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AN HOMAGE TO VINCENT VEGA

SCENE 18:

A THANKSGIVING TO REMEMBER

“Do I really need to wear this thing,” Ian asked as he pointed at the diaper cover that Vickie was fluffing out.

“Yes, Major; you cannot leave this room without it. No exceptions are allowed inside the ward, not even for you. Now, you know the drill; let's get it over with.”

Bian and Rita had left moments earlier, Rita wanting to spare her most prized patient the humiliation of a diaper change in front of a nurse whom he had known so long before, and for whom he obviously had a deep and abiding affection.

Vickie had just finished up, still another poopy diaper going into a bin that was rapidly filling. She reckoned that the breast milk would cause Ian to mess six to eight times a day. Changing him was grunt work, but it was a price that she was more than willing to pay because over time poopy diapers yielded a far more intense state of psychological dependence than merely wet ones. The diaper cover further reinforced his need to rely on others for help with his most basic bodily functions. His messes, and his inability to do anything about them, were just two more quivers that she was prepared to use ruthlessly to break down his resistance and finally get to the truth of what had gone so badly wrong on his last combat mission.

Ian was smiling up at her, and she couldn't help but once more run her fingers through his unruly hair. Her own smile was far more tentative.

He trusts me, but he doesn't know me. He thinks that he's still dealing with good, old, fun-loving Vickie, the queen of the Saturday night frolics. He doesn't have any idea of what a cold bitch I can really be, the bitch that he's going to be dealing with in this room. I just hope that he doesn't end up hating the sight of me.

On impulse, Vickie leaned over to kiss him lightly on the lips.

Oh, Ian, if only …

If only …

. . . .

What the Hell?

Ian stopped dead in his tracks, and pivoted to look back down the corridor. Marge had just passed him, stone faced, and carrying a garment bag. He watched until she paused just long enough to enter the code, then opened the door and disappeared into one of the rooms to his left. He wasn't sure, but if he was counting doors correctly, it was his room that she had just entered.

“Come on, Major, we need to claim our seats.” Vickie was tugging on Ian's arm, trying to hurry him into the dining area, but he wasn't having it. Stubbornly, he held his ground, and less than a minute later Marge reemerged, but without the garment bag. Walking back up the corridor, she paused just long enough to pat Ian's well padded rump and offer him a decidedly maternal smile; still wordless, she then carried on to exit the ward.

Now what was that all about?

“Did you make another poopie in your diapee,” Vickie asked in that tone that mothers worldwide reserve for their toddlers. She ran her fingers around the thigh bands, and then the waist of his diaper cover. Ian involuntarily shuddered as her fingernails grazed his skin.

It was enough to shake him out of his reverie, and led by the wrist he meekly followed in Vickie's wake.

. . . .

“Này, GI, tôi giết bạn tốt! I swear,” Amos snickered, “if I heard that once outside the wire, I heard it a thousand times ...”

“Này, GI, tôi giết bạn tốt!”

“Này, GI, tôi giết bạn tốt!”

“Hey, GI, I kill you good,” Ian whispered very, very softly into Vickie's ear. He did not want Don Phillips to hear him speaking English, and he had already decided to go out and get drunk with Amos Waring at some point in the very near future-- and to hell with Vickie and Rita and Sarah and all the rest of them.

Civilian life sucks … and I'll bet the Sarge feels exactly the same way …

Ian nudged Phil Kettering, who was seated on his immediate left. “Did you hear that down in the Delta,” he mouthed.

Phil nodded.

“Constantly,” he muttered.

It's a good thing he's right handed because I don't think Becky's going to let go of his left anytime soon …

Ian had to admit that Rita had planned the op well. Andrew McCullough was seated to Vickie's right, and Barney (or was it Fred?) was standing discreetly behind Becky. Don was seated directly opposite, sandwiched in between Marge and Rita. Amos was to Marge's right, Bian to Rita's left, and Fred (or was it Barney?) was standing in the shadows behind Bian.

If Donnie wigs out, there'll be an orderly lighting him up … an orderly, or me …

“Này, GI, em gái của bạn bú cặc tốt!” Ian screamed it out, his eyes on Bian, eyes begging for forgiveness from one of the gentlest souls it had ever been his privilege to meet.

I'm not this man … I'm not this man … I'm not this man …

Stuffing exploded out of Amos Waring's mouth. Ian felt Phil go completely rigid beside him. Bian was looking at him as if she had never seen him before …

“Je … zus,” he heard Phil mutter.

Phil was beginning to stir beside him, and it suddenly dawned on Ian that nobody had got around to filling him in on the program. Marge and Rita had visibly tensed …

On the wrong target, damn it! I don't have time for this!!!

Ian lashed out, slamming Phil's right wrist hard into the table top, so hard that he could hear ice cubes rattling in cups the length of the table.

“Này, GI, tao đụ mẹ mày, cả em gái của mày nữa!”

Ian screamed it out at the top of his lungs, over and over again, knowing exactly what Phillips had heard out there in the night, night after night, while he walked perimeter. He stole a glance at Amos, realized that this one was not in the Sergeant's repetoire. Mercifully, Phil also seemed to be none the wiser.

But Corporal Donnie has heard it all before … oh, yeah, and then some, probably more than me … Well, at least Vickie's got her head in the game …

Out of the corner of his eye, Ian could see that Vickie was zeroed in on Don Phillips …

But she's watching his eyes …

Ian was watching Donnie's hands.

“Này, GI, tôi giết bạn tốt!”

He'll clamp down … use them to catapult ...

“Này, GI, em gái của bạn bú cặc tốt!”

… over the table straight at me ...”

“Này, GI, tao đụ mẹ mày, cả em gái của mày nữa!”

Ian watched Donnie's hands ball up into fists …

“Này, GI, em gái của bạn bú cặc tốt!”

Taking a deep breath, Ian went for it, pitching his voice high, imagining the falsetto voices beyond the wire that had greeted Donnie night after night after endless night …

“Hey, GI, your sister suck cock good!”

The blood was draining out of Donnie Phillips' fists …

“Hey, GI, I fuck your mother up the ass!”

His body shrinking in upon itself …

“Hey, GI, I fuck your mother good, baby sister too!”

Donnie Phillips screamed, stood, and launched himself across the table, aching to kill his tormentor with his bare hands.

But Ian, a fraction of a second faster, was already in motion, determined to blunt Donnie's attack in mid table.

They crashed into one another, dishes, cups, food flying everywhere, Ian blindly reaching out to grip Donnie's right hand, now little more than a claw trying to rake his throat.

Huh?

Vickie was suddenly piling on, hitting Donnie hard in the cheek, hitting him with …

A drumstick?

And then Andrew McCullough, all two hundred and twenty pounds of him, flew through the air.

The table creaked.

Donnie had somehow sunk his teeth into Ian's shoulder, the bad one that caused him so much pain on winter's dampest days.

He screamed.

The table groaned.

Vickie kept pounding away with her drumstick.

Amos joined the party, sliding over mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce to grab Donnie Phillips by his hair and pull him off the Major.

The table collapsed.

Surveying the damage, Barney and Fred decided to help Amos drag Donnie out of the mess that had once been Thanksgiving dinner. But they tamely stood aside when Amos lifted Donnie off the ground by his shoulders, looked him square in the eye, and proceeded to pile drive him into the nearest wall. Donnie slid down it with a shriek, his catatonia now a thing of the past.

“Played middle linebacker my junior and senior years,” Amos offered to no one in particular. “Made all-state, too.”

“Mr. McCullough,” Ian hissed as he spat bits of turkey out of his mouth, “it was nice of you to join us.” He held out his right hand, and the two men shook, neither overly worried about the mashed potatoes now greasing their palms.

Andrew grinned bashfully. “As I told Ms. Stevenson just yesterday, Amos and I … well, we do meet the most interesting people up here on Seven. But Major, I swear, you do take the cake!”

“Speaking of which? I'm starved. What does a guy have to do to get something to eat around here?”

“Try this,” Vickie laughed as she ran her finger through a mound of mashed potatoes and gravy, and wiggled it in front of his face.

Ian obligingly opened his mouth, and began sucking on her finger. He took his time, determined to be thorough.

Vickie shivered with delight.

“And this,” she grinned, swiping her now much mutilated drumstick through the gravy.

Ian chewed contentedly, and then reached up to pull her closer. Leaning forward, he began to lick the cranberry sauce off her chest.

