By Margo Perry  (margo707 AT rogers DOT com)
Copyright 2007 by Margo Perry, all rights reserved.

Charles Minors paced the length of his spacious condo and returned to the living room to prowl in circles. It was Christmas Eve, the anniversary of his wife’s sudden death, the night he perennially set aside to mourn the loss that had painted five years of days with the stain of resentment and abject loneliness. The smell of cedar, his wife’s log of choice, drifted from the black, glass-tiled fireplace and her favourite Berlioz Requiem soared through the air. He dropped into his leather recliner and a ragged moan escaped his throat. He felt so much older than his fifty years. He eyeballed the shot glass and bottle of Scotch he was preparing to crawl into, but he wasn’t yet primed for this wake. Something was wrong. Something was missing.

He poured himself a drink and downed it in one gulp. The heat seared his mouth before blazing its way to his belly. He had another and another and despaired when the alcohol seemed unable to relieve the mordant disquiet that had claimed him. He stared at the phone sitting on the table beside him. It hadn’t rung all day. Its silence was what was wrong. Not one friend. Not one relative had called on this fateful day. That’s what was missing. Until now, well-wishers had called every year, begging him to give up his solitary wake and join them for the holidays. But he’d refused, resenting them for carrying on with their traditions, their Christmases, their lives. Not even Eleanor’s beloved sister, who had assumed the mantle of Eleanor’s annual Christmas Eve Party, had bothered to call. And he could not blame her. He had stayed away every year, jealous and bitter about the solace their friends found in celebrating Eleanor’s life and it seemed that finally, they were staying away from him.

His wife’s image suddenly appeared. She floated in front of him, all face, wearing that disapproving expression that accused him of being stubborn, of taking a position that she could not and would not condone. She shook her disembodied head sadly, in very slow motion, and he knew what she was thinking. His solitary pining had become self destructive. It was time to reach out and rejoin their circle of friends. “I know,” he said quietly. Eleanor bathed him in the warmth of a beatific smile, just before dissolving into nothingness. He knew that he should stop drinking, maybe call a cab and go to the party, but the very thought exhausted him. He was about to pour another shot when the phone rang.

He checked call display: Lobby Security. He grabbed the remote, pressed 555, picked up his phone and turned on the television. What he saw might have jumped from the pages of a Kurt Vonnegut novel and Chuck did not know whether to laugh or cry. About ten people dressed for the less than zero degree evening - hats, coats and scarves wound around their necks and faces, boots protecting their feet - stared dumbstruck, affording a wide berth to the person speaking into the intercom, speaking to him. The woman wore no coat. A flowing strapless summer dress fell to her delicate ankles and red high heeled sandals. A garland circled her head completing this stunning picture of springtime beauty and madness in the midst of December‘s icy chill. All he could think of was Shakespeare and Ophelia’s garland speech:

"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts," said Ophelia to her brother Laertes. "There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me; we may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died."

“Hello,” he said. “Marianne, is that you?”

Hello, Mr. Minors? Chuck, yes, it’s me. You sound surprised. Am I too early?

‘Too early for what?’ he wondered. But that, he could see, was the least of his problems. “No, no. It’s fine. Please come up. You remember Penthouse A?” he said.

Oh yes. I was here for the party last year. Arthur’s away for the weekend, but I came alone. I didn’t want to miss it.

The ‘last year’ she was referring to happened six years ago when he and Eleanor had thrown what they hoped would be their first, but proved to be also their last, annual Christmas Eve party. Eight years ago, Marianne, his clerk and right hand for over twelve years, had quit to marry Arthur Burns, one of his younger law partners. Everyone was excited for her, but it was soon rumoured that he was treating her very badly. Two years ago, Arthur dropped dead on the golf course in the company of a very blonde, very obviously beautiful call girl, and the last Chuck had seen of Marianne was at his funeral. Until now. And he had forgotten just how lovely she was. Lovely, but lost! What had happened to her?

“I’ll open the door. Take the first elevator, it‘ll bring you all the way up.”

Okay, thanks.

He watched her enter and head for the elevators before calling security.

Security, Number One King’s Row.

