-trimmed hedges and followed along the crescent-shaped driveway, and first caught sight of the imposing, two-story gothic revival house I had nothing on my mind other than the usual mundane thoughts: the novel I was writing, the backbiting of the school faculty, and the metal on metal sounds emanating from my ten-year-old Honda Accord which suggested that the brake lining was in dire need of replacement.

I had been teaching classes at a high school in Groton for nearly three years.  I enjoyed it.  It was a pleasant enough place to live if one didn’t mind the cold winters, and, as everyone loved to point out, the local Pfizer chemical plant churned out the “love drug” that had changed the world: Viagra.

The town still built atomic-powered submarines as it did during the Cold War but not nearly so many, and the economy of the region had never fully recovered from the hit it had taken when the Cold War ended.  But thousands of men still spent their lives working “down the Boat” (Electric Boat, General Dynamics) and entertained no hopes of ever leaving Groton, Connecticut – “Home of the Nautilus, Submarine Capital of the World.”

I had been teaching in Boston but had gone through a divorce there which made me want to try a change of venue.  I was interviewed for several teaching positions and, thanks to my years of experience, my complaint-free record, excellent references, and a Ph.D in Asian History, the Groton area high school representative hired me at a very attractive salary with liberal vacation benefits.

I had a small but comfortable apartment in a residential building not far from Fort Griswold, the historic fort where Americans and British had battled during the Revolutionary War while Benedict Arnold watched from a burning New London across the Thames River.  The Coast Guard Academy was right across the river in New London and the Submarine Base was farther down at the other end of Groton.  I particularly enjoyed sailing at one of the local yacht clubs as well as visiting Monte Cristo, the summer house of Eugene O’Neill as it was featured in his classic play, Long Day’s Journey into Night.  And at night I could hear the same mournful fog horn along the foggy river that he had heard in his day.

I liked the town and especially the way in which people left me to myself and did not ask intrusive questions.  My salary was more than adequate for my needs, and my superiors made no excessive demands on my time.  As my ex-wife had quickly remarried I had no alimony payments to make, and the money I kept in stocks and bonds was appreciating steadily. 

During the many years I had been teaching I’d had some good experiences and some not so good but now I thought I had found the perfect sinecure.  If only I had known how all that would soon be changed forever by two clever and seductive teenage sisters.  Or by my own weak nature.  Or, as I have suggested, by whatever kind of god is cheered by its ability to bring about our downfall in as humiliating a manner as possible. 

*******

It started the previous spring when the weather had finally turned warm and sunny and the girls in the school seemed to revel in wearing as little as possible; as if making up for how they’d had to conceal their feminine curves during the cold winter. 

The two sisters were the most attractive but least attentive of the thirty or so students in my Asian Studies class, most of whom were female.  At 17, Barbara, known to her friends as Babs, would start conversations around her and even send and receive SMS messages on her cell phone during class.  She made no pretense of paying attention to anything I was saying and seemed to think she could do as she wished. 

She had piercing green eyes, well formed lips and a thick mane of sandy hair which curled down below her delicate white chin just touching her shoulders.  And she favored off-the-shoulder dresses, halter tops, spaghetti straps -- any style that showed off her young and very feminine body, and especially the remarkable cleavage a girl of her age had developed.  And under her dresses and tops, she wore either no bra, strapless bras or else one with a deep V neckline. 

At least she favored long, flowing skirts, although by covering her legs, she seemed clever enough to know she was actually calling still more attention to her well developed breasts.  Despite all that, her face and arms were freckled and on the few occasions when I saw her dress demurely she could appear younger and far more innocent than she was.

Her sister, on the other hand, was a year older than Babs, a bit taller, more developed, more sophisticated, and much into wearing short pleated skirts which ended at her knees which, when she sat, easily rose up to reveal her shapely thighs as well.  Her name was Deborah and she was only too aware of the effect her curvaceous legs and heart-shaped lips and cornflower blue eyes and lovely golden tresses had on the boys in the room.

I had always had a reputation for being strict and no-nonsense when it came to teaching and on several occasions I warned Babs to stop talking and often curtly gestured to Deborah to sit up straight in her chair.  They would unhurriedly obey but only after giving me a smoldering stare and knowing smile; and their obedience sometimes lasted only until the end of a class, if that.  Deborah especially seemed to delight in my gesturing for her to sit up because she understood that I had not failed to notice her very feminine legs as well as the distraction they were causing to the boys around her.  And, as she no doubt suspected, the disruption they were causing to her teacher’s concentration as well.

I had little doubt what their game was.  I had seen it at work at other schools.  Girls their ages begin to experience a certain sense of power in their feminine charms and in the magical way those charms could set male hormones raging, and yet they retained a lingering doubt about exactly what is happening to them, why they have developed such power over the opposite sex and how best to use it. 

A few girls in Boston, and one in Salem, had attempted to test their burgeoning seductive endowments on me but they were brought to task quickly and in no uncertain terms.  Because as my wife soon learned after we were married, I enjoyed not simply the playful spanking sessions I had given her earlier in our relationship, but I actually enjoyed dominating women.  And I had no intention in starting something with a willing student, something she would then be able to hold over me as blackmail.

During my courtship of my wife, we had indulged in a few scenarios with wrist-binding, improvised gags and spanking sessions.  But I was always the one in charge.  Watching the smooth, white cheeks of a beautiful woman’s ass turn pinkish-red and then crimson under the lash of a brush or quirt or ruler gave me an instant erection and, in the beginning, my wife thought of it as just normal marital games people play when their bedroom door is shut.  And she certainly enjoyed dressing and acting as the wayward student in a Catholic girls’ school.

What she enjoyed most were the love spankings.  These would begin as any other spanking: my wife draped helplessly over my lap, her pink panties down to her ankles, her flimsy cotton dress lifted up to reveal her lovely white buttocks bared for punishment.  I would allow her to kiss and lick the hairbrush first and then would begin using it on her ass.  But hardly had I begun when I would briefly pause to reach down and run my fingertips very lightly and very briefly along her exposed labia and clitoris.  And then I would continue with the spanking.  But shortly after, I would again pause to employ my fingers to stimulate her female genitalia, this time just a bit longer than before, and then continue with the spanking.  And so it went: the periods of spanking gradually grew shorter while the periods of sexual stimulation grew longer.  Until finally the sexual ferment took over entirely.  And, of course, during this time she became hopelessly aroused and gave herself completely over to the urgent pursuit of sensual pleasure and with impassioned moans would wiggle about on my lap as a woman going mad from desire, begging for sexual release.

But as time went on, and I demanded she dress as a worthless slut who needed more elaborate bondage and even firmer discipline, she began to protest.  She began to understand that each scenario had only one end: to show that I was in charge and that she was to be punished for some infraction; whatever infraction I deemed she was guilty of.  Finally, when the “games” were by her definition out of control, she filed for divorce.  As she was not a Catholic, the divorce was not difficult.  Although she had always been a very discreet woman and filed divorce papers claiming only irreconcilable differences, I decided a change of venue might be wise before rumors began to spread.

But regardless of my sexual games and unusual preferences with women behind closed doors, I had never dared indulge any of my fantasies with students and had no intention of doing so: My teaching career meant far too much to me.  And now that I was in my forties I wasn’t about to attempt to start over in another profession somewhere across the country.  