Vickie moaned, arched her neck, closed her eyes, held her breath, and orgasmed on the spot.

Fuck regulations! And fuck this stupid power struggle between Rita and Marge, and that shit faced Director who wants Rita out the door. I am going to fuck you, Ian Grady, right here, right now, and I don't give a fuck how much cranberry sauce you shove up my cunt in the process. I am going to fuck you and fuck you, and to hell with it! They can all stand around and watch, they can applaud, hell they can pipe the video all over the fucking hospital … sell tickets … I … do … not … care!

Vickie attacked Ian's mouth, forcing her way inside, wanting to explore every square inch of him.

Ian welcomed her.

Vickie was blindly pawing at the pocket on her smock, searching for the key to Ian's diaper cover.

But it was gone, buried somewhere in the Thanksgiving rubble. She shrieked in frustration.

Ian gently reached up to ease Vickie down to his chest, wrapping his arm around her, and breathing deeply into her perfumed hair.

Which is now full of mashed potatoes and gravy. Oh, well … And what the hell is a guy supposed to do who falls in love with two women at the same time, one for all the right reasons, and the other for all the wrong?

Ian vaguely heard Donnie Phillips shrieking in the background, a banshee wail that seemed to have been summoned forth from the very depths. And a voice kept disturbing the peace that now enveloped him. Was it Marge? Someone was praising him, thanking him over and over again for having done so well. It didn't matter.

And to top it all off, I need someone to change my diaper. This damned breast milk …

Ian lovingly patted Vickie's back, and buried his head in her hair, gently kissing her over and over again.

Oh, Vickie, if only …

If only …

SCENE 19:

SECOND HELPINGS

“Poor Ian,” she whispered; “did he ever get anything to eat?”

“It doesn't look like it,” Marge whispered in return. “But I don't think anybody did.”

Marge frowned. “Rita, did Vickie just … you know …?”

“She did.” Rita had a very knowing grin on her face, confirming Marge's suspicion.

“But she's his therapist! This isn't permitted!”

“You're right, and I'm going to speak with her about it ...”

Something along the lines of “no more orgasms on company time” …

Watching the two lovebirds, Rita was having a very hard time keeping a straight face.

Sorry, Ian; I know exactly what's going through your mind, but it's not going to happen. Marge is right about that, and by now you must have figured out that your diaper cover doubles as a chastity belt. Vickie won't be changing your diapers for the foreseeable future … Sarah will have the last word on that particular subject. She'll share, of course … with both of us. I'll see to that … but I'm going to let her extract the proverbial pound of flesh in the process. It will be interesting to see whether either of us will be willing to pay her price ...

“Let's get them separated. For now, I want you to take charge of diapering our big baby, but going forward … since Becky has Phil well in hand ...”

Rita noted that her other pair of lovebirds hadn't moved, had somehow managed to come through without Thanksgiving dinner dripping down their chests, and were earnestly engaged in a muted conversation.

“Going forward,” she continued, “I want you to take the lead with Phillips. I was originally planning to give him to Reiko, but after what we just saw, I'm afraid that he might have a problem dealing with an Asian nurse. Don't get too ambitious; just try and get him talking.”

Marge nodded in agreement. “I'll need his service record ...”

“I'm planning to speak with Glenn on Monday; Ian's giving me serious leverage.”

“Rita, we don't have a lot of time. Bian will tell everyone in the ER what happened here, and then it's going to spread like wildfire hospital wide. By Monday, every patient administrator in the Twin Cities is going to know about Ian. And they'll be coming, checkbook in hand.”

“I know … I know … and you might want to give Keith a call.” Rita couldn't resist twisting the knife. “Give him a head's up, as it were. Tell him that we're going to need a bigger budget … more space … more staff … more of everything. If Sarah doesn't freak out, on Monday I'm going to try and transfer her into this unit.”

“WHAT!” Marge was gripping Rita's arm so hard that Rita winced. “The two of them together in the same unit, both in love with the same patient? You must be joking!”

“They'll work it out … and no, I'm not joking. Eight years ago, Sarah ran away from the VA because she couldn't deal with entire wards filled with patients like Ian, Don and Phil. She was overwhelmed, she couldn't cope, and so she ran. And for eight years it's been eating at her. But she's stopped running. Ian is her line in the sand, her one chance at redemption. They will heal each other; the rest of us are just here to help.”

Rita shook loose from Marge's grip.

“That's what this is all about, Marge. That's what this has been about from the beginning.”

Turning away, Rita began issuing instructions to her staff. She wanted Phil and Ian to have their diapers checked, and changed where needed. She wanted the orderlies to get Don Phillips bedded down in full restraints. She wanted everyone else in the main dining hall, where the rest of the staff and their patients were already sharing their Thanksgiving meal. She wanted Amos and Andy to eat first, and then join her in her office. The mess that lay at her feet could wait until later.

It's good to see that Bian is still here, good to know that after all these years she still cares.

The Vietnamese nurse was standing just outside the blast zone, her uniform also miraculously unstained. But her gaze had softened, her concern for Ian a small frown on a forehead otherwise as smooth as the coldest marble.

There's so much that he's not telling us. Bian could fill in many of the gaps, at least about Hue. Should I talk with her, or leave it adrift in the fog of war?

Rita looked around, wondering whether she had missed something, but no, she had thought of everything.

But more than anything else …more than anything else ...

It's time to bring Sarah home.

. . . .

“Mom, this is a really tough call!”

“How so, Dear?” Sofia's tone was nonchalant, but with her attention focused on a mouthwatering slice of mince pie, only naturally so.

“Well, if I treat Ian as an eighteen month old, he can use a sippy cup … use his fingers to feed himself … walk and talk … physically, he wouldn't need that much care. But emotionally? Mom, he already throws temper tantrums. I would have to watch him constantly to make sure that he's not being naughty. Mentally, coping with a toddler would be really, really stressful.”

“And the alternatives?”

I need to lose weight, but it's so hard in the winter. Oh, to hell with it. Bob could do with a few less pounds himself. Wonder how Sarah will react to my latest beau? We'll find out tomorrow night …

“Let's say that I treat him like an eight month old, which is something I've already threatened him with. He'd have to crawl and cry, no walking or talking allowed ...”

“You're prepared to carry through on your threat? A zero tolerance policy when he tests you?”

“Mom, I'm prepared to spank the shit out of him if that's what it takes!”

“It will.” Sofia put down her fork, and grasped her daughter's hand. “Dear, I want you to keep in mind that training a husband in a D/s relationship is no different than setting the ground rules in a traditional marriage. A bride has to rule either relationship during the first month with an iron fist; otherwise, her husband will conclude that he can do anything he wants and get away with it. You have to be strict. Record every, single misdemeanor, no matter how trivial it might seem, and spank him for it. At first, you may have to spank him daily, but once he comes to terms with the fact that he can't get away with anything, he'll settle down.”

Sofia retrieved her fork, and paused only long enough to offer one more bit of advice.

“Men are just raw material, to be molded as we see fit. They are not responsible for their behavior. Good husbands are made, and so are bad ones. It's the choices that a woman makes that determine how any husband will turn out.”

“Dealing with an eight month old would be a lot less stressful, but physically the work load would be a lot heavier. Bottles and baby food … bathing him and brushing his teeth … dressing him … it just goes on and on.”

“Have you considered breast feeding him?” It would be less work, and a lot more fun for both of you.”

“I'd love to, but it's just not practical. I can't exactly walk over to his office to nurse him at lunch time. I'd have to use a pump, and I barely have enough time for lunch as it is.”

“Well, that still leaves the newborn, crib bound option. You would have to invest in a pediatric crib, and they're not cheap; are you planning to get one?”

“Absolutely. Once we're married, I'll find us a nice home, and convert one of the spare bedrooms into a nursery. He'll have a crib, a play pen, a changing table … everything that a baby needs.”

“And,” she added with a smile, “he'll be spending a lot of time there.”

“He'll need a home office as well,” Sofia warned.

“I suppose.” Sarah let out a long sigh. “He's paid so badly, Mom. All that education, all the different hats that he has to wear on campus-- and his salary is exactly one-third of mine. A lousy $17,000 a year! A part of me wants him to quit, stay home, and be my baby forever. We don't need his salary, and seeing him exploited like this? It makes me really angry.”