“George, it’s Chuck Minors, Penthouse A. A lady just rang from the lobby and she’s on her way up. She’s not dressed for this weather and I wondered . . . “

Sorry Mr. Minors, she moved in today and just came down to try and get in touch with you. She seems to have a bit of a problem and her companion is looking for her. Would it be alright if I let her know where she’s headed?

“Of course. Marianne’s a good friend. She was my assistant for years and my wife and I were very fond of her. Tell her companion that everything’s okay. She can come up.”

Will do. Thanks Mr. Minors.

Chuck hung up the phone, put the bottle of Scotch back on the bar and the shot glass in the sink. He felt instantly sober and, looking through his windows out at the sprawling city, reminded himself of just how lucky he was. Death might have robbed him of his greatest love, but it had left him with many gifts, especially one that he had hitherto taken for granted . . . his sanity. For five years, he had been toying with grief’s delirium, not appreciating its devastating power, and the very sight of Marianne, like Eleanor’s ghostly censure, made him feel selfish and ashamed. “I’m sorry, Eleanor,“ he mumbled under his breath, “I‘ve been acting like a damned fool.” Whatever it took, he promised himself he would do his best to help Marianne. He left his apartment, went to the elevator and waited.

Chuck shifted from one foot to the other. He had no idea what he was about to face. Marianne had always been so self assured and steady. He and Eleanor had appreciated her brilliance, how much lighter she made his work load, how humbly she wore her beauty. They had loved her and worried when she married and placed so much distance between them. Now when she seemed to need them most, Eleanor was gone. He felt inadequate and alone, but realized it was time to embrace the pain of another. He determined to do what Eleanor would expect him to do and that was his very best.

He smiled when the elevator purred to a stop, the doors opened, and Marianne danced out. He studied her intently, both fascinated and baffled. Her cheeks were red from the cold, but her smile and the lilting freedom of her step was all warmth. Her flower garland, looking almost real, adorned the thick mass of curls that still flowed over her shoulders and down her back, but what once was black was now streaked with shimmering silver strands. What remained the same, what Eleanor had teased him about ever since he had hired Marianne, were her magnificent breasts, proud and mouth wateringly bountiful. She’d gained a little weight, enhancing their fullness and rounding her once almost masculine hips. Chuck felt an involuntary stirring in his groin, his pulse raced and he realized just how horny and sexually deprived he was. “Stop staring at her bosom!” he could hear Eleanor’s laughing voice.

“Let’s go in,” he said, starting down the hall.

“Yes,“ Marianne said, “I‘m dying to see Eleanor.”

Chuck continued to walk, but on quivery legs. Marianne’s delusions ran like a low grade fever beneath the sharp pain of his hearing her refer to a living, present Eleanor. He opened his apartment door for Marianne, closed it after her, and turned abruptly to face her.

“Eleanor passed away five years ago,” he said.

“Oh, she’s not here?” Marianne frowned, shaking her head in puzzlement.

“You were there at her funeral,” Chuck said, a little too loudly and aggressively.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Marianne said.

“It’s alright,” Chuck said. Marianne was trembling and her face was a mask of naked fear. He didn’t know what to do. She was cowering like a puppy waiting to be struck and he was more than relieved to hear a knock on the door. “That must be your companion.”

“Oh no! I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Marianne kept repeating.

“Hi Mr. Minors,” said the woman at the door. “I’m Nicolette Burns, Arthur’s sister. I met you at his burial.”

“I remember,” Chuck said. “Please come in.”

“Sorry to have disturbed you. I was on the phone and I thought Marianne was napping. I’m really sorry. Let’s go Marianne. Leave the nice man alone.”

“No problem. Please, come in,” Chuck insisted.

Chuck extracted Nicolette from his memory file of Arthur’s funeral. She had seemed quite aloof, both during and after the service and had left in a flurry of excitement to catch the opening act of some music group she was interested in managing. She wasn’t a health care professional and he wondered how Marianne had come to be in her care. She stood just inside the door, darting impatient glances at Marianne, who had retreated to the windows and was looking out, ignoring Nicolette’s presence.

Eleanor appeared again, shaking her head solemnly. A worried frown creased her forehead and her lips were pursed tight. Again, he knew what she was thinking. Marianne had suffered cruelties that had robbed her of herself, of her ability to survive life intact. And Eleanor would never turn her back on abuse, not of an animal or stranger, and certainly not of a friend. Again, her disembodied head wobbled in distress, in slower and slower motion, until it disappeared and Chuck was left feeling a great need to protect Marianne. From whom, he did not know. Maybe it was from herself. But whatever it was, he would not let her down.