And so I had warned the sisters on several occasions regarding their dress and their behavior and on one occasion had called their mother and warned her that her daughters would most likely fail this class, which in turn meant they might not be graduating with their own class in the fall.

Her response had been pure panic as she assured me her daughters’ education was extremely important to her.  She quickly invited me to tutor them at her home twice a week at a very attractive fee.  She promised me they would be on their best behavior there and begged me to give them this opportunity to learn in a distraction-free atmosphere.  She said they were not like that at home and she blamed the problem on pressures from their peers and bad examples set by their friends.

There was not a great deal to do in Groton in the evening, and despite a few forays out into the real world as well as on the internet, I had not yet met anyone I was interested in having an extended affair with.  After a few dates I would usually become bored with women who were generally lacking in what I would call spirit or vivacity, and few had any desire to experiment sexually.

And, I reminded myself, the fee the sisters’ mother had mentioned far exceeded the norm for tutoring.  So I agreed to go to their house every Tuesday and Thursday for the next several months to see if that would help improve their grasp of Asian Studies.

The drive into Mystic was a pleasant one and along the way I passed many of the well maintained Revolutionary War houses and monuments.  I had visited the Mystic Seaport on several occasions and enjoyed Mystic very much.  I approached my destination by driving down a shady lane lined with oak and gingko trees not far from the Mystic River and in the early evening everything was peaceful and picturesque; a true postcard setting.

The house was a well maintained gothic revival style in a rather remote area of the town.  I had heard their late father had done extremely well in investments but had died relatively young in some kind of accident.  But it was clear that for the mother and her daughters money was not a problem.  And I had no doubt that sense of financial security, along with their undeniable attractiveness, and, perhaps, lack of fatherly discipline, is what had made the two girls so spoiled.

Surrounded by beds of fragrant flowers and protected by overarching branches of the leaves of maple trees, the wooden house appeared warm and inviting.  The gingerbread vergeboard along the edges of the steeply pitched roofs might have been conceived by the imaginative writer of a fairytale.  But I could easily imagine how during cold, icy, winter months the high pitched gables capped with pinnacles, wall dormers, chimney pots, gable edges, towers and even the elaborate tracery would present a formidable and almost malevolent appearance.  I couldn’t help wonder about the costs involved in heating and maintaining a house of that size.  

I parked my Accord in the gravel driveway beside a dark green BMW and walked down a path lined with willow trees to the front door.  I had hardly pushed the bell before the door was opened by a striking, middle-aged woman dressed in a conservative blue-and-grey house frock.  I guessed her to be somewhere in her early forties and probably close to five feet eight inches tall.  She had the same striking green eyes as her younger daughter as well as a voluptuous figure.  Her light blonde hair was fairly short and pulled back into a pony tail.  The woman projected the self-confidence of someone born into a Waspish old money New England family.  And yet as soon as she smiled I could feel a genuine warmth and a feeling almost of reverence for a teacher.          

     “Please come in, Mr. Richards.  I’m Julia Willeford, and I’m delighted you have agreed to teach Babs and Deborah.”

     As she led me through the hallway and into a study, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level and confided that her children’s education had meant a great deal to their late father but how of late she couldn’t seem to control them.  Perhaps it was their burgeoning youth or the spring season or the fact that she was away for periods of time, but she believed now that I was here everything would be all right.

     We both had ice tea and after a bit of small talk, mainly about the value of houses in the area, the difficulty of a single mother bringing up children, and my teaching experience, she called the girls into the study. 

     Babs entered first, wearing a demure blouse and skirt, followed by Deborah laced up demurely in a pinafore dress.  It was hard to tell from their expressions whether they had expected me or not.  Her mother gestured for them to come stand by the table.  They did as they were told.  And then as she gave her lecture, her voice changed abruptly from one full of reason and sweetness to one filled with iron.  “I have asked Mr. Richards to tutor you girls twice a week in a final hope of giving you enough education to pass your exams.  Otherwise, you won’t graduate with your class and to say the least I would be mortified.  And you would be as well.  Mr. Richards has my full authority to teach you as he sees best and you are to obey him as you would me, whether I am home or not.  Is that clear?”

     They nodded.  “Yes, mama.”

     “I hope so.  Because if Mr. Richards clearly sees the need for physical discipline that is all right as well.  In fact, I encourage him to use discipline on you both if that is the only way to ensure you learn what you need to know.  Is that clear?”

      Both girls lowered their heads.  “Yes, mama.”

      Mrs. Avery went on discussing the value of an education but my mind was shocked enough to wander.  She was giving me carte blanche control over her teenage daughters even to the point of disciplining them.  And disciplining women was what I loved best.  I had to force myself to think of other things to ensure I was suddenly not burdened with a raging erection.

     “Well, then, I have some legal papers to attend to upstairs so you girls take Mr. Richards into the study and begin your lessons.  I do hope we shall all be pleased with the outcome.”

      Like parrots they again repeated “Yes, mama,” then turned and politely led me into the study.  The room had been decorated with more than a touch of old world elegance.  As I walked across the thick wall-to-wall carpeting, I looked about at a dozen or so shelves lined with both leather-bound and modern editions of the classics, nautical bric-a-brac and, on a sideboard surrounded by framed family photographs, an expensive looking antique clock inlaid with a fisherman casting his net.  Wood-framed photographs of famous yacht races lined the walls as did older photographs of Yale-Harvard boat races. 

Three copies of the books we would be using in Asian Studies and Asian History had been placed about a large oval, drop-leaf table with beautifully carved legs and decorative claw feet.  Notebooks, pens, a pitcher of water and three glasses had also been perfectly placed.  As the girls sat down, the only sound in the room was that of the ticking of the clock and the low whispering of the maple branches above the house.  They placed their folded hands on the table and stared at me expectantly as if awaiting my orders.  I did my best to conceal my wonder at their change of behavior.  I had a feeling that beneath her pleasant exterior, their mother ruled with an iron hand and they were afraid to push her too far.

     I picked up the top volume of Donald’s Short Primer to Modern Asian Cultural History and thumbed through it.  I thought if I could get most of that information into them in the short period of time I would be spending with them it would be a miracle but I had to try.

     “All right, girls, we left off in class on the warlord period of China.  Would either of you have any comments to make on that period?”

     Although they hesitated, they began speaking of how it was after the fall of the final dynasty and before the takeover of the communists.  At first, they were reciting dry historical facts but I was nevertheless pleased they had retained far more than I had given them credit for.  Perhaps they had been paying attention after all.

     After about twenty minutes, Babs got up and poured water for all of us.  As the table was quite large she walked around the table.  It was then I noticed she had slipped out of her shoes.  She approached me barefoot and leaned across to pour my water.  I realized then that her skirt may have been demure but it was shorter than I had originally thought, or else she had made certain adjustments for my benefit.  When she poured the water, her soft, sandy hair brushed against my face and I was suddenly enveloped in a wave of expensive perfume with a musk base.

     I thanked her and prepared to continue.  First I asked if there were any questions.  Both girls had questions.  It seemed they had learned from this text as well as other sources about how Chinese men used to bind the feet of their women.  They wanted to know why.

     I explained that tiny feet on a woman was regarded as a sign of elegance and refinement and it gave them a swaying way of walking which poets captured in their famous lines describing the “willow waist” and other charms associated with a bound foot woman.