“But the adult side of his personality needs the anchor, Dear, so don't get too carried away with your fantasies. And don't make the mistake of judging him by his salary. No one goes into teaching to make a fortune, and you've already told me that he lives like a monk. I'm guessing that money doesn't impress him.”

“If he's crib bound, a new born? That would be the easiest way to control him, and the least stressful. But how would he make the leap from being a new born in the nursery to being my husband in the bedroom? Mom, I want him to be a baby for the control it gives me, but I want him to be a man for the convenience. More than that, I want Sarah and Ian to make and share memories, How can I have my cake and eat it too?”

“How much does he weigh?”

“Oh, maybe 165.”

Sofia smiled wickedly. “You do realize, don't you, that a pediatric crib could hold both of you? That your combined weight would be little more than half of what it will tolerate? For the life of me, I do not understand why you would ever want to bring him into your bed. Indeed, he has no business ever entering your bedroom! Let him pleasure you in his crib, and nowhere else. Sleep with him there if you wish, or go back to your own bed afterwards … it's your choice. But for God's sake, Sarah, if you decide to let him have the occasional orgasm, which I remind you in my judgment would be a bad idea? Make sure that it happens in his crib. Do not, under any circumstances, ever allow him to experience sexual pleasure anywhere else!”

. . . .

“Up you go, Major.” Wrinkling her nose, Marge gestured at the changing table. “It's obvious that you need a diaper change.”

Ian hastened to comply, but he didn't have the slightest idea why Marge was the one changing him.

“Uh … what happened to Vickie?”

“Oh, I think it's safe to say that she won't be changing your diapers again anytime soon-- not after the performance that the two of you just put on. Starting today, if you are in this ward and need changing, ask any nurse who's free, or go to the diaper changing station.”

The mere mention of the bowels of Hell sent a shudder down Ian's spine.

“I see that you've already been there,” Marge grinned. “Well, don't worry; in time, you'll get used to the smell. We all do.”

“Bend your knees,” she ordered, deciding to examine his rear.

“That's what I thought. You have several red patches down there, and it's not from the spankings. Congratulations, Major; you've got a diaper rash.” Marge walked over to the desk and opened one of the cabinets overhead. She came back with a jar that Ian knew all too well, and began industriously applying goop to his bottom. For added measure, she decided to do his front side as well. She took her time, deciding to be thorough and then some, but Ian's member did not respond. When the lock clicked home on his diaper cover, Marge silently vowed never again to allow Vickie access. Marge knew that she could make or break Rita's ambitious funding request with a few well chosen words, and she wasn't above offering Rita a trade. When it came down to ambition or friendship, Marge knew exactly how Rita would respond.

And the beauty of it is that the bitch will go right on being his therapist. She'll be so near and yet so far …

“I'm curious, Major; do you love them both?”

Ian didn't hesitate for a moment.

“Yes.”

Marge reached out, took Ian's hands, and pulled him upright.

“I wish you well, Major, and if there's anything I can do for you, just ask. Now,” she added as she gave him a friendly pat on the knee, “what do you say we have another go at dinner?”

Leaving the room, Ian had still not seen the bright pink princess dress hanging at the foot of his crib, nor the frilly bonnet that went with it.

. . . .

“It's been a long day, Sarah, but a productive one. And Ian was at the center of it all.” Rita was finally back in her office, finally alone, and getting ready to call it a day.

For her part, Sarah had the phone on speaker, her mother sitting beside her. They now had the house to themselves, Kaarina having sufficiently recovered from her turkey coma to join her friends for an impromptu whist tournament.

“If she's working tomorrow, I expect Gayle Soderberg to come charging in here sometime before noon, demanding a piece of Ian's ass. And to be fair, Patient Relations does desperately need someone who speaks Vietnamese fluently. It turns out that Amos Waring also knows a bit of the language, but as you might expect, his collection of pet phrases won't be very helpful downstairs.”

Sarah bust out laughing. It didn't take a great deal of imagination to figure out where Amos had learned whatever Vietnamese he had picked up during his three tours.

“But the real fun will start on Monday,” Rita continued. “You know how the jungle telegraph works. Bian tells her friends in the ER that we're all nuts up here, and within two hours everybody in the hospital has all the gory details. And on a long holiday weekend, they'll all go home and spread highly embellished versions of what happened to their friends. By Monday afternoon, every hospital in the Twin Cities will have heard about it, and then Ian is going to have headhunters crawling all over him-- headhunters waving open checkbooks and basically telling him to name his own price.”

“WHAT? Rita … WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?”

“Where to begin?” Rita's tone was world weary. “How about with the book burning party that I'm going to host out on my driveway? All those textbooks with all their canned answers, none of which seem to have any relevance in Ian's case. Sarah, I'm going to have a tech up here tomorrow to edit the video feeds, but you'll still need several hours to process what I want to show you. And some of it is going to shock you to your very core.”

“Rita, you're not making any sense!” Sarah suddenly felt like she was drowning, fear washing over her in waves. Fear for Ian.

“Ian did it, Sarah; Ian and Amos, working together. They cracked Don Phillips over Thanksgiving dinner, opened up his psyche with a can opener. Phillips was just sitting there, catatonic, and two seconds later he was a missile, flying across the table. He tried to rip Ian's throat out with his teeth, but Vickie wasn't having it. She jumped on top of him, and warded him off with a drumstick ...”

“WHAT!”

“... with a drumstick. And then Amos and Andy piled on, and the table collapsed under the weight, food flying everywhere, most of it ending up on the five of them. Amos? Amos was so angry that he picked Phillips up, and drove him into the wall. Or should I say that he was trying to drive him through the wall? Anyway, Phillips was screaming his head off … still is. He's bedded down in full restraints, so I guess you could say that we're making progress on that front. All thanks to Ian. He's the magic bullet, Sarah; he knew exactly what to say to Phillips, and he said it. Poor Bian. Ian was taunting Phillips … 'lighting him up', he called it. She went white as a ghost; it was that obscene. You'll want to talk with her, about Hue … about what happened to Ian there, during Tet. February the sixth. We only talked a little, but it's bad, Sarah; it's really, really bad.”

“RITA, YOU'RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE! STOP IT!!!”

“Sorry. Keith was hosting a family dinner, but someone called him, and he dropped everything to come storming in here, demanding to see the video. And no, it wasn't Marge … not this time. She realizes how valuable Ian is … what this means for the ward. When Keith calmed down, even he could see it.”

“Ian, Rita; for God's sake, WHAT HAPPENED TO IAN?”

“Oh, in the midst of it all, he started whining about the breast milk … we're bottle feeding him … and he wanted to know what he had to do to get some real food. Said he was starving ...”

Breast milk? Sofia could barely credit what she was hearing.

“... so Vickie ran her finger through the mashed potatoes and offered it to him. He licked it clean, then gnawed on the drumstick, or what was left of it, and then ...”

“And then,” Sarah prompted.

“... and then Ian leaned up to start licking the cranberry sauce off her chest, and she ... she … you can see it clearly on the tape … she had an orgasm … the mother of all orgasms, really. And you can see her fumbling in a pocket for the key to his diaper cover, not finding it, and then she started shrieking. She was beyond frustrated.”

“They were going to? In front of everybody?” Sarah felt as if all the air had been leached out of her lungs.

“Yes, and now it's all over the hospital. I've been fending off inquiries from Directors' offices for the last ninety minutes. It wouldn't surprise me if we make the nightly news.”

“Rita, are you okay?”

“I will be, or at least I will be when I get home and get so drunk that I pass out. Keith got the message, and the other Directors will fall in line. Sarah, this is big … ask your mother, and she'll tell you what it means, and why come Monday there's going to be a feeding frenzy. It looks like Ian was the only army officer who spoke the language, so he's the one guy who can penetrate the wall, get inside their defenses-- make it close and very, very personal.”

“There have to be others,” Sarah whispered. “It can't just be Ian … my baby, not my baby.”

“I don't know. What I do know is that … Vickie says that every once in a while the mask slips, and you can see it in his eyes. Reiko's samurai. Amos sees it, and I pressed him … I pressed him hard to tell me what he sees. And he has no explanation. All he keeps saying is that he looks at Ian and he knows. Two of our orderlies who were also in the service? Gil Freeling and Gordon Nagle? The same thing. They're going on and on about something called 'command presence'. It's all so nebulous, but it's as far as I'm getting.”

“Vickie. Tell me the truth, Rita; does she love him?”