“ …and she hasn’t been right since Arthur died,” Nicolette was whispering conspiratorially. “We’ve been trying to find someplace that will take her, but we haven’t been successful yet.”

Chuck wondered what information he’d missed while he was zoned out, communing with his Eleanor. Who were the ‘we‘ that were trying to get Marianne put away? “What’s wrong with her? What do the doctors say?” Chuck asked.

“They can’t find anything physically wrong with her. There’s no sign of Alzheimer's or any type of psychosis or early senility. They figure it’s some kind of PTSD. Arthur died suddenly in the spring and she seems to be frozen in that time. She insists that he’s away for the weekend and nobody‘s been able to change her mind. But I don’t get it. They didn’t seem to get on very well and, to tell the truth, I think my brother regretted marrying her.”

“Speak up, why don‘t you,” Marianne said, whirling to face them. “Talk about me like I’m not here, like you do all the time. I keep telling you that, according to my therapist, I’m not crazy. I’ll be alright once we work through some things. But you and your family know better. You all want me to be certifiably insane. Go away. I need space. Leave me alone!”

Chuck felt reassured by Marianne’s angry outburst and the look of absolute contempt that crossed her face before she turned her back on them again. “Is that true?” Chuck asked. “Does her therapist believe that this thing is temporary?”

“Yes, but her therapist doesn’t live with her. Arthur talked about a will, but hadn’t gotten around to it. He didn’t want her left with his full estate. God knows what she’ll do left to her own resources. Anyway, we’ll work it out. We better run. We’re due at my parents for the holidays. Let’s go, Marianne.”

“Don’t want to go. Can I please stay for the party?”

“You’re not invited to any party, Marianne. Let’s go.”

“Please let me stay.” Marianne had pressed her back, head, arms and spread fingers forcefully against the window in the most imploring and anxiety ridden posture Chuck had ever seen. And it broke his heart. Where was their delightful, happy friend, Marianne? He could hardly bear her absence.

“Look, I’ve got plenty of room here,” he heard himself say, “three bedrooms. Why don’t I take her off your hands for a bit, give you some time to yourself. She’s spent a lot of time with me and my wife in our old home and I’m sure she’ll be comfortable here.”

Chuck watched the tension drop from Nicolette’s shoulders and relief spread across her face. “If you’re sure,” she gushed. “I’ll just go down and bring up a few of her things. And good luck to you,” Nicolette muttered, before beating a swift retreat.

What an unpleasant creature, Chuck thought, as he walked toward Marianne.

“I’m sorry, dear. I should have asked. Would you like to stay?”

Marianne was sitting on the floor, weeping gently. She looked up at Chuck. “I’d love to stay,” she said.

Within minutes, Nicolette was back with an overnight case and two garment bags. Chuck led her down the hall and into one of the spare bedrooms. He wanted her to see where Marianne would be sleeping. Nicolette hung up the contents of the garment bag and left the overnight bag on the closet floor.

“She’ll love it here,” she said.

They went back out to the living room. Marianne was still sitting on the floor, but had returned to her city gazing.

“I’ll be back to get her early in the morning.”

“It’s Christmas tomorrow,” Chuck said. “Just give us a call and I’ll let you know how things are going. If she‘s happy, she can stay.”

“That would be great. I’ll call you tomorrow then. See you soon, Marianne,” Nicolette sang.

“Fly away, Ratched,” Marianne sang back.

“Bitch,” Nicolette snarled, before she could stop herself.

Chuck was suppressing a smile, as he ushered her to the door and out into the hall.

“Well, Marianne, it’s just you and me and the spirit of Eleanor. What do you say we have a drink and catch up? It’s been a long time. Is white wine still your drink of choice?”

“I think I’ll have a Scotch and soda.”

“Scotch and soda it is,” Chuck said, moving behind the bar.

“Need any help or shall I pick out some music?” Marianne asked, getting up from the floor. She was dancing again.

“You handle the music.”