     Babs did not smirk or smile but stared directly at me: “I read on the internet that some scholars enjoyed squeezing the feet of their concubines because it gave off a smell they liked.”

     “Yes, the rotting of a female foot apparently acted as an aphrodisiac on some of the men.”

     Deborah lifted her well formed bare foot in her hand and stared at it.  Her blue-and-white pinafore dress slid up her legs.  “What is an ‘aphrodisiac’, Mr. Richards?”

     “Something that excites sexual desire.”

     She slowly ran her hand over her foot, caressing it and looking at it with new interest; as if she had never considered that part of her anatomy in a sexual way before.  “Could the woman still have sex?”    

     I was intelligent enough to know that this conversation had gone well beyond normal parameters and was way over the bounds of our study but I also thought it was exactly the kind of thing that might get them interested in the subject.  Sex can go a long way to keeping young, impressionable minds focused, whereas I had a feeling it was precisely their unfocused sexual urges that were imperiling their grades, not any lack of intellect.

“Yes, they could.  But because the women had so little exercise, their lower limbs became flaccid.  And some Chinese believed that the process of binding the feet and the way the bound foot woman was forced to walk tightened a woman’s vaginal area leading to far more pleasurable sex.”

     “Is that true?  Was sex better that way?”

     “Well, Babs, I’m afraid all the folks who could have answered that question are dead now.”

     “Mr. Richards, do you think the odor of a woman’s foot could act as an aphrodisiac on you?”

     I stared at Deborah for several seconds and could feel the stirrings in my loins.  These two were definitely experts at arousal.  I would have to be on my guard if they were not to succeed in seducing me, because I had no doubt by now that that was their plan.  “I suggest we go on with the more relevant portion of the text and leave such splendid speculations to your imaginations.  How would that be?”

     “Yes, Mr. Richards.”

      For the rest of that hour, the girls behaved well enough, with just a few direct stares from time to time that I felt puzzling as well as, yes, provoking.

      As the antique clock struck the hour and the fisherman hauled in his net, I smiled and told them that was the end of the lesson for that day.  They rose and gathered their books and, as if on cue, their mother entered.  She looked as elegant as before but had changed into a black and white checkerboard halter mini-dress which ended well above her knees and which clung to every curve of her body.  “Well, how did the lesson go?”

     “Very well.  I think we covered quite a bit of ground today.  If we can keep on like this I’m quite hopeful they will graduate with their class.”

     “Wonderful!  I cannot thank you enough.”

     “Well, remember, Mrs. Willeford, I said ‘if’.  I never promise more than I can deliver and I make no promises until we’re through.”

     “Don’t worry, when they are with you I just know they pay proper attention, don’t you girls?”

     “Yes, mama.”

     “I’ll see you to the door, Mr. Richards.”  I followed her into the hallway and she opened the door for me.  “Thank you so much.”  At this point she took my hand in hers and gave it a squeeze.  “I am so grateful to you for helping my daughters.”

     As I drove away, the only thought I had was how easily the mother and her daughters had aroused me.  And I realized I had to be careful.  Of them.  And of my own weaknesses.

*********************** 

Chapter Two 

     “Excuse me, doctor, but I found this sword in the dissecting tray.”

     “Ah, yes, we forgot the surgical saw, but fortunately we found an old Colonial-era sword in the hospital storeroom.  Not quite sure how it got there but it has a fine cutting edge.”    

“But can you operate on the patient safely with a sword, doctor?”

“Why would I bring it into the OR if I didn’t think I could use it properly?  I took fencing in college, you know.”

“Yes, doctor.”

     “Is everyone ready?”

     “I washed my hands.”

     “I washed between my legs.”

     “All right, then, pay attention: Mr. Richards’s level of cognitive impairment will be severe and will almost certainly lead to hallucination, and most likely to several non-sequential distorted versions of reality.”

“But how will his mind fix on any one version, doctor?”

“He will undoubtedly decide to choose the least painful, the least confusing, and the least disturbing to his own previous fixed image of himself.”

“Doctor, is it true that some of these hallucinations in this type of severe cranial injury are of a sexual nature?”

“Yes, that does occur, although much depends on the extent of damage to his reticular activating system and the neurons within that induce his arousal functions.”

“I’ll bet dollars to dildoes his neurons have been very naughty!”

     “No naughtier than yours, that’s for sure.  And button up your nurse uniform.  Now, are you certain all of these instruments have been sterilized?”

“Yes, doctor.”

“What about these bone-nippers?”

     “I ran them lightly between my legs right after sex with an orderly in the scrub room, so they should be OK.”

     “But, doctor, if the accident hasn’t happened yet, how is it we know it will?”

     “Perhaps it has happened and Mr. Richards’s unconscious is seeking to grapple with the traumatic event by distorting time.”

     “But then isn’t it possible, doctor, that Mr. Richards exists only inside someone else’s non-sequential distorted version of reality?”

     “As might we.  But whatever the case, regardless of what version of reality we are in, we will soon have an operation to perform and, believe me, we’ll have our hands full after the next chapter.  Now get down from the operating table and stop using that drainage tube as a dildo.  I told you before, there is a time and place for everything.”

     ***********************
 

Chapter Three 

     Over the next few weeks, the weather was beautiful and the girls dressed in class rather skimpily but no more so than their classmates.  And it was never necessary for me to ask Babs to stop talking or to gesture to Deborah to sit up straight.  It seemed their mother was sincerely worried about their not graduating and had instilled in her two daughters a desire to learn.

There were some school holidays which gave me ample time to work on my Thailand novel.  I would sit in the window of my rented apartment and look out upon the Groton monument and upon the well preserved grounds of Fort Griswold.  The house I lived in was just a few minutes walk to the spot where Colonel William Ledyard had stood after finally being forced to surrender the fort and where a British officer had asked, “Who commands this fort?” Colonel Ledyard had replied, “I did, sir, but you do now,” and, hilt first, handed the officer his sword.  The officer snatched the sword and promptly ran Colonel Ledyard through.  The sword was displayed in a case outside the nearby library and I often stared at it, imagining the horror of the moment.

But I was not so interested in colonial history as I was in writing my novel on Thailand and so I began rereading the first draft of my first chapter: 

I first noticed her outside one of the go go bars just beside a squid seller’s cart.  She was barely inside the penumbra of light shed by the bar’s neon sign but I could see her clearly standing in the center of two other girls.  She had swept her hair back into a pony tail and fixed it there with a pink cord.  The color of her hair was a rich jet black but, as it ended not far below her shoulders, it was a bit too short for my taste.  She was petite with a slender neck and slender arms, and although not unattractive would certainly never have been described as a beauty, but something about her unaffected smile and unfettered laugh and her animated, almost coltish, way of prancing about lent her the elfin appeal of a gamine.

By this time, however, despite my best efforts, images of the two sisters often interrupted my concentration, irritating me and forcing me to attempt even greater concentration in the project at hand.  It seemed even when they were not being overly flirtatious they had a way of suggesting that they were available and willing to engage in sexual encounters.  For two nights in a row I had seen them in dreams and woke up feeling angry at myself.  And at them.  Nothing would have pleased me more than to have exercised the discipline on them their mother had suggested would be appropriate if needed.

At the house, however, the lessons went much as the first but without any undue mention of Chinese sexual practices or tastes.  I was served tea or coffee or whatever I wanted and the girls and I continued to sit at the table in the study.  Their mother was, as always, gracious and charming.