“Yes, and it isn't lust, Sarah. It's the real deal. If you had seen Vickie leap across that table to protect him …”

Rita took a deep, deep breath. “And to be perfectly honest, you should know that I have feelings for him as well. It's been a long day, in no small part because something inside me is screaming that I have to protect him from the storm that's just over the horizon. Like Amos, though, I can't define what 'something' means.”

“Does he love her?”

“Yes, and the odd thing is that his feelings for her in no way diminish his feelings for you. Both are very real.”

“I see.”

“Sarah, please. Don't take this out on Vickie. She's his therapist, and that's not going to change, although I won't let her anywhere near his diapers. This is going to be very hard for her.”

“So … what? Exactly what are you saying? Do you expect me to share Ian with her? Is that what I'm hearing?”

“With her … and with me. I'd like all three of you to give up your apartments, and move in with me. The French call this a ménage à quatre … a foursome.”

“Three women,” Sofia cut in, “but then my future son-in-law has three distinct personalities, doesn't he?” She already knew where this was going, and she was thankful that she had at least raised the possibility with Sarah.

“That we know of,” Rita admitted. “There's the adult personality, with little visible difference between the soldier and the professor. Then there's 'little baby Ian', as we've come to call him … the male baby. Lastly, there's 'Princess Poopy Pants' … the female baby.”

“So he responds to anal penetration,” Sofia declared. She was watching her daughter out of the corner of her eye.

“Very much so,” Rita agreed. “To cover all the bases, Vickie wants to schedule him for a complete neurological examination, and I wholeheartedly agree. There's always the possibility that we're dealing with significant nerve damage, and if it's degenerative, his last scan might have missed it. Incontinence and impotence often go hand in hand.”

“Very true, so I would caution you not to jump to conclusions here. Still, for the sake of argument, I'm curious as to how the three of you would go about this … care for two infantile personalities and one adult personality simultaneously. Who takes responsibility for what?”

“I want to breast feed him,” Rita abruptly confessed. “And so does Vickie. After work on Wednesday, we're going to shop for breast pumps.”

“Sarah will be going with you. She has been telling me all day how much she is looking forward to nursing her big baby. And how,” she smiled, “is Ian responding to this breast milk diet of his?”

“He complains constantly about being hungry. And he's using a lot more diapers. It looks like he'll go through twelve to fifteen today, with six to eight being poopy.”

“Which is what you would expect of a newborn. And don't worry about the hunger. Feed him three dozen bottles a day until your milk comes in, but all four of you will need to take supplements. You don't want your baby to become anemic.”

Sofia laughed playfully. “Rita, you should see the look on my daughter's face. She's wondering how I know so much about this particular subject.”

Rita laughed in turn. “Sofia, she has always struck me as a tad naive. I take it that you breast fed her?”

“Of course. And the three of you should know that the bonding is intense.”

“Your husband?”

Sofia smiled; these were warm and wonderful memories. “For almost two years. And since Sarah refused to latch on once her first tooth popped out, he had me to himself for fifteen months. It was wonderful.”

“We could use you as a guidance counselor. Vickie has worked up Ian's matrix. We'll use little baby Ian as a buffer between the Princess and the adults. She's going to lock in the Princess personality, and use rewards and spankings to empower the Princess to get control of the adults. The Major will divulge his secrets to the Princess, and she in turn will share them with us. The adults will be community property, but Vickie and I are in agreement that Sarah should mommy whichever baby personality she wants. We'll take the leftover. But there's no textbook to show us how to blend his personalities into a cohesive whole. It's all trial and error, which means that we could use help. Do you have any ideas?”

“Oh, I may have a few useful suggestions.” Sofia loved the wide-eyed expression on her daughter's face. She vividly remembered the sheer joy with which her daughter had voyaged through life at age nine, every day bringing a new discovery to stir the imagination of a bright and highly inquisitive child. There was so much of that child still in her, but beaten down by the air of helplessness that had engulfed her at the VA. Sofia wanted her bright-eyed child back, and without even meeting him, she knew that Ian would somehow make it happen.

“Starting with keep him in the secure ward, and if he insists on leaving, go with him. Seriously. Don't let him out of your sight.”

“Agreed. He's my patient, and here I can protect him. No one, repeat no one, is getting in without a court order.”

“You should also talk to his department chair, preferably soonest. They need to know that the circus is coming to town, and just how disruptive things can get.” Sofia was speaking from first-hand experience, having recently lost a promising surgeon at the end of his residency to a corporate headhunter. Good hands and good judgment in a surgical suite could mean millions in additional revenue, and make the annual shareholders meeting go a lot more smoothly.

“Will do … and thanks, Sofia. I mean it; I really value your counsel. Sarah? Keep safe, and come home soon. I miss you.”

Rita hung up, and Sofia reached for her daughter's hand and nestled it between her palms.

“The work load that we were discussing? For an eight month old? It's gets a lot lighter if there are three of you to share it.”

“Mom, get real. Do you seriously expect me to spend even one minute of my time thinking about doing a foursome? It's absurd.” Sarah was staring at her mother, and beginning seriously to consider the possibility that she had been abducted by aliens and replaced with a facsimile.

“I expect you to take your time and weigh your choices. Carefully. How much do you value friendship? How much do you respect Ian's feelings? And as a purely practical matter-- how many diapers do you think that you will be changing over the next forty years? How many messy bottoms will you be up to cleaning?”

Sofia yawned as she stood up. “It's late, Dear, and I'm going to bed. We'll talk some more in the morning. And I do have a few more suggestions.”

Sofia's smile would have put the devil to shame.

“Just a few,” she winked.

SCENE 20:

THE BREAST MILK BLUES

“Good morning, Dear. Did you sleep well?”

“Not really … tossed and turned all night. I need coffee, very hot and very black!”

Sofia silently pointed at the coffee maker. The pot was almost full.

“Couldn't get Rita's offer out of your mind?”

“Yeah … that, and what she said about talking with Bian. She wasn't making a lot of sense, but it sounded like something bad happened to Ian during Tet. Rita's always so cool, calm and collected, but not last night. Mom, you could hear it in her voice. Whatever Bian said really got to her.”

“If he was in Hue … well, that was ground zero, wasn't it?” Sofia was dredging up memories now more than a decade old. “I remember Walter Cronkite broadcasting from there, the marines having to retake the city street by street, house by house. It was brutal.”

“But Ian wasn't in the Marines ...”

“It's just another piece of the wall, isn't it?” Sofia's tone had turned distinctly bitter. “All those years as the Dominant in a D/s relationship, only to find out that your father was always hiding a big part of himself from me. Sarah, please … don't let Ian do that to you. Believe me, if you discover things the way I did, discover that the most important person in your life never trusted you enough to bare his soul? It hurts.”

“I won't, Mom; I promise you. I will see this through to the end. But you know what I was thinking about around four AM?”

Sofia glanced at her daughter, and instantly caught the mischievous look in her eyes.

Oh, this ought to be good.

“I was thinking that … if the three of us were to pool our incomes, which must add up to something like a hundred and seventy-five thousand a year … we could sell Rita's townhome and buy a big place out on Lake Minnetonka … something on the lake shore with a big lawn and a dock, maybe a swimming pool. We could live like queens, maybe even hire a nanny to take Ian to and from work, watch over him during the day. That's if I decide to let him keep his job.”

“I would suggest that you talk with him about that the first chance you get. Rita's right about the jungle telegraph, and the headhunters who will be heading Ian's way. I probably know some of their names,” she laughed. “Anyway, you want to respect Ian's wishes, but you also want to make it clear to him that this is your decision, not his. It's a classic case of you deciding what's best for your submissive, and then doing it. You get out in front-- and wear a skirt. His job is to hide behind it.”

. . . .

“Wakey, wakey, Princess! A new day awaits!”

Reluctantly, Ian began to swim up out of the depths of sleep, not quite remembering whether it had been dreams or nightmares that disturbed his slumber.

“I have a nice warm ba-ba for you, just as soon as we get that icky old diaper off you, clean your messy widdle bottom, and get you dressed for the day. Isn't your baby dress darling?”

Who? Oh …

Ian belatedly realized that it was Candy who was doing the honors this morning, efficiently unlocking his restraints. He was surprised to discover that his hands were already free of the mittens.

Must have been sleeping better than I thought …

He struggled in the narrow confines of the crib to get up on his elbows, but Candy instantly pushed him back down.