The room seemed full of ghosts and Chuck knew to welcome them all. Eleanor was hosting this party as she had all the others during their life together. Tonight she was match making, introducing the airy ghost of Marianne past to the laden Marianne present, teasing them into a field where they would be drawn together in healing, like a magnet to iron filings. The sound of Nat King Cole, Eleanor’s favourite Christmas CD, filled the air. Marianne was humming and Chuck felt more conscious, more present than he had since Eleanor died. He made the drinks under her watchful, disembodied gaze and knew what she was thinking. He didn’t need to be frightened. All he had to do was follow Marianne’s lead and he’d know what was needed. He placed the drinks, a bowl of almonds and another bowl of olives on a tray, and made his way over to Marianne and the warmth of the fire. They sipped their drinks in silence and Chuck was pleasantly surprised at the comfort that still remained between them.

“Arthur’s away so much. I think I’d like to come back to work,” she said, her expression pensive.

Arthur again, Chuck thought. He was not just disappointed; he was irritated in the extreme. There was nothing he would have liked better than to have Marianne work with him again, but the job demanded that she be at least able to distinguish between fantasy and fact.

“Your job is always waiting, but you’re obviously not ready. Marianne, I’d like to talk to you about Arthur.”

Marianne jumped up and rushed to the entertainment center. “Let’s dance,” she said, rifling through the CD collection and choosing one. “Here we go,” she said.

Out of the tree of life, I just picked me a plum
You came along and everything started to hum
Still it's a real good bet, the best is yet to come

As Sinatra crooned, Marianne rushed back to Chuck’s chair, holding out her arms. Chuck got up slowly, not knowing what else to do. He and Eleanor used to occasionally dance to Old Blue Eyes. He thought of the soft roundness of her body, the lemony scent of her shampoo as she appeared in front of him again. Her face was peaceful and smiling and he knew what to do. He would dance, but he would not let the questions slide. He would continue his probe.

The best is yet to come, and babe won't that be fine
You think you've seen the sun, but you ain't seen it shine
Wait till the warm-up’s underway
Wait till our lips have met
Wait till you see that sunshine day
You ain't seen nothin' yet

Chuck took Marianne’s hand and led her to the windows. Lights beamed from the streets, from so many houses, from across the lake. It was Christmas Eve and the night seemed full of promise. He took her in his arms. She felt soft and vulnerable. It would have been so easy just to dance, to enjoy the beautiful femaleness he missed so very much. Marianne was humming again. The sound vibrated from her breasts, those huge orbs that were crushed so alluringly between them. Arthur gasped as five years of hunger, of sexual repression exploded into life. His cock tingled and grew, reaching out hungrily for warmth and satisfaction. Marianne gasped and pressed back, sculpting her body to fit his, to invite his.

“Talk to me about Arthur,” Chuck said firmly.

“He’s away for the weekend,” Marianne said.

“Arthur is dead, “ Chuck said. “He died over two years ago. Eleanor is dead. She died over five years ago.”

Marianne’s breaths shortened into panting spurts and Chuck held her tight. He would not allow her to fly into pieces, to be destroyed. He felt her generous tears through the wool of his sweater and was grateful for them, glad that she was in touch with her feelings.

“I loved Eleanor, still love Eleanor, but she’s gone,” he said. “And I know you loved Arthur, but …”

“No, no, no,” Marianne interrupted, “I don’t love him. Arthur’s dead?”

“Arthur’s dead,” Chuck said.

“I’m glad he’s dead! He hurt me. He hit me. He hurt me all the time and I hate him,” Marianne shrieked.

Chuck held her still. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “He’s gone and you’re safe.”

Marianne’s legs trembled and then gave way, but Chuck did not let her fall. He picked her up and carried her shivering body down the hall to her bed. He spread a light duvet over her summer dress, went into the en suite bathroom and wet a face cloth

“Arthur’s dead,” she repeated. “He’s gone for more than the weekend. He’s dead.”

Chuck placed the cool cloth on her forehead and she began to weep uncontrollably. He smoothed her hair and watched until the rise and fall of her breasts slowed, became steady as they found calm after the storm. And he knew what to do and say . . . nothing.

“Sleep well, Marianne. I’ll be just across the hall if you need me,“ Chuck said, kissing her forehead.