Julia had seemed vaguely interested when I first mentioned that I was writing a novel.  Once she understood that it was set in Thailand she wanted to know more detail.  By coincidence, we had both been in Bangkok the same year, she on a trip with her husband and I on a trip which I described to her as a sabbatical.  I had been fascinated by the country and its culture but of course never mentioned to her my fascination with the availability of beautiful and willing women.  And now that I was a free man again I had hopes of returning there for another extended sojourn in the near future.

She grew quiet for several seconds and when I asked if anything was wrong she said they had been in Thailand during the rainy season and her husband had been killed in an accident near the Pattaya Beach resort.  As I mumbled something about being sorry at such a horrible tragedy, I saw her hand holding the tea cup tremble.  She excused herself and left the room, no doubt to compose herself, but returned within just a few minutes, once again speaking about her daughters’ education.  It seemed she still cared for her late husband a great deal and I couldn’t help but wonder if she had taken on lovers or boyfriends.

Julia (she now insisted I call her by her first name) was herself a very attractive woman and her dress was on one or two occasions almost provocative, but except for asking if it would be all right to call me by my first name – Dan – she was perfectly correct and cordial in her manner.

The event or series of events which would change my life forever occurred during the fifth lesson.  If anything the day had been more beautiful than ever, puffy white clouds scudded across an azure sky already streaked with magenta and lavender.  A gorgeous sunset reflected off the Mystic River and around their house brilliant flowers were tended by butterflies.  It would be dark in less than an hour and I remember thinking that life was good.

As it was always Julia who opened the door, I was surprised when Babs greeted me.  I was even more surprised when I saw that she was wearing a flimsy beige top tied in front, a pleated, red-and-white schoolgirl’s skirt, white over-the-knee stockings and black penny loafers.  The top was far too tight for her size and it was clear that she wore nothing under it.  Between the top and the skirt a large expanse of smooth flesh was visible as there was between the hem of the skirt and the top of the stockings.

Yet in her manner she was even more polite and correct than ever.  “Good evening, Mr. Richards.  Mom had a meeting with her financial advisor in Ledyard and won’t be back until late tonight.  But she wanted us to be sure not to miss our lesson.  Please come in.”

I quickly followed her through the hallway and into the study where I was in for another surprise.  Deborah greeted me in exactly the same outfit except that she had chosen a robin’s egg blue top.  And she had plaited her hair at either side, and added pink hair buns to make the braids stand out away from her head like those of a little girl.  But, again, in expression and demeanor both girls were perfectly correct and neither attempted any seduction.

Deborah greeted me, poured tea without waiting for me to ask, and then the girls took their places as usual.  As far as I could tell, nothing in the room had changed. 

I began discussing the fall of China to the communists and the retreat of Chiang Kai-shek to Taiwan.  I remember I was just about to ask if they could tell me anything about that period, when Bab’s pen disappeared beneath the table.

She glanced down at her lap then looked up at me.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Richards, I dropped my pen.  I think it rolled over by you.”

Getting the pen meant rolling my chair back and kneeling beside the table and I failed to see why she couldn’t get it herself but if it was in fact near me I saw no harm in my retrieving it for her.

“Never mind, I’ll get it.”

I pushed the chair back, and knelt down and saw that the pen was actually midway between us under the very center of the table.  The table was high and I had to duck my head only slightly and crawled forward on my knees.  The plush wall-to-wall carpet was as soft as it looked and I had no problem moving forward.  Just as I was at the point of grasping the pen, it was at that moment that both Babs and Deborah slid their skirts up above their thighs.  As they did so, they spread their legs and slid down slightly in their chairs.

There was enough light to reveal everything they wanted me to see: Beautiful and desirable schoolgirls open to my desires.  I knew at this point if I was to save the situation, I should pick up the pen, say nothing, and continue with the lesson.  Or I could admonish them.  Or admonish them and storm out.  There were at least on the surface so many choices.  And yet of course there was no choice at all – the fiendish god had decided to turn malevolent.  All of my senses were riveted by this wanton display of their youthful sex and I felt unable to move.   

“Can you see it all right, Mr. Richards?” 

It was Babs who’d asked the question.  Oh, yes.  As she well knew, even in the fading light, I could see it.  There above the white schoolgirl socks and perfectly framed by the red-and-white schoolgirl’s skirt was what was by all societal mores, morals and ethical principles forbidden to a man of my age and particularly to one in my position – a mentor, a teacher, an instructor, an educator.

I cannot say how many seconds I passed in that absurd and degrading manner; neither moving forward nor back, simply mesmerized by the tantalizing feasts on display.  Their flaxen pubic hair spreading out above their pudenda like the erect tails of proud peacocks and in perfect contrast to the pure white of their stockings.  In the dim light, the buckles of their penny loafers shined slightly like pulsating stars.  The only sound I could hear was the steady clicking of a ceiling fan as it whirred overhead, the ticking of the antique clock and the blood rushing into my ears.

I cannot excuse myself by saying I had no responsibility, only that I had absolutely no will to resist.  I don’t even remember crawling forward, only that I found myself hopelessly lost in bestowing rapturous, inflamed kisses along Bab’s smooth thighs and brushing my lips along them until I reached her feminine offering and there I began satisfying her, pleasuring her, worshipping her with lips and tongue.  I held my hands firmly against her thighs as much as to prevent her from suddenly lowering her skirt and closing off her jade gate as much as to caress her smooth white skin.  

I felt her hands on my head and let her guide me, let her lead my lips and tongue as she desired: against her clitoris and then away from her clitoris until she wanted me to pleasure her there again.  Along her inner thighs, along the lips of her mound of pleasure.  And my tongue against the smooth softness of her pubic hair and exploring the wonderful crevice while I inhaled the most alluring and seductive of feminine scents.

I could hear her breathing deepen and her restlessness increase, and, like hers, my passion became even more frenzied, and finally she shouted out, “Yes!” and pressed her thighs firmly against my head and held me trapped in place.

At first I continued tonguing her for her excitement also excited me, but then I felt, in her sexual frenzy, the surge of power of her smooth thighs holding my head locked between her legs and within seconds the pressure increased transforming pleasure into discomfort.  I reached beneath her thighs, trying to pull them apart, but she used her hands to keep my head in position while, in her sexual delirium, her thighs squeezed together with still more pressure.  In my panic, it felt as if my skull was being crushed and I tried desperately to pull away but to no avail.  My nostrils were full of her pungent sexual scent which ordinarily would have driven me wild but I could feel myself growing weak and as a velvety blackness enveloped me I made one last attempt to pull away.  Then I felt a sudden rush of excruciating pain in the head, and almost immediately felt nothing at all.

The sounds of male and female voices drifted over to me, perhaps from outside, perhaps from inside my skull.  But I had to concentrate to understand, as if they were speaking in a foreign language and the meaning of each word and its proper placement in the sentence was clear only with intense concentration.  And the intoxicating feminine scent between Bab’s legs gradually transformed into the smell of an anaesthetic.

***********************

Chapter Four 

“Mr. Richards, what about Deborah?”

“There is intracranial bleeding but he might have lucid intervals as well as unconsciousness.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Mr. Richards, do you know what day it is?”

“Acute subdural hematoma, blunt head trauma, and extreme abnormality of mental status.”

“Mr. Richards, can you count backwards from ten to one?”