“We want you to use the pull rope, Princess. It's much safer. You just pull yourself up hand over hand.”

“That's it,” she soothed as Ian began to put arm muscles that shrieked in protest to work.

Sitting up, he glanced curiously at the frilly pink baby dress hanging at the foot of his crib. This early in the day, it didn't immediately register that he was supposed to wear it.

Ian hated mornings. Upon resigning his commission he had taken a vow to banish them from his personal calendar, and by and large he had succeeded. Even his extracurricular activities behind the Iron Curtain had never ushered him out the hotel door before nine-- not that there was much going on at that hour of the day in places like Bucharest and Moscow anyway. But life, in the form of an Assistant Chair, had played a cruel joke upon the departmental rookie. He had only learned in late August that he had been given an eight AM class, and nothing infuriated him quite so much as knowing that he still had three full weeks of this crap to put up with. Taking the bus to work had been the crowning insult to the inglorious start of his career, such as it was.

So, Ian was in a sour mood as he swung around to get down from his crib, and it didn't help that he could feel poop from the proverbial stem to the proverbial stern of his diaper. Climbing onto the changing table and having beautiful young Candy tickling him where it counted was something to look forward to, but on the flip side, memories of yesterday's Thanksgiving feast were busily bursting through the defenses that separated subconscious from conscious mind. They were a decidedly mixed bag.

Ian had found himself sandwiched between Vickie on his left, and Amos on his right.
As it turned out, Amos had taken more than one R&R in Hong Kong-- an admission that instantly led to microscopic comparisons of bars hither and yon. Both agreed that Hong Kong's bars sported some of the most beautiful women on the planet; more to the point, both agreed that the most beautiful of all worked the bar on top of the Sheraton at the bottom of Nathan Road. This was the moment when Amos, much to Rita's obvious displeasure, suggested that they adjourn to one of his hangouts down on Lake Street, said joints all opening for business at sixteen hundred hours on the dot. Ian was sorely tempted, but Vickie was currently shoveling food into her mouth with her left hand while languidly raking Ian's thigh with the fingernails of her right. Occasional bouts of polite conversation interrupted the left, but her right hand's assault was relentless, with spirited attempts to find a way inside the thigh bands of his de facto chastity belt slowly driving him nuts. Ian was so horny he could scream, but his thick diaper and locking diaper cover were merciless. At dinner's end, Rita had pointedly exiled Vickie until Saturday morn, leaving Marge to escort a thoroughly frustrated Ian back to his room. Belatedly realizing that he had hardly touched his food and was still starving, Ian had welcomed the twin bottles of breast milk that turned out to be his reward for a job well done. One more poopy diaper later, Ian was back in his crib, fully restrained, Marge having decreed curfew to be the ungodly hour of seven PM.

And now it's twelve hours later, I've spent much of it wallowing in my own shit, and I have a diaper rash. Wonderful.

Although his diaper change was complete, and his diaper cover once again locked firmly in place, Candy left the Princess strapped down to the changing table just long enough to fetch her pretty dress. When she had the baby back on her feet, she slipped her arms through the puffed sleeves with their wonderful rows of pink and white frills, zipped her in, and snapped the lock shut. Stepping back to admire the view, she marveled at Vickie's exquisite taste. Her Princess was wearing a beautifully flared dress that barely reached to the top of her diapers … a dress covered all the way around with row after row of pink and white frills. Candy reached up to place an equally infantile bonnet on her head, and then bade her step into the matching rhumba panties, which completely covered her hideously institutional diaper cover. It was only at this point that nurse and patient eased to the floor, where two bottles of warm breast milk would begin Ian's day.

“I want you to grade twelve more exams,” Candy cooed, “then you can have another ba ba … then another twelve and another ba ba. Auntie Rita wants Princess Poopy Pants to be nice and full and oh, so poopy when I take you to her office. She wants you to meet some of her friends. Won't that be fun, hmm? Won't that be fun?”

Fun? Yeah, sure. Got news for ya, baby, I got the milk cow blues!

Ian was definitely in a sour mood, and the breast milk was fueling it-- the same dark mood that had driven him to smoky jazz clubs in cities all over eastern Europe, where singing the blues was as much a rite of passage as listening to Radio Free Europe. It was in Warsaw that he had last heard Sleepy John's evocative version, the words swirling inside his brain alongside images of Sarah leaning over to change his diaper, and Vickie's response as he licked cranberry sauce off her chest:

Now ask sweet mama, let me be her kid
She says, "I might get buggies I couldn't keep it hid"
Well, she looked at me, she begin to smile
Says, "I thought I would use you for my man a while
That you just don't let my husband catch you there
Now, just, just don't let my husband catch you there"

Since there were no husbands on the premises, Ian wasn't worried about being caught. Quite the contrary. He just wanted to be fed, real food in mountainous quantities.

. . . .

“Mom, I've never done a tour of duty in the OU, never mind neonatal. All I know about breast feeding is what I studied back in nursing school. Help me out here.”

“Hmm … let me think.” Sofia decided to join Sarah in another cup of coffee. She was addicted to the stuff, caffeine being the drug that often got her through the day.

“I guess the first thing to say is that it's doable. There are pills, and if you're religious about the breast pump, you will lactate. But there's no predicting how strong your flow will be, nor how long it will last. You may produce too little; you may produce too much. You will certainly be producing too much if all three of you are breast feeding him simultaneously. The milk bank in your hospital will get to know you well.”

“Mom, what I really want to know is the, uh ... you know … the sex side of it.”

“Intense. Really, really intense. When I was nursing your dad, it felt like there was a stream of hot lava flowing from my nipples to my clit. The orgasms were so powerful that intercourse paled in comparison. And he loved it. My milk really turned him on. It was the best sex in the whole of our marriage.”

“Wow!”

“But for the guy, the downside is that you feel like you're experiencing perpetual diarrhea. Your dad spent twenty-two months running to the toilet about six times a day.” Sofia chuckled, hard enough for coffee to dribble down her chin. “Sometimes he didn't make it!”

“Did you put him back in diapers?” Sarah's eyes were as big as saucers.

“Oh, I teased him about it, and we always had some to hand. But it wasn't our thing. So, no … not until the end, when he became incontinent. And that was hard because it was such a blow to his pride. You're lucky, you know? You're starting out, with your eyes wide open, where your dad and I finished. If you choose to breast feed, Ian will just be a bit more poopy than he already is. And the three of you will manage just fine.”

“You want me to take Rita's offer, don't you?”

“Pupu, it's your decision, but yes, I think it would be for the best. Thinking about your dad that last year … it's like seeing Ian's future. As he gets older, everything that he suffered on the battlefield is going to start taking its physical toll. It's not the incontinence. It's the pain … the arthritis. He's going to become a lot more dependent when he gets older … a lot more. You'll need help. The cold, hard truth is that you are going to outlive him.”

“It's so unfair.”

“It's life. But talking about Ian's health reminds me of one more thing, which may well cause this whole scheme to blow up in your collective faces.”

“What's that?”

“What you'll discover when you start dealing with the milk bank. Sarah, you'll have to do a blood draw every week. They will be screening for TB, cancer cells, but above all for hepatitis B and C. Breast milk is a remarkably efficient conveyance for sexually transmitted diseases. Neither you nor Rita will have a problem being monogamous, but what about Vickie? Her reputation is … how shall I put it? Colorful? Her lifestyle would place Ian in constant danger.”

Sarah burst out laughing, a preposterous idea suddenly popping into her head. The perfect solution!

“It's funny that you should say that, Mom, because another thing that kept me up last night was thinking about preconditions. If I'm going to share, then it will be on my terms-- strictly take it or leave it. Now I know exactly what I'm going to demand!”

Sarah was about to explain when the telephone rang. Sofia prayed that it wasn't some emergency that would demand her personal attention-- not now, when the self-satisfied look on Sarah's face told her that something outrageous was in the offing.

. . . .

“Good morning, Sofia; it's Rita. Is Sarah up and about?”

“I'll put her on speaker.” Sofia depressed a button, and then returned to her coffee.

“Hi, girl; have you got a minute?”

“Let me top off my coffee. How's Ian?”

Watching the video feed coming out of room eleven, Rita chuckled. “Candy's got the duty this morning; I told Vickie to take the day off and ponder her sins. So, as we speak, Ian is laying in Candy's lap, slurping down his first two bottles of breast milk for the day. When he's finished, she'll stick a pacifier in his mouth, have him crawl over to the desk, and get to work grading a dozen exams. After the first round, he'll get another bottle before being put back to work, only this time without his pacifier. Then another bottle. We want to test whether the pacifier is a trigger for the way he moves back and forth between Princess Poopy Pants and Major Grady. And speaking of Princess Poopy Pants, you should see the baby dress that Vickie found for her to wear. It is beyond adorable. We have got to find her a matching pair of booties and get rid of the boat shoes. They spoil the look!”

“So you are still running with the theory that one of his core personalities is female?” The more she learned about Ian, the more fascinated Sofia became.

“Female,” Rita agreed, “and infantile. After what Bian told me, I suspect that we're dealing with transference … a coping mechanism that enabled him to remain sane on a night when he should have gone mad. For one awful night, I believe that they became mother and infant child, and that it was her deep love that literally kept him alive. Since then, he has used infancy as a refuge, and it's so pronounced because it gives him a convenient place to hide when he can't cope with whatever went so badly wrong later in the war.”

“My God,” Sofia exclaimed. “Rita, please tell me that you are not going to treat him for this! Please!”

“You'll destroy him,” Sarah wailed; “don't do this!!”

“We won't! Trust me, both of you … WE WON'T!! I'm with Vickie on this. We lock in the Princess Poopy Pants personality, and we do it by treating him like a baby girl at every conceivable opportunity. Do you understand me? We want to reinforce this side of his personality, not undermine it! But I need your permission to do this, Sarah, in part because that's how your relationship with Ian works, but also because he simply isn't capable of seeing this through without your support and guidance.”

“And what about his wall? Can we touch it, or not?”

“We can … or rather, Princess Poopy Pants can. Vickie's game plan is sound, Sarah. The Princess attacks the Major, who has to come to her defense by telling her the truth, knowing that she will use it to end her spankings. But once the source of his shame is out in the open, he will have less reason to go into hiding. Then Princess Poopy Pants will gradually fade away, unless we take affirmative steps to create a rough balance between the adult male and the baby girl. Given the nature of your relationship with Ian, which everyone in the Circle supports, the latter is what I would recommend. There will be other crises in the future, more occasions on which he will need to run and hide.”

“Do it,” Sarah snapped. She had no doubt about this whatsoever, not after her mother's warning. She had lost her grandfather and her father, both of them men who had gone to war. As a nurse, she knew that there would be very bad moments in Ian's future, and that the time to start preparing for them was now.

“You are prepared to deal with a core personality that is both female and infantile?” Rita wanted this on the record.

“I am.” Sarah knew exactly what Rita was doing.

“Good. Now, I need your help with another matter. Gayle Soderberg will be here at ten o'clock, and she's bringing her Director with her. Harrison? Harris?”

“Harrison Knowles.” It was Sarah's private opinion that, in the Kingdom of Jerks, Harrison Knowles was a crown prince.

“How very Ivy League,” Rita muttered, never having met the man but catching the note of contempt in Sarah's voice. “Anyway,” she went on, “Soderberg will try and snap Ian up for Patient Relations, and in fairness they desperately need someone who is fluent in both English and Vietnamese. The only conceivable reason for Knowles to tag along is to wave an open checkbook in Ian's face. I'm guessing that, at a minimum, they'll offer to double … even triple … his salary. But I'm guessing that this is your decision, not Ian's, so how do you want me to play it?”

“Turn them down flat! Ian doesn't give a damn about money. For God's sake, he's a teacher!”

“Thank you, and for the record? For the record, I'm not going to let anyone get their hooks into Ian. I may do a bit of wheeling and dealing, but he's my patient and he's off limits. But I want to play this a certain way and I need your help to do it because it's going to be a very public humiliation for Ian.”

“What?” Sarah just wanted her friend to get on with it.

“I want to introduce Princess Poopy Pants to Soderberg and Knowles, baby dress and all. And with four bottles of breast milk in his system, each laced with fast acting and potent laxatives, the Princess is going to be poopy indeed, and stink to high heaven! For once, in short, I want to put our hospital wide reputation for being a bunch of crazies to good effect. I want these two nitwits to run out of this ward pinching their noses, and to tell everyone who'll listen that Ian is a lunatic who just happens to speak a whole bunch of foreign tongues. We keep Ian, and I make the damage to his reputation good with his department chair. Keith gives us a bigger budget because Marge keeps him abreast of what's really going on. I give her the credit, but I get to keep my job because I cut a deal with Glenn out at the VA. You and Vickie cure Ian, and the four of us live happily ever after.”

“And you sell your townhouse, and we use the check as a down payment on a nice property on Lake Minnetonka.”

“Works for me,” Rita agreed.

“Then, let's do it, but I suggest that you let me speak to Ian before the curtain rises. I'll make it clear to him that his humiliation is my choice. In fact, I want him to fob off Soderberg by telling them that he wouldn't dream of making a decision this consequential without my approval. I want everyone to come out of this knowing that it's me they have to deal with, not Ian!”

Rita clapped her hands. “PERFECT!! ABSOLUTELY PERFECT!!”

“And the weird part of all this? Ian will enjoy his humiliation because he absolutely despises authority figures, and I can't think of a worse way to insult him than waving money in front of his face. He will rub it in!”

“BETTER STILL! Oh, Sarah, how I wish you could be here to witness this ...”

“Let's have a conference call afterwards, the four of us!

“YOU'RE ON!”

. . . .

“It feels like I've come full circle,” Ian commented as he entered Rita's office and took the same seat that he had occupied less than forty-eight hours earlier. In some ways, however, it felt like a lifetime had passed.

Candy had escorted him out of the secure ward, still wearing his infantile dress, rhumba pants and bonnet. The one thing that she had determined from the morning's evaluation
was that the pacifier was not a trigger. With or without it, Ian's transition from infant to adult and back to infant again was seamless. Hence it did not surprise her in the least that Princess Poopy Pants had taken a back seat to Major Grady the moment they exited the ward. What did surprise her, and what she was going to stress in her report, was how you could actually see the transition in real time-- if you knew where to look.

It's in his eyes. Princess Poopy Pants has dreamy eyes, eyes that are unfocused, eyes filled with trust and love. The Professor's gaze is sharply focused, but the Major's eyes are alert, wary, constantly scanning his environment. It's threat assessment, and it's autonomic … the human animal acutely aware that it is at once predator and prey.

Candy knew the details of Vickie's complex battle plan, and fully endorsed the assault that she was undertaking. Using the Major's sense of duty against him, forcing him to yield ground to protect the Princess from harsh and undeserved punishment.

It's brilliant … almost breathtaking. But then Vickie's far and away the best therapist I've ever seen in action. I was lucky to have her for my mentor … Becky and me both ...

Candy sat the pink pacifier on the desk in front of Ian, but he made no move to pick it up. With an almost imperceptible shake of the head, she signaled Rita that this was a dead end. Then she quietly withdrew, leaving the two of them alone.

. . . .

Vickie was restless, prowling the confines of her apartment like a caged tiger. She was restless and frustrated and angry, although the anger was largely directed at herself. She had lost control, let her personal feelings run wild in the midst of a desperate, high-risk therapeutic gambit that had actually worked. The payoff was still uncertain, but Don Phillips was no longer catatonic. Ian had cracked him open, and now it was up to Rita to manage his care.

And then there was Phil Kettering. Just thinking about Phil made her feel all warm inside.

We actually saved one, the three of us working together. Becky, Vickie and Ian … the Three Musketeers.

Before kicking her out of the ward, Rita had shared a bit of news that made Vickie feel like she could go out and conquer the world.

Rita had spoken with Phil's parents. They were driving down from Hibbing to see their son … for the first time in almost ten years. The reunion would take place in the waiting room, under Becky's watchful eye. Vickie wondered how they would react to their future daughter-in-law.

Vickie stumbled into the bathroom, gripped the edge of the counter hard with both hands, and stared at herself in the mirror. She grinned half-heartedly at the sleep-deprived creature she saw staring back at her, with its badly mussed hair and pallid skin.

“Well, it's finally happened. The walls of Troy have been toppled. Victoria Ann Robinson has fallen in love. The once proud queen of the one-night stands has been vanquished, her heart captured by one Ian Samuel Grady, a soldier crippled in body, mind and spirit. And she never saw it coming.”

Vickie decided to pull herself together. A leisurely bath to start, then work on her hair, do her make-up, find something nice to wear in her closet. She would go shopping at the mall-- after all, it was the day after Thanksgiving, and she could lose herself in the well-dressed crowds at the decidedly upscale Galleria. In the evening, she would wander the hotel lounges along the Strip, hoping to get a sense of just how much her world had changed. Of course the businessmen would all be home, celebrating the holidays with their families. There would be no improprieties to stain this, her farewell tour.

SCENE 21:


STREET RACER

“Ian, your baby dress is adorable, and you are beyond cute! I could just eat you up!”

“How's Don?”

“Come around here and I'll show you.” Rita patted her desk, then played with the switches on her console and pulled up seventeen. The two of them watched as Don Phillips struggled against the restraints pinning him to the mattress of his crib, screaming one moment and whimpering the next.

“You did good, Ian. Phil's parents will be here tomorrow, a family reunion that's long, long overdue. And you've given us a fighting chance to give Don his life back. It's inadequate, I know, but … thank you.”

“Steak with all the trimmings would be nice.”

Ian's mood had not improved; if anything, it had gotten worse. He couldn't get the Milk Cow Blues out of his head, but now it had somehow morphed into a Beatles tune, Ringo belting out I wanna be your kid … um um um um … I wanna be yourrr kiddd!!!!

Ed Sullivan was not pleased, not with censors running amok and demanding that Ringo get a haircut.

Stupid, bloody breast milk.

“Sorry, but it's not going to happen. Sarah's orders. You are now on a strict breast milk diet. Thirty-six bottles a day until Sarah, Vickie and I start lactating. Then we will be breast feeding you.”

Rita patted Ian's bottom. With all the padding, she couldn't tell whether he was wet or dirty, but in any event he didn't stink nearly enough.

“Are you wet or poopy,” she asked.

In response, Ian walked around the desk, sat down, and started wriggling in his seat. “I guess I'm okay,” he concluded.

Which is not what Rita wanted to hear. She leaned across the desk and tapped his pacifier. “Do you like your nookie?”

Ian picked it up, played with it for a moment, then stuck it in his mouth. He began instantly to suckle, his features softening dramatically.

Rita could see Princess Poopy Pants struggling to take over, the conflict between the two warring personalities manifest. The therapist inside her found it fascinating.

Ian removed the binky and dropped it on the desk. “It feels good,” he admitted. “Not sure why, but it's comforting. But why is it pink? The pacifier? The baby bottles? This dress? For that matter, why am I even wearing a dress? Is this part of my therapy?”

“It is. There's a little girl inside you … a baby girl. We call her Princess Poopy Pants, and all of us love her. She knows all about you, and we want you to become comfortable with her … accept that she's a big part of who you are. We think that she can help you get where Sarah wants you to go.”

“So I'm crazy,” Ian concluded; “just another nut case destined for the psycho ward.”

“Not at all,” Rita laughed. “In fact, you are so close to textbook normal that the difference isn't worth talking about. Nope, sorry, but this is about trust. It's about you attacking the wall that you hide behind, trusting Sarah with the truth. You don't want to do that because you know with absolute certainty that she will forgive you, leaving you no place to go but to forgive yourself. And you don't want to do that. You prefer to wallow in self-pity and drink yourself to death. And Princess Poopy Pants isn't having it.”

“Amazing.” And Ian was in fact nodding his head in open amazement. “I'm sitting here in a pink baby dress, fiddling with a pink pacifier, and you're telling me that I'm normal?”

“Yep.” Rita was truly enjoying the moment. “Just another guy with a problem he can't deal with, taking refuge in the bottle when what he really wants is to suck on mommy's boobs.” Rita gestured at the bookcase to Ian's right. “Would you like me to cite you chapter and verse?”

“So, we're going to reprise the old 'Ian is an alcoholic' routine? Again?” Ian knew damned well that he didn't have a problem with alcohol, and he was sick of the accusations. “Rita, the keys to my office are in my pants pocket. Take them. One key will let you into the building if it's locked. A second will let you into my office, and a third into my desk, where I keep my passport. Go over there and ransack the place … or simply take my word for it when I say that you won't find any bottles squirreled away. I like booze, but I also like New York strips medium rare, baked potatoes that are just launching pads for the sour cream, and on and on and on. Am I a steak aholic, too? A sour cream aholic? And while we're at it, drive over to my apartment, let yourself in, and go through my clothes closet. You'll find pink shirts and ties. But you'll also find blue, green, yellow, purple, brown and black. You'll find everything except white, because I hate white. I hate it so much that I would never have signed the contract if the university had a dress code. Jeesh!”

Rita clapped her hands, and her eyes lit up. She was sincerely delighted with Ian's little tantrum because it opened a door, and she was rather unceremoniously going to drag him through it.

“Sarah wants you to give up alcohol. She wants you to have breast milk rather than steak. These are her choices, and I thought that you agreed to give her control of your life, reserving only matters of principle. Was I wrong about that? Or is drinking beer and eating steak a matter of principle to you? Just how many 'principles' do you have, Ian?”

Rita was drawing imaginary quotation marks in the air. “How many? A few, or enough to fill a telephone book? And are they all slippery enough that you can call anything you want to do, or don't want to do, a matter of principle? There's very little to choose between a man who has too many principles, and one who has none at all.”

Ian gulped, and he was sufficiently honest with himself not to hide from the truth. Rita was right. He was happiest when Sarah ordered him to do exactly what he wanted to do anyway.

Seeing the hesitation, Rita decided to go for the jugular. She picked up the phone and started to dial.

“Wait!” Ian was near panic because he could see that she was dialing long distance.

“I'm calling Sarah. She's worried about you, and I'm tired of being caught in the middle. She has given me strict instructions on how to treat you, but maybe it will have more meaning if you hear it from her.”

Rita finished dialing, and put the phone on speaker. Ian could clearly hear it ringing.

“Hello?”

“It's Rita. Ian's here. I think he wants to talk with you. He's on speaker.”

“Ian? Ian, are you okay?”

“Sarah. No, I'm not. God, how I miss you! I miss you so much!”

“I'm glad, Ian; I'm glad. Now, are you being a good baby and doing what Rita tells you to do?”

“No, he isn't,” Rita cut in. “He keeps going on and on about alcohol and steaks. Either he doesn't believe that I'm carrying out your instructions, or he doesn't care. Either way, I'm tired of the endless whining. Please set him straight.”

“Ian, I am very disappointed in you. I left Rita strict instructions not to let you have alcohol. And you know I did because I told you this was coming! And you're whining about it? Mister, when I get home, you are going straight over my knee!”

“I'm sorry, Mommy!” Ian was blubbering, all the fight gone out of him. “Sorry.”

“And the breast milk?” Sarah went right on, pretending not to have heard him. “This was a special surprise, Ian, a very special, wonderful surprise. I want you to have breast milk now so that you will welcome it when I start nursing you. Taking you to my breast, feeding you … it will create a bond between us that nothing can shake. It will be unbreakable. This was to be my wedding gift for you, but apparently you would rather have a steak.”

“No, Mommy, no! I want you to nurse me! Please! I'll be good, I promise! I'll do whatever aunt Rita wants me to do! I promise!”

“Words,” Rita spat out. “Just words. Well, right now I'm in Ian's debt, but in a few minutes I can cancel it.”

“What do you mean?” Sarah looked at her mother, and was relieved to see that she was having an equally hard time not giving the game away.

If Ian could only see our faces …

Gayle Soderberg is coming up here in a few minutes with her Director. I'm betting that Gayle wants to hire Ian, and that Knowles is going to make him 'an offer that he can't refuse' … maybe double or even triple his current salary.”

“Would you like that, baby? Would you like to quit teaching and work for the hospital? Patient Relations would love to have you because we have so much trouble with our Vietnamese patients. Do you know any other languages that we can use?”

“Khmer,” Ian admitted. “Lao ...”

“Wow! My baby is so talented! You can make us so much money! Would you like that, baby … would you?”

“No! I mean … Mommy, it doesn't matter. I wanna teach, but if you want me to quit, I will. I love you, Mommy!”

“So you want me to decide for you, is that it?”

“Yes, Mommy. Please! I can't decide! I can't … I can't ...”

Ian's voice had faded to a whisper and his pupils were dilating, his body going rigid. Rita paled. She didn't know how or why, but she knew that they had just stepped on a land mine. She sprang to her feet and rushed around the desk.

“Foxfire, we're taking heavy fire from the ridge … grids 16 through 21. Light it up!”

“Affirmative, Street Racer. Foxfire inbound, twenty seconds.”

“I need medics! We're taking close order fire from the tree line, and they're on our right flank. Where are the choppers? God damn it!!!” He was screaming to be heard over the obscene symphony of M-16's and AK-47's as they exchanged fire, the enemy's tracer rounds illuminating the sky.

Street Racer looked to his left. Willis was down, top of the levee, fully exposed, blood gushing out of the wound on his right leg. He knew that the round had found an artery, that he would bleed out, but not before …another round slammed home, picking Corey up like a rag doll, shaking him.

“Cobras sixty seconds out,” he heard a disembodied voice say, its calm punctuating the chaos. “Confirm tree line. Input coordinates for your right flank.”

Trevoux was crabbing along the levee, trying to reach Corey, but that was a mistake and Street Racer knew it. Martin was making the sniper's job too easy … Martin, who had been with him since Hue, the first to sign on to the unit that SOG wanted him to build in the shadows, all volunteers, all men with grudges, all men who didn't care where they were … the Nam, Cambodia, Laos? Just lines on a map, and they didn't care Martin's father had fallen at Dien Bien Phu.

“Stay back,” he screamed, the ridge lighting up, the familiar pillar of fire; “reste en arrière!”

“IAN, COME BACK TO ME!!! PLEASE!” He knew the voice but couldn't place it, arms reaching out for him, pulling him down … other voices, more arms, everything in slow motion ...

Glancing to his right, he saw that Minh was down but still in the fight, banging away but staying off full auto, preserving his ammo. Quy was taking cover in the paddy, popping up blindly to unleash hell on the tree line, burning up magazines one after another, covering fire for his brother. Street Racer had to get to them, so he went right, staying low, trying to calculate the grid in his head, knowing that the rice paddies were a honeycomb giving cover to both sides, gambling that the fire storm would seal their left flank. He had attended their weddings, was the godfather to Minh's infant daughter.

“Three Sierra to ...”

Fire exploded in Street Racer's head, fighting for his attention with the whup whup of the approaching choppers. He felt his bowels give way, and knew that he had gone down … how bad it was impossible to tell.

“Repeat coordinates right flank … I say again … repeat coordinates ...”

“OH, GOD!” The same voice, a woman, but from where? “PRINCESS, HELP HIM!! FIND HIM!! HELP HIM!!”

“Mommy, I'm scared; I'm so scared ...”

Street Racer looked up, saw that it was Bian … Bian cradling him in her arms, singing lullabies, anything to ward off the pain.

Street Racer knew that he was near death, and he reached out for it, wanting to let the burden go. He was so tired, and he wanted to sleep, anything to make the pain go away. But they kept hurting him, the pain in his heart now as bad as the pain in his shoulder, bouncing his body up and down, over and over again.

Why is Candy shaking me, Ian wondered. It makes no sense.

He vomited, smelled the sour milk pouring out of him in rivers. He closed his eyes, the stink from all the shit in his pants gagging him ...

Street Racer smelled burning flesh, knew that it was his own, didn't care. Bian's gentle voice was telling him what to do, making the decision for him. He struggled to his knees and began to crawl along the levee, hiding in the shadows of the gunships finally overhead. He had to save the Princess, and Minh … only Minh was hurt far worse than he had thought … far, far worse. But he had made a promise to Anh, that he would bring her husband home. And he was going to keep it …

Minh! Street Racer kept calling out to him, screaming over the roar of the blades and the mounteds now lighting up the tree line, drowning out the cacophony of his unit's 16's still firing all around him. His men were spread out in good order, but without Minh anchoring the right flank, they could be rolled up and pushed into the flames, one of the choppers already down, its blades crushed as they bit into the levee's hard packed earth. The gunship exploded, blinding him, the ammo going off like firecrackers, brought down by a rocket fired at close range from somewhere in the trees.

“Again,” Rita ordered, fighting hard to get her emotions under control, and Candy snapped another ampule and waved it under Ian's nose. He gagged, and then started to cough.

“Good,” Rita muttered, more or less to herself. Candy had been close, quietly conversing with another nurse, when Ian's screams had shattered the ward's quiet. She had rushed in, and with Rita's help they had got him stretched out on the floor. Her companion had run off to grab the pillows that now supported his head and knees. Still more nurses had sprung into action, one grabbing smelling salts, another racing to get a pitcher of ice water out of the staff frig. Rita was on her knees, checking his pulse rate, a nurse standing by to summon a crash team. They were all seasoned professionals, no rookies in the bunch, and they knew the drill.

“One forty-eight,” Rita called out, staring at her watch, knowing that at one sixty everything would go on autopilot. She was counting in her head, watching the sweep of the second hand on her watch.

Candy tossed the ampule aside, and reached for the pitcher. Ian's eyes were still dangerously dilated. Carefully, she began to pour ice water on his forehead, the response instantaneous. He arched his back, and hurled another stream of vomit into the air. His bowels let loose … Candy could hear it, but she couldn't remember whether it was his third or fourth evacuation. She knew that his pulse would climb one more time before falling precipitously. The trick was to stabilize him around a hundred, not let it fall as dangerously as it had jumped.

“One fifty-six.” Rita's nose twitched; the stench in the enclosed space of her office now overwhelming. “Code 2222,” she ordered, and a nurse rushed off to alert the crash team to stand by. One of its members would summon and lock out an elevator, buying precious seconds for a sprint where every second mattered.

Hundreds of miles away, hearing everything over the speaker phone, Sarah and Sofia were helplessly clinging to one another. Sarah was mentally kicking herself all around the room, knowing that she should never have cornered Ian, should simply have made the decision for him. She was his Dominant, and she had made a terrible mistake-- one for which he was paying the price.

“Look at me, Ian.” Candy's voice was commanding, her hand a clinched fist with a single digit slowly waving in front of his eyes. He began to track the movement, first left then right, again and again.

“One thirty-four.”

Too fast, Candy thought, reaching deep into her first year of residency, switching tactics on the fly. “Look at me, Ian. I need you to take slow, deep breaths, in through your nose, exhale through your mouth. Like this ...”

Ignoring the stink, Candy breathed in and out, and Ian began blindly to mimic her.

“One twenty-six.”

Still on her knees, Candy leaned back, her relief evident to all the nurses crowded in the doorway. She ran her fingers through his hair, which was drenched in sweat, the pretty bonnet abandoned somewhere on the floor. His beautiful dress with its elegant lines of pink and white trim was covered in vomit.

“You need a bath,” she smiled, “and I'm going to do the honors. Perhaps I can get Reiko to help.”

Ian smiled vacuously, present and past a muddle in his head, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing … but the effort was too great, and he let it go.

Rita looked up. “I need someone to abort the Crash Team. Then, call Patient Relations and tell Gayle that we have an emergency up here, so we'll need to reschedule. If she presses, tell her that I'll call her back in an hour or so. Maybe we can do it sometime this afternoon.”

Rita was patting Ian's hand, taking deep breaths of her own, which made her gag all over again. She was shaking like a leaf, and she knew it … knew that this was the price any doctor or nurse must pay when becoming emotionally involved with a patient.

And she was paying it gladly.

Suddenly remembering, Rita twisted around. “Sarah, are you there?”

“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes.”

“He's going to be okay. His pulse is down, he's more alert … really, he's going to be okay. Sarah, we had no idea that we were this close to a Breakthrough, so it caught us completely off guard. Literally, there was no warning whatsoever. I have no idea what triggered this, and there's no video feed from this office, so ...”

“He wanted me to decide about his job. He kept saying that he couldn't decide … couldn't decide ...”

“Yes … yes … I remember. And he was calling out … something about 'Minh'. Person? Place? Thing? Event? Who knows?”

“Bian. Maybe she knows. I'll ask her. Minh and Hue. Maybe there's a connection.”

Ian heard his mommy's voice, and he smiled. He did not understand what she was saying, but he could feel the love and concern in her tones. He sensed a torrent of darkness rushing through the corridors of his mind, and once more he reached out to embrace it, gratefully swimming down into the depths. The pain had reached into all of his broken places, sparing nothing.

It was time to sleep.

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