“Please don’t go,“ she said, tugging Chuck back to his spot on the bed.

His back was tired, but he didn’t want to interrupt her flow, so he just sat and listened. And how she talked. Her words and thoughts tumbled over each other, sometimes falling in coherent sentences, sometimes piling up and spilling over like unnumbered sheets out of a runaway printer. Chuck didn’t try to understand the words or diagnose her motives. He heard the meanings under the words and Marianne was sorting herself out bravely. She talked about Arthur’s dark and violent side, about his infidelities and how helpless and hopeless he made her feel. She struggled to think clearly, to work her way out of victim-hood and slowly, she became more and more herself, more in the present again. And Chuck listened. It took hours. It took tears. It took patience, understanding and love.

“You’ll never be abused again. I won’t let it happen,” Chuck said.

“I know,” Marianne said. “It’s been so long since I felt safe, since I felt anything but fear and loathing. You must be tired. Come lie with me. I won‘t bite.”

Chuck hesitated, expecting Eleanor to appear, leave him knowing what to do. But she didn‘t. And although he couldn’t see her, he felt her leaving for some place far away and knew it was for good. Eleanor was finally free and Chuck was left alone to do what he wanted to do. He stretched out on the bed beside Marianne.

Marianne turned on her side and began to caress his face with the deft touch of a sightless lover. She kissed his brow and cheeks with awesome love like a mother kisses the face of her infant. Chuck was afraid to breathe, afraid that the slightest motion might stem this outpouring of tenderness that he needed like parched earth needs rain. He needn’t have worried. Marianne was pulling on his sweater and he knew to sit up and lift his arms so she could more easily discard it. She began to unbutton his shirt, but became impatient.

“Take it off. Take it all off.”

Chuck undressed on one side of the bed, Marianne on the other. He loved her full fleshy figure, the ponderous hanging of her breasts, her rounded tummy and hips. They lay side by side. Chuck felt happily vulnerable and didn’t try to hide his cock that swelled large with exuberant need. Marianne’s breasts lay heavily on his chest as she kissed Chuck’s neck and then feathered her way down to each nipple. Marianne tweaked and nibbled and sucked until Chuck groaned with pleasure. How did she know that his nipples were so sensitive, so attached to his cock? She stopped to gaze deeply into his eyes and then crawled up over him to kiss him. Chuck felt so much lust and something else that was so honest, so full of yearning and passion, so perfectly blissful that he had to call it love. But he felt greedy. He needed more pleasure and she gave it. She fondled his balls, teasing him with the sway and bounce of her tits. Their soft firmness and hard, extended nipples touched, teased and pressed themselves all over him. They were driving him mad. Chuck closed his eyes. The pleasure of her tongue licking his cock, of her hands stroking his cock, of her mouth devouring his cock with liquid, viscous heat was rapture. He could feel his orgasm approaching and then ebb, as she moved away from his cock and began to caress his thighs. She was masseuse and lover, sweetheart and whore, demanding and giving. She seduced every inch of him until he begged. “Please!” As she raised herself over his cock, Chuck marvelled at the glistening dewiness of her pussy hairs and when she eased herself down on him, he marvelled at her perfect tightness wetness and warmth. Chuck loved the sight of her bouncing breasts, groaned as her voracious appetite led to her complete abandon. Chuck felt so young. So virile. So wanted. Chuck needed to come. Chuck wanted not to come. Marianne was rubbing her clit wildly, her head thrown back, mouthing sounds that warned that the end was near. Tears fell freely down her cheeks. “I feel so good,” she panted. “I feel so ‘me’. I’m coming,” she gasped. “I’m coming,” Chuck gasped and came right along with her, filling her with the seed of his gratitude, love and lust for this new life.

Spent and exhausted, they fell into each others arms and pulled the duvet over themselves. They slept for awhile. In the middle of the night, they raided the fridge. She made a salad and he delighted her with his special crabmeat, cheese and mushroom omelette. They talked over green tea until the sun came up. Until Nicolette called and Marianne told her that since Arthur was dead, she felt no responsibility to the family, but would discuss matters with them in the new year. Chuck called friends and family to wish them a Merry Christmas, promising to see them sometime during the holidays. And then they went back to bed to love each other and this very blessed Christmas.