“Mr. Richards, can you still get an erection?”

“Mr. Richards, can you do Deborah next?  She’s waiting!”

“A massive discharge of testiculated neurons and decreased oxygen supply brought about by cunnilingus!  My, my!”

“Mr. Richards, your hematomas are scattered about in your right and left frontal lobes like partridges in a pear tree.  Would you like us to transfer them to your libido?”

“Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee.”

“Where did I put the scalpel?”

“I’m sorry, doctor, I think I left your scalpel in my boyfriend’s car.  We were using it in an unorthodox manner.”

“All right, never mind, hand me the nipple-boners.”

“And you have a dildo-shaped hemorrhage of the right basal ganglia region big enough to choke a horse.”

“You’re a neural mesh, Mr. Richards!”

“Sorry, doctor, but we’re fresh out of nipples and boners.”

“Never mind, this sword will do just as well.”

“Mr. Richards, please do Deborah or else I’m telling mother you’re not fair!”

“And just look at your right parietal lobe!  That cortical contusion is one sexy motherfucker.”

“Confusion, contusion and delusion!”

“You are all fucked up, Mr. Richards!”

“And your left frontal lobe is compressed by bone fragments from the pressure exerted by the young lady’s thighs.  We can leave them there as souvenirs of your sexual conquest if you like, Mr. Richards.”

“Mr. Richards, can you say ‘Bab’s black-backed bustier’ without thinking erotic thoughts?”  

 “This case will make medical history.  I’ll be famous, Mr. Richards!  How can I ever thank you?”

“Moma, Mr. Richards did me but he won’t do Deborah!” 

“Will he regain consciousness?”

“Ah, define consciousness and then I can tell you.”

*********************** 

Chapter Five 

I first noticed her outside one of the go go bars just beside a squid seller’s cart.  She was barely inside the penumbra of light shed by the bar’s neon sign but I could see her clearly standing in the center of two other girls.  She had swept her hair back into a pony tail and fixed it there with a pink cord.  The color of her hair was a rich jet black but, as it ended not far below her shoulders, it was a bit too short for my taste.  She was petite with a slender neck and slender arms, and although not unattractive could certainly never have been described as a beauty, but something about her unaffected smile and unfettered laugh and her animated, almost coltish, way of prancing about lent her the elfin appeal of a gamine.

There were bars with go go dancers on both sides of the narrow lane and opposite the one she stood near was a tattoo parlor with a huge Chinese-style neon dragon.  The dragon had angry red eyes and a body which slowly changed from one shade of yellow to another: from primrose to canary to goldenrod to aureate to champagne and back to primrose.  The glow of light reached the girls, and as the color changed shade, so did the lovely brown of the gamine’s skin: from sienna to ginger to butterscotch to tawny and back again.  But in the twilight of a beautiful October evening, it seemed as if the change of hues was coming not from the dragon’s rays but rather from within her, emanating from some restless spirit inside her never quite still body.

The rows of flattened, grilled, dry squid with their tentacles hanging down looked like a set of stationary bells on the cart of a down-and-out carillon player.  And while the vendor squeezed yet another squid through his pressing device, the girl mischievously picked up his bamboo fan and fanned his tiny charcoal stove over which her small dark squid was being grilled.  The burning charcoal in the earthenware vessel glowed a deeper red.  The vendor chopped her squid and handed it to her in a funnel-shaped paper along with a tiny transparent container of mixed chilies, peanuts and syrup.

I don’t believe I would have noticed her at all except that she was so lively, so active, so animated, that her enthusiasm for whatever she was doing was almost contagious.  She had no sooner paid for her snack than she began snapping her fingers over the head of a bemused but playful puppy.  And it pranced about under her gestures as might a puppet on strings.  She had about her so much of a child’s delight that I couldn’t help but wonder if she really worked in one of the bars. 

Her body was draped in the standard uniform a go go dancer wears when she leaves the bar to score some quick Thai snack: a shiny robe (in this case a shade of coral pink lined with robin’s egg blue stripes) ending just above knee-high black boots, no doubt staying within some poorly enforced Thai law by covering her bikini-clad body from passersby.  But I thought she looked so young that possibly she was one of the greeters outside a bar or else she worked as a waitress inside. 

                I had slowed my pace to stare at her and as the puppy ran off she caught my eye and gave me a friendly, ingenuous smile which I returned.  She held out her helping of squid as if inviting me to try some but I made a face, smiled again and waved that off with my hand.   She and her friends laughed and walked toward the nearby bar. 

I resumed my walk up to another bar where I knew a colleague in my insurance firm would be waiting.  We had arranged the meeting to discuss the officious and (we were quite certain) incompetent new CEO and what if anything we could do about him.  But I thought if I had a chance later that evening I might have a quick beer in the bar she entered as I had yet to venture inside that one. 

How blithely we make decisions which forever change our lives.  

***********************  

Chapter Six 

“Doctor, can the patient hear us?”

“More to the point, can the patient sue us?”

“You are a funny one, doctor.”

“Thank you.  I had thought of a comedy club career at one stage.  But to answer your question, no, the patient is out.  The question remains, however, where is he out to.  Based on the condition of his frontal and temporal lobes, I would say his awareness and consciousness can be patched up fairly quickly, but never perfectly.  But is this patient now hallucinating and are all of us just a part of his hallucinations?”

“So you are saying that once we fix him up and he stops hallucinating we may disappear.”

“Precisely.”

“So by fixing him up we are killing ourselves.”

“No matter.  We took an oath, remember?” 

“What about his limbic lobe, doctor?”

“Ah, now that is working overtime.”

“Which means?”

“Which means Mr. Richards will have very few inhibitions in his subject matter, I’m afraid.”

“Is that why the trainee nurse is stripping her clothes off and grabbing your crotch?”

“Most likely.”

“How should we handle this situation, doctor?”

“As medical professionals who may or may not be a part of a patient’s hallucination, we will just have to bear with this situation as best we can.  Above all, we should do nothing to interfere with our patient’s fantasies, regardless how lascivious, as that might lead to further cognitive impairment of Mr. Richards and force him to distort reality to an even greater degree.”

“Is that why you’re allowing the nurse to place your manhood in her mouth, doctor?”

“Of course.  Remember: first, do no harm.”

“That’s quite noble of you, doctor.”

“I took an oath.”

***********************
 

Chapter Seven 

Growing up in Los Angeles, I had always enjoyed the challenge of solving puzzles and crosswords and math problems and had majored in mathematics in college.  Not long after graduation I joined one of the largest insurance companies in Hartford, Connecticut as a trainee.  After five years I was an actuarial assistant.  I managed for the most part to stay out of office politics and on my way up I had acquired such titles as  Vice President and Actuary, and then Manager of Actuarial Marketing.  I was sent to various offices in Europe and remained there for several years.  In those days I was still quite proud of my accomplishments and never failed to place a nameplate on my desk, “Stephen Avery, Manager of Actuarial Marketing.” 

Not long after I had settled in Paris, I was hastily transferred to Bangkok where I was quickly promoted to Chief Actuary in place of one who had been caught taking considerable amounts of money out of the till to pay for the expensive habits of his Thai ladyfriend.  So that meant I was in management but not, of course, a board member.

I had married early in life and, as often happens with Western wives, my wife hated Bangkok, and so, after bitter arguments, the marriage was over.  She got everything I had including the kids, and I began my new life here in Thailand.

Thanks to my experience and knowledge in the field, I was considered a senior member of the firm but in addition to losing everything to my wife I also had debts to pay off, especially regarding some stocks highly recommended by broker friends who should have known better.  So despite my title, I was in no position to make any waves which might see my employment terminated.     

I had spent the last few days writing a paper to our board setting out reasons why we needed an increase of capital to the company.  I had to explain in detail the background to it, how much we needed, how best to structure it, and the reasons for doing it now.  Yes, it was boring work but writing reports of this nature relaxed me.  On the other hand, the new CEO loved meetings most of which seemed useless and time-consuming to the rest of us. 

Worse yet, he had no idea how to deal with a Thai staff.  The week before he had told the Thai manager to implement “Casual Fridays,” and to send a memo to others suggesting appropriate dress to be worn on that day.  I had found the saying “Thais play at their work and work at their play” to have more than a grain of truth in it but, for whatever reason, the Thai had done nothing, and the CEO yelled at him in front of others, causing him to lose face.  Several of us farangs (foreigners) could feel tension building but the CEO was oblivious to it.

And so with the almost inevitable conflict looming in the office, as well as being somewhat bored with aspects of my work, it was nice to unwind and drink cold beer and watch pretty Thai girls in bikinis dance to music. 

******* 

It was just over two hours later that my friend and I parted company.  He headed off for the Skytrain but I decided to have one last beer for the night and headed for the bar where the girl with the squid had entered.

Along the way, skimpily clad young women all seemingly in their early twenties stood in front of each restaurant or bar and encouraged me by gestures and pleas and shouts to enter the one they worked for but I continued on.   

At last I came to the bar I had seen her enter.  The outside was not quite as flamboyant as the others, a black wooden facade lit up only by its crimson neon sign: the sneering face of a horned devil below the large letters - “Devil’s Delight!” 

A slender young woman with a tight blouse and very short skirt took my hand and tugged me in the direction of the door.  “Inside please!”  She opened the door for me and as I took a few steps into the bar, another young woman pulled open a well worn blue and gold curtain with a repeating devil-with-pitchfork theme.

A hostess in something resembling a school uniform led me over to a seat in the second row of seats facing the long stage upon which scantily clad women danced.  As I glanced about the room the hostess stood patiently in front of me waiting for my order.  I had to raise my voice to be heard over the loud music.  I ordered a Heineken and without a word she disappeared into the semi-darkness at the rear of the bar.

Someone had obviously paid quite a sum to light up the stage in a professional manner.  Toward the back wall, I could see an expensive looking luminaire for professional color mixing.  The subdued changes in lighting seemed perfectly synchronized to the pace and style of the music.  Laser bursts appeared when the music seemed to demand them, and then gradually dimmed and dissolved.  Behind the dancers rotating reflector mirrors were set at angles to enhance beams of multi-colored light as they swept back and forth across the stage, beams which brightened and then cross-faded at variable speeds.  As one set of dancers left the stage to make room for another, iridescent rainbow effects broke up and scattered into prismatic confetti-like fragments.

Every few minutes, a horned devil’s face with its diabolical grin would gradually materialize in one section of the far wall and then just as slowly disappear only to eventually emerge in another section of the wall.    

It took some time for my eyes to become accustomed to the areas of light and dark but once they did I could see that many of the dozen or so women on stage were extremely good looking.  Each danced beside a vertical brass pole and each was full of youthful energy.  Several had the kind of face and figures usually found only in men’s stereotypical fantasy drawings of an Asian woman – the impossibly alluring and exquisitely beautiful Oriental goddess.  My eyes fell on one almost directly in front of me, not the most beautiful, but certainly the best dancer.  While I drank my beer and watched the dancing I wondered if the girl I had seen buying squid was still here or if someone had paid her barfine and taken her out. 

As lights briefly illuminated areas of darkness, I could see the bar was crowded and business was good.  But I couldn’t see the one I was looking for and I again paid attention to the dancers.  Suddenly, I realized the girl I thought was the best dancer, the one almost directly before me, was the one I was searching for. 

I could scarcely believe this was the same child-woman I had seen a mere two hours before, so completely had she transformed herself.  She was the most petite dancer on stage, but she no longer bore the slightest resemblance to a child.  She was dressed in a skimpy satin bra with lace trim and tiny thong panty bottom.  Her white boots reached just below her knees.  Her hair was now loose and as she danced it fanned out about her head and shoulders at times almost hiding her face.  The incessant rhythm of the music drove her on, one moment she barely touched the pole, the next she held it firmly for support as she ever-so-slowly slid down and just as slowly slid up, somehow always managing to keep perfect pace with the rhythm. 

Given her diminutive size, she might have passed as childlike, but her slender body was too curvaceous and her facial expression too knowing.  And her dance far too sensual.  The serpentine movements of her fast dancing were erotic enough, but she had a way of standing in place while barely touching the pole with one hand and simply moving her body back and forth, almost as if the music were rippling through her.

It was at the moment that the song was over and while the dancers paused for the next one to begin that she grasped the pole with both hands and leaned forward, as if looking for someone among the customers.

During these several seconds, the lights seemed to cease their restless prowling and to focus all their intensity on her.  At that instant she looked in my direction and our eyes met; and I understood with absolute clarity that she had the power to annihilate me and I knew even then that unless I paid my bill immediately and left without looking back, I would travel through a transforming journey into oblivion.

But it was already too late.  The enemy armies had smashed their way through the city gates, the buildings were in flames, the temples looted and destroyed, and the inhabitants enslaved.  And I clearly saw myself among them.

The music started and she danced again as before, but, occasionally, she would pause, hang onto her pole, tilt her head, and look out into some middle distance, as if wistfully remembering something far removed from the world of a Bangkok bar; something beautiful and serene.  And then just as suddenly she would once again begin, holding the pole with one hand, while moving her body sensually and seductively.

After that song was over, the girls quickly left the stage and all but a few lights dimmed to black.  It was time for the last show of the night.  Whether because of the more genteel tastes of the owner or because of the recent police crackdown, the shows here were of a more sophisticated nature than I had seen in other bars in the past.

The first few dancers who appeared on stage paraded about and posed as if they were professional models giving a show.  The audience kept up a continuous barrage of raucous cheers and jeers but the girls had been well trained to ignore them.  They kept the profession’s de rigueur haughty expressions on their faces and seldom actually looked at the audience while, one after the other, appeared in sexy apparel from skimpy wet-look string tank outfits to denim tube dresses.  The last, a dark complexioned beauty, appeared in a feather and fishnet thong teddy which left little to the imagination.  She managed to avoid several hands reaching for her legs by keeping to the middle of the stage.

After several seconds, three more girls appeared, this time in jail bait costumes, two-piece outfits with skimpy stretch knit tops, gingham plaid mini-skirts, lacy leg garters, elbow-length, black fishnet arm warmers, fingerless lace gloves with ruffle trim, and stiletto-heeled, white booties with ruffles.  Each of the girls had her hair down and tied with pink ribbons and each held an oversized pink lollipop.  In unison, they cavorted about the stage in time to the music and soundlessly mouthed cheerleader cheers. 

The third one on stage was the one who had captured my soul.  She expertly led the other two in cheerleader moves and dance steps all the while maintaining a knowing smile.  The audience loved it.  Eventually they stripped one another down to panties and see-thru bras, pranced about a bit, and then exited the stage.

The next act was a dancer dressed as a cowboy complete with Stetson hat, vest, denim shorts open at the crotch and cowboy boots over black mesh lingerie.  The cowboy twirled “his” phony mustache and walked about as if looking for someone.  Soon a barefoot dancer appeared on stage in a knee-length black-and-red gown which swirled about as she danced around the cowboy.  The lovers eventually embraced and all might have been well but another dancer appeared in much the same gown and began vying for the cowboy’s attentions.  The act ended with the cowboy shrugging and leaving the stage while the women fought with one another in dance, finally stripping each to panties and bra.

The last act of the night was straight-forward S&M.  A lovely dancer strode out upon the stage to the sounds of drums and martial music.  She was dressed in the sexed-up uniform of a bootcamp officer – blue beret with insignia, long-sleeved top with epaulettes and medals, navy blue short shorts, mesh stockings, and stiletto-heeled black boots.  Between the top and shorts was a long expanse of flesh and in her gloved hand she brandished a leather whip.  The audience cheered.  The dancer cracked the whip and another dancer, her slave, rushed onto the stage and threw herself at the feet of the officer.  The officer pulled the slave about a bit as if by her hair, then cracked the whip against the stage just inches from her bowed head.  The choreography was excellent and the act received the most applause of the night.  

At some point I looked toward the rear of the bar and I saw her.  She stood at the back of the stage still dressed in her jail bait outfit.

As the slave was being “whipped,” several of the girls laughed and made comments, but she stared straight ahead as if fascinated by the scene.  And something about the inquisitive and uninhibited way this sexily dressed child-woman stood watching a simulated sado-masochistic scene gave me a thrill of excitement and I could feel a growing erection.  She glanced over at me and I was certain she was looking directly at me.  She did not smile or in any way attempt to gain my favor.  She simply looked straight at me.  The bar had grown silent and the only sound was that of the whip whapping against the floor of the stage and the simulated yelps and sobs of the slave.  And as this child-woman stared at me, I realized I was more sexually aroused than I had been in years.

Over the four years I had been in Bangkok I had taken several dancers from this area to hotels, always for no longer an interlude than an hour or two.  But nothing they had done had caused the blood to pound in my ears as it was now.  Her stare and the crack of the whip seemed to release pent up emotions I didn’t know I had.  And I felt as if this child-woman was reading my thoughts and sensing my desires.

The spell was broken only by the sudden appearance of the mamasan whispering into her ear and pointing toward the semi-darkness on the other side of the room.  A customer had apparently bought her a drink and wanted her to sit with him.  She nodded and without a word went off to keep him company. 

I cursed myself for not doing that first.  I checked my watch.  It was after midnight and I decided to call for the bill.  As I squeezed my way past customers standing near the door I managed to spot her in the darkness, and I could see two semi-circles of light beside her, reflecting off a man’s glasses.  I cannot describe why but although the man’s face was in shadow, I had a feeling of sudden dread.  It was as if I had come face to face with an unknown nemesis whom I would sooner or later have to deal with.

I looked from the man to the girl.  I could not tell if she was even looking in my direction; but it didn’t matter: the chains were firmly in place.  I would be back.

 ***********************

Chapter Eight 

“Baaaaaaa.”

     “What is that sheep doing in the OR?”

     “We ran out of suture, doctor, so we have to slaughter it to get suture from its intestines.”

     “Well, be quick about it.”

     “Yes, doctor.  Could I borrow the sword for just a minute?”

     “Why aren’t you nurses wearing protective caps over your hair?”   

“We couldn’t find any protective caps that matched our gowns, doctor.”

“Where are the sterile masks to cover your faces?”

“We ran out of hospital masks but my sister’s kid had a bunch of Lone Ranger masks, so we can put these on.  Is that OK?”

     “All right, yes, never mind, but this is a very delicate operation and I’m not certain Mr. Richards can be fixed as good as new so let us hold hands, bow our heads and pray.”

“Our Father, who dwelleth in all our neurotransmitters, thou who art deeply involved in and perhaps even responsible for Mr. Richards’s neurotransmitter dysfunction, please assist us in repairing his cognitive malfunction, eliminating his hallucinations, and transforming his non-sequential distorted versions of reality into sequential non-distorted versions of reality, and please forgive Mr. Richards (or whoever this patient may be) for neurotransmitting against you.”

“Amen.”

     ***********************

Chapter Nine 

Expect the unexpected. 

     That's what Doctor Parsons said when he left mother in his office with his nurse so he could break the news to me in the hallway.  That the Catscan confirmed mother had Alzheimer's.  He said a part of her brain had already atrophied.  And that he had never seen so many tangles and plaques in a patient before. 

He cleared his throat and apologized for nearly giving her an MRI.  He had been about to but I had e-mailed him just before I left Thailand for Florida reminding him mother had a pacemaker and couldn’t have one.  So he switched to the Catscan.  Doctors are busy people and don’t always remember things.  And sometimes what they don’t remember can do a lot of damage.

And he was right about the need to expect the unexpected.  But he might also have warned me that to be a successful caregiver for someone with Alzheimer's one must be an inveterate liar, an expert in espionage techniques, someone who can go without sleep for long periods of time, a smooth-talking trickster, an unconscionable bully, a diabolically clever thief, an observant nanny, an unlicensed pharmacist and an untrained somnambulist.  It would also be nice to be in possession of unlimited patience for when someone you love (or what is left of them) is expertly insulting you or falsely accusing you.  Or worst of all, has forgotten who you are. 

A course in crisis-management would certainly be advisable.  It might also be wise to sign up for a course in covert operations.  Because if the person doesn't know he or she has Alzheimer's, you and those assisting you will have to act as cleverly and as furtively as a master spy. 

******** 

My 94-year-old stepfather is sitting at the dining table pouring milk on his cornflakes, slowly, cautiously, almost gingerly, as a scientist might mix volatile chemicals.  He is wearing a colorful shirt, maroon shorts, slippers.  I feel sorry for him.  His area of the table has been greatly reduced because my 86-year-old mother, whose Alzheimer’s is no longer in doubt, had been moving folders and files about the night before and has left unruly piles of them on his end of the table.  

Behind him the bright Florida sunlight of a late February morning illuminates the white curtains with their coral pink shell designs, and makes the sharply etched features of his gaunt, dark face more difficult to see.  He reaches for his banana.  “Jim,” I say, “are you sure that banana is still all right to eat?”

He turns the banana over in his wrinkled hand.  “When bananas are spotted and brown like this, that's when they're best to eat.”

I say nothing but I see that the banana skin almost perfectly matches that of his arm: spotted and brown.

He slices the banana onto his cereal, picks up the spoon, and begins eating.  After which I know he will go outside for twenty minutes to what he calls the “sun room,” and sit out-of-doors in a sturdy plastic chair behind his small tool shed facing the sun.  He has been doing this ever since he and my mother moved to Vero Beach over 20 years before.  My mother and I warned him again and again about getting too much sun but he never seemed to suffer ill effects.  But now his taut skin is parched, aged and very dark.  And very thin: he bleeds easily.  And the long delayed skin cancer finally caught up with him.  He had a few spots removed just before I arrived.  But his mind is clear.  

The window behind him has a small hole and large cracks in it.  He has called several repair companies and one-man shops to come fix it but of course repairmen are still too busy fixing up houses after the two hurricanes hit Vero Beach late last year.  Meanwhile, he has covered the interior of the glass pane with plastic to protect the dining room from showers.

The window came through the hurricanes unscathed.  But just before I arrived from Bangkok nearly two months ago he noticed the damage.  And, according to him, from where the shards of glass lay on the lawn, it was easy to tell the window was hit by something from inside the house.  No doubt during the period my mother was accusing him of trying to kill her.  And kill the dog.  And locking herself in the bathroom and screaming for help out the window.  And stabbing at his arm with a pair of scissors when he tried to reach in to retrieve his false teeth.  And when she was calling the police and demanding he get the hell out.  And when she was sneaking bags of clothes to the neighbors because she was certain Jim and his friends were trying to steal them.  Before she was taken to the hospital, had her Catscan and was placed on several powerful medications.  And then sent home. 

The dining room is now as cluttered as my mother’s bedroom and the living room and the TV room.  Everything in the house is a mess.  Mother never did like to throw things away but she always kept things neat.  Not now. 

I will spend part of this day as I have on previous days: searching through boxes and files and in drawers for checkbooks, bills, documents and envelopes with “Important Tax Document Enclosed.”  My mother always took care of their bills and taxes and now she no longer can but she has yet to realize that.

I pick up my empty granola bowl and move my chair back to get up.  As I walk into the kitchen, I have to avoid the piles of old bills, letters, cards and newspaper articles (some being reviews of my books from years before).  Beside a folder bulging with documents are several of the Thai curios I sent from Thailand nearly four decades ago.  Sent to them when they still lived in Connecticut.  A hilltribe doll, wooden elephants fighting, a hand-woven couch cover, a jewelry box made with shells. 

The phone rings.  I yell, “I’ll get it!” even though I know my stepfather always prefers to let me answer the phone and most likely can’t hear it ring, anyway.  My mother won’t answer it because we disconnected her bedroom phone extension so she can’t call the police anymore.  Just in case. 

I know at this time in the morning it is most likely my sister.  Mary is my one sibling, a sister a few years older than me in her mid-sixties.  We are not close and have little in common.  She likes living in Vero Beach on the Barrier Island, patronizing pretentious restaurants and playing tennis with her friends.  I like living in Bangkok writing books, reading books, and taking beautiful young Thai women to bed.

But, as they say, an Alzheimer’s crisis either brings families together or brings out the old wounds and festering resentment.  So far the crisis seems perfectly capable of doing both.

I pick up the portable phone and quickly go out onto a small screened-in porch fronting the driveway.  I don’t want my mother hearing my conversation with my sister. 

We plan to meet later in the day.  We have an appointment to see a lawyer to redo my mother’s durable power of attorney.  As it is now, I am “first successor trustee” and my sister is “second successor trustee.”  But sooner or later I have to get back to Bangkok so without my mother’s knowledge we intend to change the document to read myself “and/or” my sister.  I particularly want Mary to share in the authority of the durable power of attorney for health care with living will provisions for both my mother and stepfather.  While I am back in Bangkok, she might need to make decisions.  Quickly.      

The lawyer is on Indian River Boulevard so we agree to meet in the parking lot of the law firm.  I turned my rental car in after a week and now out of necessity drive my stepfather’s 1987 Mercury.  After the compact I was driving, the long-bodied Mercury handles like a tank without treads.  One window does not roll down, one door is hard to open and the radio doesn’t work.  But as my stepfather says it gets us from point A to point B.  Always practical, my stepfather.

While I speak with my sister I drift outside onto the driveway and lawn.  Above me is a cloudless blue sky and all around me are similar mobile homes with similar driveways and similar lawns.  Manufactured houses made of 2 x 4's and aluminum.  Stapled not nailed.  Floors of fiberboard, not plywood.  So when the rain came in during the second hurricane, many floors were soaked and ruined.  Or else the staples gave way and so did the houses.

My ears pick up distinct sounds: My mother’s bamboo tubular wind chimes – that I bought in Thailand decades before – and the sound of someone’s roof being repaired.  A car door slams across the street.  I see the elderly couple exit their car and, holding on to one another, slowly enter the house.  The man is having chemotherapy for some kind of cancer.  As he reaches out to close his door he spots me, waves, and shouts in his high-pitched voice: “Hi, Dean.”

Neighbors have been especially solicitous and helpful during the time of my mother’s increasing bizarre behavior.  Mother has always been extremely popular and Jim loves nothing more in life than to chat with the neighbors.  So they are well known in the mobile home park.

My stepfather realizes I often avoid joining in conversations with his friends but he cannot understand why: “He’s a hell of a nice guy; I don’t know why you don’t want to stop by and say hello.”  Or: “They’re a lovely couple.”  My stepfather is the most superficial judge of human beings I have ever met.  Within five minutes of meeting a person he knows nothing about, he will declare him “a hell of a nice guy.”  I suspect this may be why my mother made certain that she was the one handling investments.  His gullibility would be spotted by a con artist in a New York minute. 

But it is not that I dislike the neighbors.  It is simply that I am too depressed and too exhausted to indulge in superficial conversations with people I have little in common with.  Jim’s friends have lived the American dream and retired in a mobile home community in Florida with wives of their own race and in their own age group, and their lives are covered and partly defined by pensions, social security, health insurance and activities at the clubhouse (before the hurricanes destroyed the clubhouse).  It is to me an exotic foreign world which both puzzles and repulses me.  As no doubt mine would them.

And I have learned that every conversation in an “age qualified” retirement community is about hospitals, hospices, assisted living places, nursing homes, Medicare coverage, cost of prescriptions, health problems, doctors, polyps and colonoscopies, and discreet discussions as to who died recently or who had to move back up north to live with their children.  While my stepfather is always buoyed up after a chat with the neighbors I feel depressed and dispirited. 

I asked my sister how people can live like this.  She said sometimes they talk about their dogs.  But most of them are on their last legs as well.  I never saw so many dogs wobble, hobble and limp before I came here.  It's like they're canine veterans of some horrific war.

I spot the local newspaper on the lawn and pick it up.  It is wrapped in transparent cellophane.  No one ever throws the cellophane out because that is what we use to pick up dog shit when we walk the dog.  Or more often from the living room floor where my mother’s 15-year-old Yorkshire Terrier now prefers to shit.

When I return inside, mother is still in the bedroom, the home health aide helping her dress.  Mother seems able to dress herself but, if left on her own, she takes a very long time to decide what to wear.  And her taste in fashion has, to say the least, diminished. 

Jim is now eating a plain donut with a spoon.  Except for my stepfather, I have never known a person who eats only the basics in life: plain cereal, vanilla ice cream, plain donuts.  I have never known him to try anything different.  His preference for diners and cheap restaurants has become a family joke and my sister never ceases to needle him about his late afternoon eating habits; early to restaurants to save a dollar on the “early bird specials.”

I give Jim the paper, pick up an empty plastic milk jug and take it outside.  I throw it down on the “We Love Our Dog” rubber mat and crush it with my shoe then throw it into the blue recycle bucket.  I reenter the house and sit at a counter between the kitchen and the TV room. I begin snapping open the compartments of the milky white plastic pill dispenser with each of its seven days divided into four tiny pill trays: morning, after lunch, after dinner, before bed.

I take pills from bottles and vials and place them in the dispenser: