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AN HOMAGE TO VINCENT VEGA

 

SCENE 22:

 

LESSING'S FOLLY

 

“To summarize,”  Rita concluded, “as of this morning we have 37 patients in residence, with twenty voluntaries and seventeen committals.  This leaves us with three rooms to spare in the secure wing.  A fourth room is under temporary occupancy by a voluntary admission ...”

 

Laughter erupted all around the conference table, and everyone turned to look up at the video feed from room eleven.  Professor Ian Grady, aka Major Ian Grady, aka little baby Ian, aka Princess Poopy Pants, was sitting at the desk, frowning intensely, red pin flying across the pages of his ever diminishing pile of blue books.  Check marks here and marginal comments there, increasingly sloppy summaries, and then the verdict in the form of both a letter and a numeric grade.  The young professor was a precision machine, and nothing if not thorough.

 

“I know, I know,” Rita laughed.  “But for John's sake, we do have to observe the formalities.  Anyway, we might have a fifth room open as well, because in a couple of hours Phil's parents will be here.  Becky will be supervising, and if all goes well, I'm planning to relocate him among the voluntaries.”

 

The announcement sparked a round of applause; in this ward, the staff savored their hard-earned triumphs.

 

“To Becky,” Candy blurted out, raising her coffee cup on high.

 

“And to Ian.”  Becky was not about to steal Ian's thunder.

 

“To Becky and Ian!”  Reiko, at twenty-six the youngest and least experienced member of the Circle, was firmly of the opinion that Phil's redemption was the product of team effort.

 

“Our very own Dynamic Duo!”  Vickie began to hum the theme from Batman, and the others promptly joined in.

 

It was a little after nine on Saturday morning, and the weekly roundup informally known as Lessing's Folly was once again underway.  Rita thought of the ward's three shifts in military terms-- her own first shift took point, Martha Benson's second was the unit's beating heart, and Julie Neymar's third brought up the rear.  The three charge nurses took reports from their staff, updated patient files daily, and fed the finished product to John Lessing, MD, PhD, for the weekly review.  It was John's signature that graced the summary that Rita forwarded to the Director's office.

 

Lessing, at age fifty-three, was one of the most prominent psychiatrists in the Twin Cities.  A full professor at Ian's university, he had a lucrative contract with the hospital, but was content to let Rita run the ward.  She had been one of his best students, and together they had built a staff that he considered the best not only in the state but in the whole of the upper Midwest.  All but two of the nurses were his former students.  Reiko, Candy and Becky, who were at various stages of their four year residency, were hand-picked, Becky now in her last year.  He had expected to lose her to private practice, and her blossoming romance with Phil Kettering both surprised and delighted him.

 

John was deeply protective of his students, but he was also unsentimental about the realities of the medical industry.  He had driven it home to each of them that, no matter where they worked, fully one-third of their hands-on colleagues would regard them as charlatans and grifters.  He took perverse pride in his very own Hotel California, and he never tired of reminding his departmental colleagues at the university that, on a weekly basis, it was his privilege to attend Lessing's Folly.  It was only his wife's concern for his reputation that prevented him from occasionally attending the Circle's Saturday night frolic as well.

 

“Marge, where do we stand with Don Phillips?”

 

“Babbling … incoherent.  He's verbal, but it's as if the neurons are all firing in isolation from one another.  My primary concern is getting him to eat.  I've debated hooking him up to a feeding tube, but I'm worried about aspiration.  Should we sedate him?”

 

“John, your thoughts.”  This was precisely the sort of problem that Rita was happy to buck upstairs to her mentor.

 

“No sedation, and no feeding tube.”  This was not John Lessing's first rodeo.  “Get him on his feet, and get him moving.  He needs to hear friendly voices, but not in large numbers because the cacophony will frighten him, which could trigger a relapse.  Offer him food, but don't force feed him.  If worse comes to worse, we'll run an IV, but let's give it some time and see if his body will drive a bargain with his brain.”

 

“Got it.”  Marge was busily taking notes.  “Do you want Ian to have another go at him?”

 

“Good Lord, no!  The last thing that poor man needs now is to hear someone hectoring him in Vietnamese.  No.  Get Phillips to the point where he is coherent and able to tap into his memories, and we'll think about having Major Grady working with him the same way that he did with Kettering.” 

 

“If sedation ever becomes necessary, ” Vickie commented, “I'd recommend Lorazepam intravenously.  I've followed the clinical trials, and the results look promising, but we have no first hand experience.  From what Marge is telling us, Phillips looks promising.”

 

“Giving up on Valium, are we Vickie?”  Becky loved teasing her mentor.

 

“Yeah,” Vickie grinned; “I need a new drug.”

 

“And on that note we come to our beloved Princess Poopy Pants.”  Rita was watching the clock.  “Candy, what's your schedule?”

 

“Next diaper check is at ten, give or take a few blue books.  I expect it to be messy.”

 

Forty minutes … more than enough time.

 

John looked up at the screen, and shook his head.  “You know,” he observed, “one of the few things hitherto beyond the reach of my imagination was seeing a diapered colleague grading blue books inside the secure ward.  But then I also never expected to hear about a member of staff leaping across a table to fend off a murderous patient with a turkey drumstick.  Victoria, you are truly one for the ages!”

 

“Thanks, boss; I was happy to do my bit.”

 

“The rest of you should know,” John said as his eyes went round the table, “that Victoria and I have had a heart to heart talk about her relationship with Doctor Grady.  And it is 'Doctor', by the way, and I do hope that none of you lose sight of that particular fact.”

 

“As you all know, as a matter of policy this hospital forbids doctors and nurses from entering into relationships with their patients.  However, we also know that there is no rule in place forbidding attachments between doctors or nurses and FORMER patients.  Hence it should come as no surprise to anyone here that the rules and regs are silent with regard to relationships forged BEFORE a patient's admission when they remain ongoing.” John was looking hard at Marge.  “Given that Doctor Grady has twice attended and participated in certain allegedly drunken and promiscuous activities in Rita's home, it is self-evidently the case that he has an ongoing relationship with everyone in this room, myself excluded.  Or am I wrong about that?  If there is anyone in this room who has no prior relationship with Doctor Grady whatsoever, please raise your hand.”

 

No one did.

 

“Good.”  John leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his neck, and studied the ceiling.  He was visibly gathering his thoughts.  “Right, here's what we're going to do.  The first order of business is keeping him out of the line of fire.  I'll have a quiet word with our campus police chief, and try to arrange for Ian to have a uniformed escort everywhere he goes on Monday.  I'll also talk to his department chair, and explain the financial facts of life.  I'll give Stuart an abridged account of what's happened here so far, with a decidedly heroic spin, and tell him to keep his distance.  The last thing I want is for him or anyone else to be applying pressure.  That's Vickie's job; she's his therapist, she has a good game plan, and it should work.  But we want the meltdown to occur in a controlled environment … so, no more nasty surprises, okay?”

 

“We still have to address the issue of his diaper changes,” Marge objected.

 

“You're right.  Sorry, Vickie, but when you think he's ripe, get somebody else to change him.  I'll cut you some slack and let you give him his bottles and pat him on the back, hold his hand, but don't let your fingers wander.  If you do, you'll be off this case like shit through a goose.  Capiche?”

 

“Boss, I've set him up for rewards and punishments-- sexual relief and spankings.  Under these restrictions?  I'll get nowhere.”

 

John gave it a moment's thought.  “Okay, I'll meet you halfway.  You can spank him, over the knee, but Rita I want you or Marge in the room observing.  Now, does anyone here feel like tutoring my colleague in the fine art of self-gratification when a reward is in order?”

 

Reiko and Candy instantly raised their hands, and to John's considerable surprise, Rita did so as well.

 

“Good, we have multiple volunteers.  I'd suggest that you schedule a fixed hour for rewards, and take turns awarding them.  But Vickie, and Vickie alone, determines when he's up for a reward or spanking.  And her decision is final.”

 

John looked around the room, hoping that he had been reading it correctly.  “Rita, I like this idea of putting together a tape and offering it to Glenn Albright.  Let me know when you're ready to make the pitch.  I'll have you both to lunch at the Faculty Club.  And as for your friend, Sarah?  In due course ...”

 

John had a pretty good idea how things would be playing out over the next couple of hours, so he didn't even bother trying to keep a poker face.

 

“In due course,” he grinned, “let's spread the word that Doctor Grady has a no-nonsense girlfriend with marriage on her mind, and hers is the final say in their relationship.  When you next talk to her, make it clear that in my professional opinion she needs to take decision making out of his hands.  All we know for sure is that yesterday morning he cracked when asked to make a consequential decision … so we stop doing that until Vickie gets this sorted out.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Leaving the conference room in a hurry, Candy and Rita rushed back to the office.  There were only two guest chairs, and one of them was covered with files.  Candy picked them up and dumped them on the floor.  She barely had time to sit down before Vickie came storming through the door.

 

She slammed it behind her, trapping the three of them in the lingering stench of Ian's much abused diaper.  Vickie sniffed the air, knowing that it had been a full twenty-four hours since Ian's collapse.

 

“Is that what I think it is,” she asked.

 

“It is.  Breast milk, in the quantity that he's receiving, definitely has its down side.”

 

“Funny that, because I came in here to clear the air.  About what happened, which seems to have become a hot topic in this building.  I got a lot of strange looks coming in from the car park.  Two of my friends gave me a big hug, and one of them asked if I was okay.” 

  

“It's over, Vic … ancient history.  The song and dance was strictly for Marge's benefit; it's John's way of telling Keith that if he wants to go to war, John owns the battlefield.  You're good to go.”

 

“Nope, not by a long shot.”  Vickie was emphatically shaking her head, and she had a stranglehold on both chair arms.  “I don't give a damn how many people see the tape, and anyone who expects me to apologize for what happened, for my … my ...”

 

“Orgasm?”  Rita also wanted to clear the air because her journey from the car park had been equally slow.  She was pretty sure that Vickie had misunderstood a great deal of what she had experienced.

 

“My feelings,” Vickie corrected.  “God!  How could I have been so blind, so full of myself?  I knew that I had feelings for Ian; they've been there from the moment we met.  But they confused me.  I tried and tried to sort out what I was feeling.  Lust?  A new toy for me to play with?  An easy conquest to toss on the pile alongside all the others?  But nothing felt right.  Rita, I DIDN'T KNOW!  Honest to God, until Phillips leaped across the table, teeth bared, I DIDN'T KNOW.  It hit me with the force of a sledgehammer.  He wanted to kill the man I love, and I could stop him.  And I did, me and my stupid drumstick!”

 

“And that's what people are talking about, Vic.  Oh, sure, not Sarah's collection of jerks; they're chortling about Ian licking cranberry sauce off your blouse, and you having this mind blowing orgasm in full view of all.  But they don't count.  That's why we're the Hotel California, remember?  That's why we come together every Saturday morning and add another chapter to Lessing's Folly.  THEY … DO … NOT … COUNT.  The people who matter, which includes just about every woman in this building, are concerned about you … about you and Ian, both.  Because from what I was hearing in the corridors this morning, I'm guessing that when Bian went back to the ER and her friends crowded round, she told them the whole of it and not just a part.  And then the Crash Team must have added their two cents worth.”

 

“It's what we all heard coming here this morning.”  Candy spoke up for the first time. “How a wounded veteran came out of nowhere and volunteered to become a patient in the psych ward, hoping to help two deeply troubled vets whom we were about to lose forever.  How he pulled it off, putting himself at great risk in the process, and how a nurse hurled herself into the fray to ward off an attack with the only weapon she had to hand-- a turkey drumstick.  So what if the details are a little off.  When you cut to the chase, isn't that exactly what happened?”

 

“You left out a few critical details.”  Vickie was grinning from ear to ear.  She really didn't give a damn about the tape.  And she loved Candy … Candy and Becky both.  Mentoring them was far and away the best part of her job.

 

“Not really.  Vickie, you don't live life; you attack it.  Day after day, you wrap your hands around its throat and you throttle it.  It's who you are.  A lot of people envy you, some are jealous, but everybody has been waiting for this moment to happen … wondering if it WOULD happen.  And now it has.  Vickie, there is nothing on that tape that is going to surprise anybody … nothing, because you are not a person for half measures.”

 

“Here, here,” Rita muttered.  She was happy that Candy had beaten her to the punch.  For her own part, Rita was pondering how Vickie could possibly carry on as Ian's therapist.

 

But John's good with it, and he's forgotten more about human relationships than I've ever learned, so …

 

“I'd like everyone earning a paycheck from this hospital to watch that tape,”  Candy continued.  She was really on a roll.  “We're constantly being lectured about how doctors, nurses and patients get the best results when we work as a team … then in the next breath they're threatening to take our jobs away if we let our guard down and become emotionally involved.  I'm sick of the hypocrisy-- and am I the only one who finds it odd that we're busily trying to knock down Phil's wall, and Don's and Ian's, while hiding behind our own?  When did compassion go out of style?”

 

“You go, girl!”  Vickie had never been as proud of Candy as she was in this moment.

 

“Everybody except you, Vickie.”  Candy was eyeing the clock, knowing that she had to leave soon.  “The moment you walked in this morning, I saw it in your stride … in the way you were looking at the rest of us.  A Breakthrough.  Your wall is gone, and you're happy.  It's good to see.”

 

Candy stood up, and on impulse walked over to hug Vickie tight.  She was so happy for her friend that she was near tears.

 

“Now, if the two of you will excuse me, there's a patient in room eleven that I've promised to give a bath.  I didn't expect him to sleep for twenty-two hours, never mind set a world's record for poopy diapers.  He stinks, and wet wipes and baby powder aren't going to cut it.  And Rita, unless Vickie objects, I would very much appreciate it if you would cut the video feed.”

 

“Oh, he's definitely earned a reward,” Vickie laughed.  “And by all means, make it a good one!  Then I want him back in eleven.  You might remind the Princess that she's due for a spanking, and I'll make it a good one as well!”

 

“Say around lunchtime?”  Vickie winked at Rita.  She intended to follow John's instructions to the letter, and she much preferred Rita's company to Marge's.

 

“I'll grab something from the cafeteria … enough for both of us.  After her spanking, let's put the Princess in her crib and let her watch us eat.  Pink this and pink that is not floating the Major's boat, and he's wondering what gives with the dress.  Maybe we should try shamelessly bribing him with a pickle. ”

 

“Speaking of the dress,” Vickie moaned, “the dry cleaning is going to set me back a small fortune.  Any chance you can reimburse me out of incidentals?”

 

“Consider it done.”

 

Candy silently left the office.  She had a spring in her own step, and felt on top of the world.  With the camera off, she could finally practice therapy the way that she and Vickie both wanted it done.   

 

.  .  .  .

 

Ian heard the door open, but he didn't bother to look up.  He was on a roll, and calculated that he could polish off the last of the exams in three hours or less.  He was determined to get it done, and to get the hell out of Dodge.  With diaper changes now coming every sixty to ninety minutes, all of them poopy, he was desperate to get some real food into his system.  Thanks to the breast milk, his run of the mill five poopy diapers a day was beginning to look like Paradise Lost.

 

He smelled her perfume before he felt her hand glide down his spine, and instantly recognized that Candy was back.  He had awakened groggy and confused, to find her sitting quietly beside his crib.  He was not restrained, and she looked exhausted.  He thought that she might well have been there all night, watching over him.

 

Like Bian.

 

Twenty-two hours, she had said, anticipating the inevitable question.  He had slept a long, long time, and he didn't know why.  Where his memories should have been, there was only a blank screen.  He remembered nothing of the day before.

 

The routine unfolded smoothly.  The changing table and the diaper change with which he now greeted each new day.  Cradled, looking up into tender and caring eyes, sucking down the two bottles of breast milk.  Crawling to the desk, girding himself for work in an environment at once familiar yet strange.  Back to the changing table, his diaper once again mushy and foul … another bottle … more blue books.  She had left at some point, exhorting him to keep working, telling him that she would be back to give him his reward.  He had obeyed without question, and she had returned.

 

He sensed her leaning down to whisper in his ear, inhaling the scent of her deep into his lungs.  “Finish this one,” she had said, “then it will be time for your reward.”

 

Ian thought it odd that she wasn't calling him “princess” or “baby.” and it left him wondering whether in turn he should drop the pretense of calling her his “aunt” or “auntie.”  His confusion doubled when Candy led him not to the changing table but straight out the door, and then turned left instead of right.  Mystified, he followed her to the end of the corridor, entering a room that took him by complete surprise.

 

It was huge, at least double the size of his own room eleven.  One entire corner was empty save for the large drain on the floor and a lone stool.  There were a number of hoses hanging on hooks, and Ian guessed that patients were literally hosed down here.  A long and unusually wide porcelain bathtub was to the right, and set into the floor.   The setup reminded him of a traditional Japanese bathhouse, where you washed first and then bathed in water so hot that it threatened to scald the skin.  Thinking about the state of his diaper, and how long it had been since he last bathed, Ian licked his lips in anticipation.

 

Looking to his left, Ian spotted the ubiquitous changing table.  With the hoses hanging in the background, it was obvious how this was going to go.  Except that Candy was leading him by the hand to the right … to what looked like an ordinary dental chair-- except that this one came equipped with a fell set of restraints.  For a perverse moment, he wondered whether someone had screwed up and scheduled him for electro-shock therapy.  He debated whether it was time to panic.

 

Candy nudged him into the seat, but made no move to restrain him.  She tilted the seat back, pulled up a stool, and sat looking down at him.  Her eyes, always so alive, were filled with good humor.  Ian abruptly decided to go with the moment.

 

“We'll begin with a good, old-fashioned dental check-up,” she laughed, “one of the many oddball things that I learned during my first year residency.  Open and say 'ah'.”

Candy began poking around with the usual tool, and then stuck a finger in his mouth to survey his gums.  But she wasn't wearing a glove, and Ian wasted no time latching on.  He began sucking for all that he was worth.

 

“Ah, does my widdle Princess Poopy Pants like to suck on auntie's finger,” she cooed, making no attempt to remove it from his mouth.  Instead, she began to twirl it in lazy circles, forcing his tongue to move hither and yon in order to keep up.  Candy was finger fucking his mouth, and he loved it.

 

“Would you like your binkie, hmm?”  With her free hand, she reached into a pocket, pulled it out, and waved it slowly in front of his eyes.

 

Ian was still in Professor Grady mode, but he was more than willing to play this particular game.  He was pretty sure that he had Princess Poopy Pants down pat, and he really liked Candy.  He wanted to please her.

 

“Yeth, pwese,”  Relaxing his grip on her finger, he opened wide, but then Candy surprised him.  Waving her finger back and forth in front of his eyes, a bit of his saliva still clinging to it, she announced that first she would brush his teeth and then give him his precious binkie.

 

Candy was thorough, and thoroughly professional, right down to having him swish and spit.  Ian thought that she would have made a great dental assistant-- and he'd happily let her brush his teeth for him after every meal.  This was way beyond service with a smile.  Still, when she offered him the binkie, he accepted it happily, and began sucking noisily.

 

“Tank yu, aunt Candy.  I wuv my binkie.”  Ian debated whether he was overplaying his hand.

 

Such a baby, such a baby … but how does he make this transition without a trigger?  The textbooks insist that there's a totem, but if it's here, none of us are seeing it.

 

Candy glanced up at the camera, and noted that it was still live.  It would not go dark until Ian was prepped for his bath, and she knew that Vickie and Rita were both watching.  She wondered if Ian's personality shifts continued to mystify them as much as they mystified her.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“So now you've met Bob,” Sofia mused, taking a small sip from her first cup of coffee.  In the morning, she liked it black, and scalding hot.

 

“Well, let me see,” Sarah retorted as she sat her own cup down.  “Is this your roundabout way of telling me that he's 'the one'?  Are you asking for my approval?”  She was teasing, but she was also rubbing it in.

 

Turn about, fair play!

 

“It's possible, I suppose.”  Sofia was being carefully non-committal.

 

“Well, he's certainly gainfully employed,” Sarah laughed, remembering how her ever practical grandmother had so quickly got to the heart of the matter.  “The guy owns his own hardware store, no less.”

 

“And he's very handy with tools...”

 

“All of them?”  In point of fact, Sarah had really liked her mother's latest beau.  He was attentive, polite, surprisingly well spoken, and a true child of the Keweenaw.  It was screamingly obvious that he was very much a one woman kind of guy.  If he ever deserted her mother, Sarah concluded, it would be for the sake of his fishing rod.

 

A true child of the Keweenaw indeed.  And a widower …

 

“Well, he could use a bit more practice … you know, here and there.”  There was a soft but knowing smile on Sofia's lips.

 

“And do you think that he would be up for your … um, how shall I put it?  Lifestyle?”

 

“He seems receptive.  When his hands stray a bit, I slap them down … a bit harder than I really need to.  I tease him about going over my knee if he doesn't mind his manners.  He hasn't run away yet, and that's always a good sign.  I think of him like a fish.  He's taken the hook, and now I'm playing out the line, giving him the illusion of freedom while I debate the proper moment to reel him in.  I want to wear him down, but still leave just enough fight in him to make it interesting.  I do enjoy training a man to satisfy me without needing prompting.”

 

“I wonder if he'll like Ian, or be repulsed by his diapers.  Mom, you should know that I do not, and will not, hide the fact that Ian is a poop monster!”

 

“Nor would I want you to.  Bob's charming, in an endearing sort of way, but I think he would look absolutely adorable in a nice, thick diaper.  I suspect pink baby pants would be a bridge too far, but blue or yellow should work fine.  Wouldn't you like to see the two of them crawling around the house together, maybe sharing a playpen?”

 

“Mom, you are incorrigible.  Where do you get these ideas?  Surely they don't all come from books.”

 

“Actually, Dear, I've been thinking about how much I'm looking forward to babysitting my son-in-law.  I really am, you know?  And if you leave any gaps in his training, rest assured that I will plug them!  Any … way, fantasizing about all the fun I'm going to have with Ian got me to thinking about Bob, and how much fun I can have bringing him to heel.  I just have to be patient, and let my little fishie tire himself out on the line.”

 

“But diapers?  Mom, does he need them?”

 

“Not that I know of, but that won't be a problem.  We nurses do have our ways.”

 

SCENE 23:

 

CASINO NOT SO ROYALE

 

Candy tipped the chair all the way back, and began closing the restraints around Ian's ankles.  Still sucking hard on his pacifier, his frown said it all.

 

“It's time for your shave, baby.  And I'm sorry, but ward policy requires you to be fully restrained before I bring out the razor.  But don't worry.  This won't take long … unless you want me to give you a really clean shave!”  Candy tapped Ian's chest; she was surprised that no one had got around to removing the baby's body hair.  Rather than wait until later, she decided to remove his diaper cover and baby pants before getting started.  It was also firm policy for every patient in the ward, male or female, to be shaved “down there” on a weekly basis.  But in Ian's case, there was a price to be paid.  The breast milk really was running right through him.  Reduced to his thick but ever poopy diaper, he smelled ripe.

 

Candy dramatically waved her arm in front of her face.  “Whew, baby, you are STINKY, STINKY, STINKY.  You are just a poop monster, oh yes you are!”  She closed the cuffs around his wrists, and brought up and cinched the waist and chest straps tight.  She debated using the strap across his forehead as well, but decided that her baby was so cooperative that she could do without.  It was only when he was immobilized that she crossed the room to collect not one but three razors-- the hair on arms and legs dulled even the best of blades very quickly.  She thought that he would enjoy the warm shaving cream, an expensive spa product that Rita somehow managed to smuggle into their supply budget.

 

Standing over him, razor in hand, Candy made a mental note of how relaxed his body was.  He was helpless, fully restrained, and yet totally relaxed.  They had debated this, and now here was another entry for the file.  Patients did not welcome restraints.  Some of them fought so hard that it took two nurses and two orderlies to get the job done.  But Ian offered no resistance whatsoever.  It was an obvious behavioral clue, but they had no context within which to interpret it.

 

Candy began spreading the warm foam over Ian's neck and cheeks, and he moaned with pleasure.  She smiled, guessing that more than one nurse had performed this very personal service for Major Ian Grady in more than one military hospital.  She hoped that her predecessors had enjoyed the moment as much as she was.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Becky cursed herself for not seeing it coming.  She had dashed downstairs to the gift shop, hoping to find a nice box of candy for Phil to give to his parents.  She was in her eighth year of residency, and had friends in every department.  There were always greetings to be exchanged going to and fro, and she had been teased more than once about the goings-on in the Hotel California.  As she walked the corridors she was not, therefore, surprised to find that Vickie's fabled turkey drumstick had assumed mythic proportions, with a few of the bolder wags asking whether her colleague had been arrested for assault with a deadly weapon.  It was all good fun, and the attention secretly pleased her.

 

As is always the case with stories passed from hand to hand, or rather from mouth to mouth, Vickie's orgasm had also scaled the heights of volcanic eruption.  Poor Becky had to fend off more than one query about leftover cranberry sauce, and she was sure that it was mere coincidence that Fats Domino was repeatedly leaving his thrill on Blueberry Hill on radios tuned everywhere to the hospital's very own station.  Victoria Robinson was, after all, the liveliest wire in the hospital set, a creature of notoriously insatiable appetites-- and was it true that, in the midst of the carnage, she had contentedly curled up into a little ball on her beloved's chest, her beloved being the mysterious but no doubt dashing young officer whose fluent command of Vietnamese had triggered the fracas in the first place?  And did she know that Gayle Soderberg down in Patient Relations was climbing the walls, or as some would have it, organizing a commando raid on the seventh floor to steal Rita's prize?

 

And then someone who had actually been there remembered that Sarah Haikkonen, up on three, had only recently proclaimed to a cafeteria that was all ears that she had gone and fallen in love with a badly wounded soldier [that's way back in Scene 3, a bit of seeming fluff that is actually there to trigger this moment].  Given that Rita, Vickie and Sarah were thicker than thieves, someone wondered what the odds might be that Vickie and Sarah had fallen in love with the same guy.  The mere mention of “odds” was enough to cause bated breath hospital wide, everyone wondering whether the true lords and masters of the edifice had made up their minds-- the kingpins being not the Directors on the top floor but the Building Services manager and his cronies down in the subterranean depths.  THEY KNEW THINGS.

 

But it was the ever enterprising Ted Norris [Scene 4], who brought matters to a head.  Ted dashed to the cashier's stand, grabbed the telephone secreted beneath the register, and made the call.  He listened for a few moments, and then slammed the phone down.  “FOUR TO ONE,” Reiko's hunk shouted.  It struck him as pointless to add that it was Vickie who was the prohibitive favorite.

 

But the bookies couldn't get any action, even on the lazy Saturday morning of a four day holiday weekend when virtually the entire staff had nothing out of the ordinary to do.  It wasn't until the odds moved up to six and a half to one that Sarah got any takers, and even that wasn't enough.  Desperate to balance the action, Manny Cepeda went all in, kicking the odds to ten to one!

 

Up on three, Heidi Freymiller, the second shift charge nurse who was double shifting to cover for Sarah, placed the call.

 

.  .  .  .

 

The phone rang, and Sofia picked it up, hoping that it was Bob calling to arrange their next date.  Grimacing, she passed the phone to Sarah.

 

“Hello ...”

 

“Sarah, it's Heidi.  You heard about Vickie and your boyfriend?  The Great Turkey Shootout?”

 

“Rita gave me a blow by blow description, but I think she was drunk.”

 

“Well, somebody figured out that the two of you are in love with the same guy.  Manny's put it top of the board.  Odds are currently ten to one against.  You want in?”

 

“YOU BET YOUR SWEET BIPPY,” Sarah shouted.  “It's a sure thing because Ian can't blow his nose without my permission!  If they can handle the bet?  PUT ME DOWN FOR A THOUSAND!”

 

Heidi slammed the phone down, did the math, then dialed Manny on his private line.

In a matter of seconds, the odds dropped to six to one.  Everyone figured that three had answered the call; the $64,000 question was whether Sarah's backers had inside information.  People were starting to get nervous, especially on the top floor.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Ian was drifting in the warmth of Candy's shaving cream, convinced that the lass would have made a great barber.   She had taken especial care above and below his lips, the places where Ian routinely nicked himself.  Then, switching razors, she had moved on to his groin, but only after tackling the river of poop that filled his diaper.  Ian knew the score, and he sincerely hoped that she was very well paid because at the moment he was in no position to leave a tip.

 

One by one, Candy had released his arms and legs from the restraints, and shaved him clean.  He wouldn't miss the hair in his armpits because he had always removed it when tropics bound.  Ditto for the hair on his chest.  He wasn't sure about his arms and legs now being baby smooth, but he was willing to give it a try.  He was just about ready for his bath.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Becky grabbed a box that looked like European chocolates, noted the price, and raced for the door.  “Keep the change,” she yelled as she tossed a twenty dollar bill in the cashier's general direction.  She sprinted up the corridor, thankful for the sensible trousers that she was wearing, and equally thankful for the weekly racket ball dates that kept her reasonably fit.  She had more than a hundred and fifty yards to go, and then the long, slow elevator ride up to seven.  There was a fortune to be made if she could just get there in time because Rita Stevenson also had Manny Cepeda's private line!

 

.  .  .  .

 

Nude and now hairless from the neck down, Ian stood over the drain and spread his legs.    Candy waited until the water warmed, and then began to hose him down.  She had stripped down to a two-piece bathing suit that, from Ian's point of view, still covered way too much skin, but he let it go when she began vigorously to sponge his body with a liquid soap that smelled strongly of strawberries.

 

Ian loved strawberries.

 

Candy was thorough, getting down on her knees to attack the deep folds of skin in his diaper area.  Then she grabbed the nearby stool, pushed him down, and went to work on his hair.  It was dirty and there was a lot of it, so once again she had to take her time.  Ian simply closed his eyes, encouraging her with the occasional “oh, that's good.”

 

Her task done, Candy stood him up and once more hosed him down.  Confirming that the video feed was indeed off, she took him by the hand and led him to the tub.  The water was hot and frothy, the pulsing jets making sure that whatever happened beneath the surface would remain hidden from view.  Ian did not know that Candy's collection of certificates and degrees included one for massage therapy.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Becky charged into Rita's office as if she had been shot out of a cannon.  “Have you heard,” she screamed.

 

“Heard what?”  Rita, Vickie and Marge were observing the feed from the hydrotherapy chamber, and once more debating the hidden meaning behind Ian Grady's obvious love affair with heavy restraints.

 

“The betting pool!  It's got out that Vickie and Sarah are both in love with Ian, and Manny's running with it!  Vickie's a ten to one favorite … we can make a fortune!!!”

 

“HOLY SHIT!!!”  Marge grabbed the phone and started frantically dialing.  “Keith's got to get in on this; he'll owe us big time!!”

 

Rita dove into the bottom drawer on the right side of her desk, frantically looking for the piece of paper that had Manny's private number as well as the caps on the bets that every one in the department had given her.  The entire staff knew well that, when it came to the betting pools, seconds mattered.

 

“Is it against the rules for me to bet against myself,” Vickie shrieked. 

 

“I'll put you down both ways.  HALLELUHAH!”  Rita triumphantly held the sheet of paper over her head.

 

“That's right, that's right.” Marge was yelling.  “It's a sure thing … believe me … cover your bet!”  She pitched the phone to Rita, who caught it in one hand while dialing with the other.

 

“Ollie?  Yeah, it's Rita.  A hundred on Vickie … yeah, that's right, a hundred.  And twenty-two hundred on Sarah!!”

 

“We've got to reach Amos and Andy,” Vickie cried.  “They'll both bet on me, and get hosed!”

 

Down in Sublevel B, Manny Cepeda had a big grin on his face.  The odds had dropped to four to one-- right where he had set them in the first place.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Candy slid into the water behind Ian, who was kneeling, the water up to his chin.  His eyes were closed, and he was purring with contentment.

 

Still on her feet, Candy began kneading his neck and shoulders, using her thumbs to attack the knots.  Ian lifted his arms and set them adrift on the surface, his hands regularly closing around the hot foam.  From this angle, it was easy to see where the shell had passed through his right shoulder, the scarring now dimpled and pale.

 

She gradually worked her way down his spine, her touch becoming more and more gentle as she approached the lumbar region.  Here his skin had the texture of sandpaper, and L5 was a hard, badly misaligned lump beneath her fingers.  She knew that he must be daily living with pain normally reserved for men more than twice his age, but he never spoke of it.

 

They never do.

 

Following her instructions, Ian turned to sit crosswise, one foot resting on the ledge.  Candy worked each foot, then climbed his calves and thighs, easing off on what would normally have been a deep tissue massage.  She popped his fingers and thumbs, and combined a light massage on his lower arms with a hard massage on his upper-- hard enough to make him wince with pain.

 

Ian was convinced that Candy would have made a great masseuse.  Her strong and knowing fingers brought back warm memories of Bangkok in years gone by.

 

She turned him, tummy flat on the floor, his ass almost wholly submerged.  Candy knew that his cheeks were small and firm, but it was only when she set to work that she discovered just how muscled they really were.  She started in the crevice at the top of his thighs and worked her way north.  Reaching the piriformis, she pushed down firmly with a knuckle, and was pleased to get an immediate response, Ian's right cheek jumping into the air.  The muscle was in good working order, unlike the surrounding nerves.

 

Candy searched for the pudendal nerve, the body's workhorse, instrumental not only for bladder and bowel control but also for sexual stimulation.  She kneaded the overlaying tissue, using the heel of her palm as well as her fingertips, and didn't stop until Ian began to moan in obvious pleasure.

 

Rolling him over yet again, resting the back of his head on the edge of the tub, she leaned down.

 

“Are you enjoying your reward,” she whispered.  Reaching into the back of her tankini bottom, she extracted a condom and set it to the side.  Knowing exactly where to press, Candy began stroking a nerve on the inside of Ian's left thigh, driving him wild.

 

“Rewards are sooo much better than spankings,” she teased, “but both are so easily earned.  You lied to Vickie about Hue, and she has not forgotten.  You will be spanked, but not now … not here.  Here is where we are rewarding you for all that you have done to help us, and to help Phil and Don.”

 

Firmly gripping his balls in her left hand, Candy reached out with her right, using her thumb and index finger to form a ring.  She started at the tip, and worked her way in smooth, rhythmic strokes up and down his shaft, all the while continuing to massage his testicles.

 

Ian's eyes were shut, his mouth hanging open.  Candy leaned down a second time to kiss him, her tongue entering, dueling with Ian's, tickling the roof of his mouth.  But her fingers, as if blessed with a life of their own, continued to work their magic on his cock and balls.

 

His tongue imprisoned, his body helpless, she reached up without warning to pinch a nipple that was standing to attention, hard as a rock.  Ian opened his mouth still wider, wanting to cry out, trapped somewhere between pain and pleasure, but Candy took this as an invitation to probe deeper, her tongue becoming more and more aggressive, mastering him.

 

She raked his shaft with a single fingernail, then clutched it in the palm of her hand.  She squeezed, just hard enough to remind him that he was her captive, then resumed her relentless stroking.  She eased out of his mouth, taunting him, asking herself out loud whether he should be allowed to come or returned to the enforced chastity of his diaper, baby pants and diaper cover.  She pretended that he was not even in the room, talking about him in the third person, her fingers drawing him ever closer to the edge.

 

When he was near, she reached for the condom, opened it, and bidding him stand for a moment, in one smooth motion rolled it onto his straining cock, noting in the back of her mind that Ian was so thick that he might hurt a lot of women upon entering.

 

Sarah needs to be warned: look before you leap!

 

Mind wandering, his body awash in pleasurable waves nearing the peak, Ian sank into the water, and Candy ran her fingers up and down the bottom of his shaft, pretending to check that the condom was properly seated.  A fingernail caressed the bottom of his testicles, and Ian exploded.  Candy waited for his convulsions to stop, then tightened her grip around his shaft and squeezed.  She wanted to drain him, but the condom would stay on until they exited the pool.  It was destined for the lab, where its contents  would be the subject of a comprehensive and painstakingly thorough analysis.

 

Utterly spent, Ian fell into Candy's arms, helpless as a baby.  It was only with her assistance that he was able to crawl out of the tub.

 

SCENE 24:

 

COUNTERATTACK

 

“Vickie will be here at lunchtime; why don't you take advantage of the opportunity to do some more grading?”  With that, Candy closed the door behind him.

 

Clean and freshly diapered, the thick canvas cover once again locked securely in place, Ian strolled over to the desk and planted his well padded posterior on the swivel chair.  Deciding to take it for a post-orgasmic spin, he was delighted to discover that the chair was good for a full three hundred and sixty degrees and then some.  Around and around he went, secretly grateful that Candy had left him to his own devices.  A nurse in room eleven always seemed to mean another bottle or two of breast milk, which would have put a quick end to Ian's current good mood.

 

Ian was reasonably certain that he hadn't pooped in the tub, if only because he promptly pooped all over the floor when he got out.  And Candy hadn't said a word.

 

Things they are getting out of hand, Street Racer.  So, what do ya say we kick some blue book butt, and gird our already well girded loins for battle with the management of this here Ho … tel Californ …i … a?  Who says you can never leave?

 

Without further ado, Ian brought the chair to rest, grabbed a blue book, and got to it.

 

.  .  .  .

 

By half past eleven, the natives were no longer getting restless.  They were fully there.  The odds had fallen so far and so fast that large swathes of Vickie's tribe were beginning to wonder out loud whether they had placed sucker bets.  Was it The Sting all over again?  The word had got out that seven had only placed a lousy hundred bucks on Vickie, which stank to high heaven even by Hotel California standards.  The crash team, which had laid a bundle on Vickie, was asking pointed questions about the code 2222.  Who was this guy?  Was he a psych ward inmate?  Who did he love, if he loved anybody at all?  It was time, as one Director with a serious gambling problem so eloquently put it, for habeas to produce the corpus.

 

Down in the subterranean depths, Manny Cepeda was feeling the heat.  He had so many Directors up his ass that he could no longer feel his posh, naugahyde encrusted swivel chair beneath him.  The inevitable happened at 11:50 hours (which, by an amazing coincidence, was the time that nurses hospital wide asked their elderly patients to draw on a blank clock face to demonstrate that they still had their wits about them).

 

Manny announced that there would be a Steward's Inquiry.  He would not call in anyone's marker until he was satisfied that everything was on the up and up.  Roughly translated, this meant that no one would get paid until he got the answer straight from the horse's mouth. 

 

And the horse, of course, of course, of course, was one Ian Grady.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Rita got her first hint of trouble brewing when she went down to the cafeteria at 11:40 to cobble together lunch for herself and Vickie.  As luck would have it, she found herself going through the line side by side with Heidi Freymiller.  For the head of Vickie's department publicly to be showering hugs and kisses upon Sarah's surrogate up on three was a little too in your face for all parties concerned.  In particular, neither noticed that Manny Cepeda was farther back in the same line. 

 

In fairness to Rita, however, it should be pointed out that her attention was largely elsewhere.  In her imagination, she kept seeing Ian sitting in his crib on his well spanked bottom, tearfully gnawing on his pickle while watching her and Vickie eat their lunch, the baby bottle of breast milk at his side.  Something about the combination of pickles and breast milk was making her panties damp.

 

Still, she did not miss the sour expression on the cashier's face when she was making change, nor the angry looks that far too many of her colleagues were casting her way.  She realized that something was off, even if her prized gherkin was everything that a gherkin should be.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“We've got a problem,” Marge grumbled.

 

Rita looked at her blankly.

 

“Just got the call a minute ago from the cafeteria.  Apparently Manny saw you and Heidi yukking it up in line … Manny and about a hundred other people.  After you left, the place exploded, everybody screaming that 'da fix is in'.”  Marge was doing her best gangster imitation.  “Anyway, Manny told the whole damn room, which means the whole damn hospital, that 'nobody gets paid nuttin' until he sorts out what's going on.  How much have we got in play here?”

 

Twenty-two hundred, minus the hundred dollar ghost bet that I put down on Vickie.”

 

“Shit!  We must have really shifted the odds!  Shit!!!!!”

 

“Word in the cafeteria is that the odds settled at four to one, so the third floor must have gone all in, but it would still be a big payday.  Any idea how Manny wants to play this?”

 

“Isn't it obvious?  He wants to interview Ian, preferably live on national TV.”

 

“Isn't going to happen.  Ian's a patient, and we do not parade our patients up and down the corridors just to satisfy a bunch of sore losers.  The jerks are just blowing off steam.”

 

“Rita, it's a lot of money!”

 

“I know, I know,” she sighed.  “Look, give me an hour.  In the meantime, spread the word.  If anybody's got any bright ideas how we play this, I want to know soonest!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Good afternoon, Princess!  Is my widdle poopy pants having a good day?”

 

Ian looked up with an uncertain smile on his face.  He was expecting Vickie to show up at some point and deliver the promised spanking, but when Rita walked in behind her, he was taken off guard.

 

“Making progress,” he answered evasively, gesturing at the small pile of blue books yet to be graded.  Ian did not want to get Candy in trouble, and he was not at all sure if his “reward” had been sanctioned, or was of a more extracurricular nature.

 

“Candy tells us that you were a very good girl this morning … that you really enjoyed your bath!”  Vickie liked having fun at Ian's expense.  He was an easy target, and she was a natural tease.

 

“It was very relaxing,” Ian agreed, his voice neutral.  He couldn't figure out what Rita was doing here.

 

“And do you remember our discussion of rewards and punishments?”

 

“I do.”  It was clear where this conversation was heading.

 

Vickie disappeared into the bathroom, and came out a moment later dragging a stiff-backed wooden chair.  She sat it down in the middle of the room, and turned it so that it was in full view of the camera.  It had a deep seat, but no armrests.

 

“Do you know what this chair is for, Princess/”

 

“Yes, aunt Vickie … it's for my spanking.”  Over the past week, Ian had become intimately familiar with bare bottom spankings delivered over the knee.  The only question now remaining was how much it was going to hurt.

 

“Correct.  Now, tell auntie Rita why you are going to be spanked.”

 

“I lied to aunt Vickie during therapy.”  Ian was still sitting at the desk, but he was now staring at the floor.

 

“Look at me when I'm speaking to you, Princess.”

 

Ian looked up, his face a complex mix of visible regret and equally visible fear.  His earlier trip over Vickie's lap was still seared into his memory.

 

“Was your lie one of omission or commission?”

 

“Omission, auntie Vickie … omission.”

 

“So, should I be more lenient because you did not tell me an outright lie?”

 

“No, aunt Vickie.  Both lies are equally bad, and should be punished the same.”

 

“I agree.  Now, tell auntie Rita what this lie was all about.”

 

“Aunt Rita, I was lying about Hue … about what happened during Tet.”

 

“And why were you lying?”  Rita spoke up for the first time since entering the room.

 

“Because … because talking about it makes me very uncomfortable.”

 

“Because you were in combat?  Because you were wounded?”

 

“I guess … maybe … maybe that's part of it.”

 

“But there's more.”  It was a statement, not a question.

 

“They said that I was a hero because I charged into enemy fire to save Donnie Freeman, and it's not true.  I was scared, Aunt Rita, scared and angry.  And I didn't think about what I was doing; I just did it.  And each time I got shot I pissed my pants.  The last time I soiled myself.  I was hurt bad, but my legs were fine … only I couldn't move.  I was so scared that I froze in place.  It wasn't until the guys came out and laid down smoke that I was able to get my ass in gear, get inside, make my report, and pass out.  When I woke up, I was in a chopper headed for a MASH station. Some hero …  yeah, some fuckin' hero.”  Ian was hanging his head, the shame washing over him.

 

Rita and Vickie exchanged glances.  This, at least, was familiar territory.  Rita crossed the room, and bent down to ease Ian to his feet.  She placed her hands over his kidneys, and gently tapped spots just above them.

 

“Do you know what's here, just above your kidneys?”

 

“No, aunt Rita,” he mumbled.

 

“Your adrenal glands.  When your conscious or subconscious mind senses danger, it warns you to flee or fight by flooding your body with two hormones, adrenaline and cortisol.  This is the sensation of fear that makes you run away, but it is also the anger that makes you stand and fight.  There are no heroes, Ian, not as you understand the term.  That's all Hollywood make-believe.  There are only frightened men who override their fear by giving in to their anger.  Isn't that what happened to you?  Seeing Donnie shot, lying there, made you so angry that you acted.  But when you were lying there, alone … helpless … the anger was gone; there was nothing to stave off the fear, and so you succumbed to it.  In both instances, your reaction was completely natural … almost predictable.”

 

“It's not true, aunt Rita; I'm sorry, but it's not true.  There are real heroes out there, men like Audie Murphy, men who charge the guns because it's the only way forward … fearless men.  I'm just not one of them.”

 

Vickie burst out laughing.  “Princess, you are getting ahead of yourself!  Or is this exercise in self-pity something you concocted to get out of your spanking?  Well, guess what?  It won't work.  You are going over my knee, and it will hurt.  Then you are going in your crib.  You can drink your ba ba while your aunt Rita and I have a nice lunch, courtesy of our basement cafeteria!”

 

Playing bad cop to the hilt, Vickie sat down on the chair and began purposefully tapping her knee.  It was Rita's turn, and the boss did not disappoint her.  She guided Ian over to perch on Vickie's lap before collecting the swivel chair.

 

“Have you ever read To Hell and Back?”

 

“No, but I did see the movie.”

 

“Hollywood again,” Rita scoffed.  “They do like their heroes.  Well, I have a copy in my office, which I would like you to read after you polish off your blue books.  But there is one passage that I have copied off and carry with me whenever treating a combat veteran.”

 

Rita reached into her pocket, and brought out a small piece of paper.  She handed it to Ian, and instructed him to read it out loud.

 

“In the heat of battle,” he murmured, “it may go away.  Sometimes it vanishes in a blind, red rage that comes when you see a friend fall.  Then again you get so tired that you become indifferent.  But when you are moving into combat, why try fooling yourself?  Fear is right there beside you.”

 

“Did you know that Audie freely admits that he has constant nightmares, and keeps a gun under his pillow when he goes to sleep?  Did you know that he has a gambling addiction for which he has never been treated?”

 

Ian mutely shook his head.  He didn't need to borrow demons from anyone else; he had plenty of his own to contend with.

 

“In my office yesterday morning, you had a nightmare while you were awake.  It's called a hypnagogic hallucination, and when it happens to someone who's fully awake, it's scary as Hell.  Do you remember any of it?”

 

Again, Ian could only mutely shake his head.  Friday was a complete blank.

 

'We had to call downstairs to put a crash team on alert.  You came this close to being wheeled into the ER.”  Rita's thumb and forefinger were barely separated.  “Now do you understand why Sarah wants you to quit drinking … why we all want you to quit?  Nightmares and addiction go hand in hand.”

 

“So the next time we do Saturday night?  What am I going to be doing while you're all getting drunk?”

 

“You'll be getting your ba bas, Princess.”  Vickie was drawing lazy circles on Ian's thigh with her fingernails.  “Breast milk and apple juice … but if you're a good baby, we'll give them to you in separate bottles!”

 

“And here I thought all of you would be giving up booze to set a good example.  Silly me.”

 

“Yep, silly you.  We are going to put temptation in your path, just like we did last Saturday night.  You made a promise to Sarah, and now we are going to see if you can keep it.”

 

“Cranberry juice.”

 

“Cranberry juice?”  Vickie looked at him blankly.

 

“Doctor's orders.  I have a problem with my right kidney-- and no, I didn't get shot there.  I do have a few, honest to God health issues that are not combat related.  So, cranberry juice.”

 

“Cranberry juice it is,” Vickie agreed.  “Now, since I am getting hungry, let's get your spanking out of the way.  Twenty-five good, hard spanks should get your attention, Princess.  And if you were wondering, Rita is here to take care of your diaper.  I have been forbidden to touch the crown jewels, as it were!”

 

It took Rita bare moments to strip Ian, who for his part settled across Vickie's lap without complaint.  Mercifully, his bottom was not soiled, so she was able to get right to it.  When it was over, he was oddly pleased with himself for taking his well-earned punishment with a bit of whimpering and the odd cry, but without breaking down in a full-fledged crying jag.  What puzzled him was their insistence on calling him a Princess when he was clearly in adult mode. 

 

His spanking over and with the crown jewels once again locked away inside his heavy diaper cover, Ian retreated to his crib, bottle of breast milk in one hand and a crunchy pickle in the other.  Looking through the bars of his crib, watching them eat salads piled sinfully high while he munched on his gherkin, Ian's stomach finally mastered his fear: it was time to do what a Headhunter always did, and that was go on the offensive.  Still, he waited patiently for them to finish.

 

“Aunt Rita?”

 

“Yes, baby?”

 

“I want to go home now.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Are we there yet?”

 

Sofia cast an irritated glance in the mirror.  She didn't know which was worse-- having her mom sitting up front and issuing directions on roads she'd driven a thousand times, or sitting in the back expressing her impatience in the time honored manner of a two year old.

 

“Almost.”  Sarah was cast as the peacemaker.

 

“Good,” Kaarina huffed.  “All the money I won at whist is burning a hole in my pocket!”

 

“Gran, you don't have a pocket.”  Sarah had decided to settle for being sensible.  “And besides, what did your winnings come to … a couple of dollars?”

 

“I'll have you know that I raked in almost five,” she crowed, “which is more than enough for a cheeseburger, fries and a cherry coke! So, are we almost there?”

 

The trio was approaching Calumet, which was the heart and soul of the Keweenaw.  Its unique claim to fame was that every restaurant in town sold homemade pasties, but only one would be crowned the winner at the annual Pasty Fest, and that one would lord it over the others for the next year.

 

“Does your boyfriend like pasties?”  Kaarina was in a jubilant mood.  Her granddaughter rarely made it home anymore, and she fervently hoped that the next trip would see her sporting an engagement ring.

 

“He may not even know what a pasty is.”

 

“Well, how about cheeseburgers?  Surely he likes cheeseburgers!”

 

“Very much so.”  Sarah was thinking about their recent outing to The Dead Zone.  “Preferably with bacon, fried onions, pickles, and ketchup that ends up everywhere but in his mouth.  Last Saturday night I spent so much time wiping his chin that my food got cold.  Next time, I'm going to make him wear a bib.”

 

“Keep the bib handy, especially when you're serving spaghetti!  Do you remember that night when your dad's plate sort of exploded, and there was spaghetti sauce on the floor, the table, his chair, and above all in my hair?  What a mess!”

 

“I remember all too well,” Sarah laughed.  “And the nursing home across the street from the hospital has a wide assortment of bibs.  They'll really come in handy when I start breast feeding him.”

 

“Him?  Who?”  Kaarina was more than a little confused.

 

“Ian, gran … Ian.”

 

“You're going to breast feed your husband?”

 

“Absolutely.  Gran, these days, it's all the rage.  Did you know that wives who breast feed their husbands never have to worry about cheating or getting a divorce?  Well, unless they're the ones out cheating and shopping for a good lawyer.”

 

“Mom, it's just another facet of the Feminist Revolution.”  Sofia winked at her daughter.  “Honestly, I don't know where young people come up with these ideas!”

 

“Well, are you at least going to go through the motions and get married, or is that also considered hopelessly old-fashioned by you kids?”

 

“Oh, no, not at all.  I've already informed Ian that we'll marry sometime around Christmas.  Rita is supposed to check on dates for the hospital chapel.  Next weekend I'll take him to my favorite jewelers, pick out my engagement ring, and our wedding rings.  That will give us a couple of weeks to make all the other arrangements.  And I thought that we'd honeymoon in Hawaii or the Caribbean.  I'll get together with my travel agent, pick out someplace really romantic, run it by Rita and Vickie, and then we'll tell Ian where he's taking us.”

 

“Us?  Us who?”

 

“Rita and Vickie, gran.  We're all going to honeymoon together, and then we're all moving into Rita's place, at least until we find a nice house out on Lake Minnetonka.  They'll be breast feeding him as well, helping me with his diaper changes, and of course we'll all be sleeping together.  Just one big, happy family!”

 

“Kids,” Kaarina groaned; “kids.  What is the world coming to?” 

 

.  .  .  .

 

“What's wrong, baby?”  The concerned look on Rita's face was genuine.

 

“I'm down to my last few blue books, and I've done what I can to help Phil and Don.  So, it's time for me to leave.”  Ian was looking out from behind the bars of his crib; he wasn't going anywhere unless Rita released him.  The crib aside, he did not have any of the codes that would open the three doors that stood between him and freedom.  He knew his rights, but he was not at all sure that Rita would honor them.

 

“Already tired of our company?  Itching to go back to changing your own diapers?”  Vickie was improvising, hoping that mockery would draw Ian out.  They couldn't keep Manny Cepeda at bay forever, and Rita and Vickie were both anxious to get back to the office for a sitrep.  They needed to settle this fast.

 

“What about your therapy?”  Rita laid a firm hand on Vickie's arm, shushing her.  She had been dreading this moment ever since Ian awakened.

 

“Vickie and Sarah can work out a schedule, and as long as it doesn't conflict with classes and office hours, I'll be here.  Aunt Rita, please try to understand.  I made Vickie a promise to see this through, and it wasn't forced.  I want to do this.  But right now?  Right now, I just want to go home.”

 

Rita stepped on the pedal to release the lock, and lowered the panel-- but she refused to step aside, preventing Ian from escaping the crib.

 

“Ian, Sarah has given me explicit instructions not to let you out of my sight until she returns.  I would prefer that you stay here until Monday morning, but if you want to come home with me tonight, that's fine.  You are our guest, not our prisoner, and I cannot and will not keep you here against your will.  But you are literally asking me to put your life at risk!”

 

“Aren't we being a little melodramatic,” Ian scoffed.

 

“No, not at all.  This morning, we had our weekly patient review-- what we call 'Lessing's Folly'-- in honor of one of your colleagues, Professor John Lessing.  John is the actual head of this department, and after he reviewed your file he told us to keep you under wraps and not to allow you to make decisions but to defer them to Sarah.  Ian, listen to me!”

 

Rita reached into the crib and clutched his arm.  She had to get through to him!

 

“There's something in your mind that throws a switch when you have to make a decision, and we don't know whether it's only for big decisions like the one that caused your blackout yesterday, or whether even minor things could trigger another event.  I watch you grading your exams on the video feed, and I hold my breath, wondering if trying to decide between a B minus and a C plus would push you over the edge.  Now imagine that you're outside, in the cold, trying to decide between taking the bus home, or calling a taxi.  And you collapse, right there on the sidewalk.  Ian, it happens to at least a dozen people in the Cities every winter!  They collapse on the sidewalk, there's no one around, and hypothermia kills them in less than ten minutes.  Please, for the love of God, don't do this!”

 

“All right … okay, already.”  No one could miss the fear in Rita's eyes, and there was enough panic in her voice to bring Ian's fears racing to the surface.  “But we have to come to some kind of agreement.  Breast milk just isn't cutting it.  Rita, it feels like my insides are turning to mush … the milk goes in on top and comes right out on the bottom.  It's like your turning my body into an open sewer.  Why are you doing this to me?”

 

“Because Sarah wants to nurse her big baby, and Vickie and I want to as well.  There's a plan in place for the four of us to live together ...”

 

“Taking Three's Company to the next level,” Vickie grinned.  “Oh, it will take a bit of negotiation to work out the fine details, but trust me, you are not going to have to decide between Sarah and me.  You will have us both, and do not think for a moment that you are going to leave Rita on the outside looking in.”

 

Vickie pointedly tapped Ian's diaper cover.  “This fellow is going to be very busy,” she chortled, “and rumor has it that there's an ingredient in our breast milk that will create an unbreakable emotional bond.  But don't worry.  You're not going to drown in the stuff because we are all going to share and share alike!”

 

Ian shook his head, trying to part the cobwebs.  Was he asleep and dreaming, or awake and hallucinating?

 

“I don't mind the breast milk, see?”  Ian held up his now empty bottle.  “But as far as I know I haven't had water since Wednesday night, and I'm dehydrated.  And without food I'm not getting enough sodium and other stuff, so maybe that's why I passed out.  So, I'll agree to stay here, but in return I want to get dressed, go down to the cafeteria, and have a proper meal!  And I want a steak for dinner, damn it, a steak and a baked potato!!!”

 

The light bulb went off over Rita's head, and she could see at a glance that Vickie had had the same idea.

 

It was time for Ian to meet Manny Cepeda.

 

SCENE 25:

 

PLAYING THE FIELD

 

“So let's make sure that we're all on the same page here.”  Once Rita stepped aside, Ian had wasted no time getting his feet on the floor.  It was bad enough trying to negotiate with two beautiful and highly intelligent women, one of whom held a key to his heart and the other the key to his otherwise impenetrable diaper cover.  Trying to do so when locked inside a crib that he couldn't open, a crib brimming with restraints that he perversely welcomed, was simply not in the cards.

 

“I'll stay here until Monday morning, when someone will take me to work, where Amy will be in charge of my diaper changes until Sarah picks me up in the afternoon.  I'll continue to wear this diaper cover, and will do so permanently if that's what Sarah desires.  And I'll give up alcohol and drink breast milk in its place, in preparation for the day when all three of you will be breast feeding me.”

 

“That's right, Princess, to the tune of thirty-six bottles a day.”  Which will turn you into quite the little chubster, a cutie pie who will need his aunties to change his diapees at least fifteen times a day.  My sweet, little Princess Poopy Pants indeed!

 

“And in return I get regular food and drink, starting right now with a visit to your cafeteria … water and juice … soup, salad, meat, potatoes, veg … the whole nine yards.  And no baby food-- no way, no how, ever!”

 

“Agreed, with the proviso that in private your drink will always be limited to baby bottles unless one of us says otherwise.  No cups, no glassware, not even sippy cups!”  And your meat, potatoes and vegetables will probably be pureed, but technically it won't be baby food …  Rita was determined to feed the Princess a bottle or two before the day was done; she had yet to experience the feeling of cradling Ian's head in her lap, but the mere thought of doing so was sending goosebumps down her spine.  Like Vickie before her epiphany moment, Rita was still struggling with the fact that she had deep feelings for Ian, and didn't know how to process them.

 

Lunch at the faculty club five days a week is beginning to look like a really good idea, especially if my secretary is being caught up in this nonsense.  And maybe I should start accepting some of those late afternoon public lecture invites that are always cluttering up my faculty mail box … the wine and hors d'oeuvres should take the edge off my appetite.  Thirty-six bottles of breast milk indeed!  In your dreams!

 

“Before we go downstairs, there are a few things you need to know.”  Rita did not think that this outing was a good idea because it was about as far removed from John's order to keep Ian “under wraps” as you could get.  Still, she reasoned that if he was going to have another seizure, it was better for it to happen in the cafeteria with a hundred doctors and nurses demanding that he publicly decide between Sarah and Vickie, and not wait for some headhunter to bushwhack him crossing campus on Monday morning.

 

“First, you need to know that Gayle Soderberg in Patient Relations may show up with Harrison Knowles, her Director, in tow.  If they come, you should expect them to wave a checkbook in your face.  They badly need your language skills, and I'm betting that they will offer you a lot of money to switch jobs.  Be polite, but tell them firmly that this is something that you have to discuss with Sarah, and that the two of you will come to a decision together.  Can you do this?”

 

“Easily.  But why not simply tell them to deal with Sarah and leave me out of it?”

 

“Because they won't believe you … unless I tell them about your seizure and what caused it.  And that may come up, in which case you can tell them the truth-- that you don't remember a damned thing-- and defer to me.  I'll handle it.”

 

“This is going to keep happening, isn't it?”  Ian's tone was resigned.  He could see it in Vickie's eyes as well as Rita's, sorrow and pity laced with fear.

 

“The danger is real.”  Vickie's voice was toneless, and that shook Ian hard.  “John is trying to arrange for campus police to protect you on Monday, but there are no guarantees, and it's a band-aid in any event.  The cure lies within you.”

 

“I don't understand ...”

 

“We are talking about something that the public never sees,” Rita sadly admitted, “and that's the dark underbelly of the medical profession.  It's money, Ian, and the sums in question are staggering.  You have a remarkable skill set; indeed, you may be unique-- a man who is fluent in Khmer, Lao, Vietnamese, and God only knows how many other languages.  By the way, how many do you speak?  I don't think any of us ever bothered to ask.”

 

“Eighteen fluently … maybe another hundred and fifty well enough to read the menu and order dinner.  I've never counted.”

 

“Dear God!”  Vickie shook her head in amazement.  “How did they miss you?  How did you ever slip through the cracks?”

 

“Who?”

 

“The headhunters!  They beat the bushes looking for talent that they can sign up, and then they make a fortune auctioning off people like you to the highest corporate bidder.  It goes on in this business day in and day out … it never stops!”

 

“But this doesn't make any sense.  I commanded the Headhunters!”

 

“What?  What are you talking about?”

 

“It was two months after Hue.  They patched me up, but there was no way that I could have passed a physical, not with my shoulder so screwed up, so they didn't give me one.  Instead they sent me back to Saigon, a newly minted twenty-two old Major, and they tasked me with assembling an all-volunteer company of guys from all over the map-- the US, South Korea, France, Australia, and of course ARVN regulars.  Our job was simple: search and destroy.  That's how we became the Headhunters.  We didn't sit around in bunkers and pillboxes playing defense; we were a guerilla force that went looking for the enemy, which in practice meant that we were out there looking for the Ho Chi Minh trail.  We were fighting in the shadows-- no other choice, really, because we often found ourselves in places where no American troops were supposed to be.”

 

“But what does this have to do with our corporate headhunters?”

 

“Everything, aunt Vickie, everything.  Don't you see?  There were rumors.  Every time I went back to Saigon, I heard rumors about the Headhunters and their cocky CO, some young kid who happened to speak all these foreign languages.  So, I didn't fall through the cracks.  When I resigned my commission, the army buried my records … mine and the unit's.  We simply ceased to exist.  After that I became just another graduate student, lost in the shuffle of student ID numbers.”

 

More artful evasion.  You told Phil that you and the military parted ways on bad terms, and that you went back to Viet Nam as a civilian.  What was that all about?

 

“And now we've brought you out of the shadows and turned this great, big spotlight on you.  God, what a mess!”

 

“No, aunt Rita!  God, no!  To help Phil and Don?  This was my choice, and it was an easy one for me to make because duty and honor will trump fear every time.  That's why you're so wrong about heroes.  It isn't just anger … it's something deep down inside that's more important than life itself!”

 

“Reiko's samurai.”  Vickie was finally ready to concede the point.  “That's what she calls you, a samurai warrior from Japan's distant past.  And you are … you really are.  And here I've gone and fallen in love with you.  Does this mean that I was a geisha in some previous life?”

 

Ian reached out and clasped both of Vickie's hands in his own.  “Geisha are renowned for their beauty, their intellect, their talent, and their charm.  You would have stood head and shoulders above them all.”  He pulled her close, and then tenderly kissed her.

 

Rita let the moment linger.  She and Vickie were like sisters, and had been for years.  But there had always been something missing in Vickie's life, although Rita doubted whether many of their friends and colleagues sensed it.  Vickie's devil may care attitude was so convincing that the hints of underlying sadness were easily missed or explained away.  But they were there-- and now they were gone.

 

Like Candy, Rita had caught it the moment Vickie walked into the conference room.  Her stride was longer, her posture more erect, and her eyes intensely alive.  Ian had set something inside her free, and the result was almost achingly beautiful.

 

Reiko was right from the beginning.  We all want to fall in love with a hero, but not one who walks among the gods.  We want a fallen hero, someone who cannot stand without our love and care to support him.  The honorable man and the helpless baby.  Bian has gifted us with something truly magical.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Marge wiped Don's forehead with a damp washcloth, and then gently dabbed his cheeks.  His skin was pale and cold to the touch, yet he was sweating profusely.  His eyes were in constant motion, darting back and forth between imaginary enemies.

 

She was holding his hand, their fingers tightly laced.  Marge had removed the mittens so that she could comfort him, but he was otherwise fully restrained.  She reckoned that it had taken her twelve long hours to get him to acknowledge her presence, and to respond to her questions not with sentences but with a few disjointed words.

 

But he's responsive, and that's the critical point.  With patience and care, we can make the Corporal whole again …

 

“What is it that you see out there?”  Marge spoke slowly, and in a monotone.  She was taking great care not to do or say anything that would startle him.

 

“Suh … suh … suh … snake.”

 

“What kind of snake?”  Sitting on a stool, with the side of the crib lowered, she was at his eye level, and filled his field of vision.  What he saw was a calm demeanor, and what he heard was the warmth of a maternal voice.

 

“Cuh … cuh … cuh … co … cob … ra.”

 

“Is it daytime, or nighttime?”

 

“Da … day.”

 

“And where are you?  Are you in Quang Tri?”

 

“Yeh … yeh … yeth.”

 

“Were you working, or were you in bed?”

 

“Bed.  Red … reed … reeding.”

 

“Were you reading a letter from home?”

 

“Yeth.”

 

“What happened to the snake?”

 

“Die … die … duh.”

 

“Did you shoot the snake?”

 

“Yeth.”

 

“That's good, Corporal Phillips.  That's very good.  You did well.”

 

“Suh … snakes.  Meeny … snakes.”

 

“I know, and you did well.  Now, I want you to eat something.  How about a treat?  Do you like chocolate pudding?”

 

Marge was holding a spoon, moving it in a lazy circle inside his field of vision.

 

Don opened his mouth, and Marge slowly spoon fed him.  He swallowed without gagging, and Marge silently fed him the entire bowl.  Lifting his head with her free hand, she offered him water through a straw.  He got most of it down, and she used the wash cloth to mop up what had dribbled out of his open mouth.

 

Unlocking his diaper cover, Marge loosened it just enough to slip her hand inside Don's baby pants.  She was relieved to discover that he was still clean and dry, sparing her and one of the orderlies another cumbersome diaper change.

 

Foregoing the mittens, Marge leaned into the crib to kiss Don affectionately on the cheek before raising and locking the bars in place.  They were making hard but steady progress, and she wanted him to rest in preparation for an afternoon session.  But now it was time for lunch, which meant a quick dash down to the cafeteria to grab a sandwich and fruit, and an equally quick dash back upstairs to take over for Rita, who had her own session with Ian just ahead.  On this late Sunday morning, it was business as usual inside the Hotel California.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Two down, one to go …

 

Ian was back in the locker room, freshly diapered and, for the moment at least, clean and dry.  One more door was all that stood between him and getting his life back.  The problem was … he wasn't at all sure that he wanted it back.

 

He had been in the ward less than seventy-two hours, but he wasn't about to kid himself.  The man who was getting dressed to leave the ward was not the same man who had got undressed to enter it.  A lot had happened inside that door, and with the exception of his lone visit to Hell's own diaper changing station, it had all been good.  Helping Phil and Don … bonding with Amos and Andy … working so closely with Becky and Candy … and above all else, discovering in the most improbable of circumstances that he had fallen in love with a woman he had once casually dismissed as bar bait.

 

The admission had hit him hard, so hard that if he had been standing on his feet, it would have knocked them out from under him.  All things considered, therefore, he considered himself fortunate to have been lying in the midst of Thanksgiving dinner when the sledgehammer descended.

 

And like any reasonably rational being who has just discovered that he has fallen in love with two women who are the closest of friends, Ian had begun instantly to second guess himself.  He had, after all, been in love once before.  He had married Emily, and they had ended up detesting one another, the divorce mutually beneficial.  Viewed rationally, “love” was the most abused concept in the human universe.  He didn't trust it.

 

But it turned out that Maxwell's silver hammer, incarnate in the form of a turkey drumstick, was not Ian's epiphany moment.  Sitting in the locker room, struggling to get his pants on over the mass of cloth, vinyl and canvas that at once protected and frustrated him, he realized that this had come but bare minutes earlier, when he was still trapped in his crib, struggling to lay his hands on a decent meal:

 

Oh, it will take a bit of negotiation to work out the fine details, but trust me, you are not going to have to decide between Sarah and me.  You will have us both, and do not think for a moment that you are going to leave Rita on the outside looking in.

 

This was Ian's epiphany moment.  He had felt it in the very depths of his soul.  He had been staring into Vickie's eyes, eyes so warm and expressive, and he had caught the conviction lurking just beneath the merriment.

 

He believed her.

 

Just as he believed Sarah.

 

He trusted her.

 

Just as he trusted Sarah.

 

He would never have entered the race except for Sarah.

 

And he could not win it without Vickie.

 

It was a race that he did not want to run, but it was a race that he had to win.  He could only prevail if he conquered his fear, but on this battlefield anger would be of no use to him whatsoever.  Worse yet, giri, the ancient Japanese concept that so defined him, with its calls to duty, honor and so much more, offered little hope.  He had no weapons with which to fight.

 

It was as he had explained it to Sarah over dinner at The Dead Zone.  In the end, it came down to a matter of trust--  of which he had very little.

 

Until now.

 

Princess Poopy Pants alternately puzzled and amused him.  If there was a female side to his personality, he was pretty sure that it was very well hidden indeed.

 

No matter.

 

He trusted Vickie to get this right.  If she wanted him to wear a baby dress and drink breast milk from pink baby bottles, he would cheerfully do so.  If spankings would keep his therapy on track, he would suffer them gladly.  For Sarah, for Vickie.

 

For himself.

 

And maybe … just maybe … Princess Poopy Pants could fill in the gaps in his recent memories.  If she was real.

 

The gaps terrified him.  Yesterday morning was gone, and yet something had happened that left Rita badly shaken.  He had seen it in her eyes and heard it in her voice when she was literally pleading with him not to wander off on his own.

 

Ian made a mental note to ask Vickie to find out whether the Princess had been home yesterday morning, and could bear witness on his behalf.  If she was real, it was bloody well time to put her to work.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“While he's getting dressed,” Rita murmured, “I'll duck into my office and call Manny and Heidi.  Unless someone's come up with a better idea, we'll go with feeding Ian to the lions.”

 

“Wonderful,” Vickie whispered in return.  “Just wonderful.  Here I've gone to all the trouble of falling in love with the guy, and now we're going to turn him into lunch meat.  Some first date.”

 

“Well, get your butt over there, sit down, give him a peck on the cheek, and then lay it out for him.  Remind him that he's our patient, has a right to privacy, and that we take this sort of thing rather seriously.  I'll warn Manny to go easy here, but it would really help if Ian would be willing to disclose that he was the subject of the code 2222.  You know the score, Vic; around here it's all fun and games until it's not.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Alone at last.”  Vickie's smile was heartfelt.  She wrapped her arm around Ian's waist, and rested her head on his shoulder.  It felt good to be in love.  Ian had filled a hole inside her that she had not even realized was there.

 

“But not for long.”  He reached out and pulled her still closer.  “Anyway … is there anything good on the menu today?”

 

“You men!”  Vickie was laughing as she sat up straight.  “Do you ever think about anything but your stomachs and your dicks?”

 

“Not really.  And a word to the wise: hungry men do not make attentive lovers.”

 

“Then I'd go with the meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, and green beans.  And don't be surprised if cranberry sauce ends up on your tray, whether you want it or not.  Vickie's magic drumstick, and Ian's magical tongue, have become the stuff of hospital legend!”

 

“How about the pumpkin pie?  Can I have it with real whipped cream?”

 

“Ah, the possibilities … the endless possibilities.  Rest assured that whipped cream and chocolate sauce are perennial favorites in my kitchen.”

 

“You forgot the maraschino cherries,” he whispered in her ear.  What Ian really wanted to do was drive his tongue into Vickie's ear, but the damned diaper cover was ruining his act, and it was abundantly clear that Vickie did not have the key.

 

“I've forgotten nothing,” she grinned, knowing that his de facto chastity belt was competing with his stomach for attention.  “Speaking of which, I need to bring you up to speed about what awaits you in the cafeteria.  You really are a celebrity, Ian, in a dump that runs on gossip, and with a staff that's hard wired to bet on anything.  Any … way, someone figured out that Vickie's crush and Sarah's boyfriend are one and the same, which got the pool off and running.  Who would the mysterious Ian Grady choose to make his own?  I'm rather proud of the fact that I started off as a ten to one favorite, and even after the third and seventh floors bet heavily on Sarah, I'm still going off at four to one!”

 

“Wow!  This is so cool!  But how does it work?  I mean … do you have a bookie or something?”

 

“Yep.  Manny Cepeda runs the whole casino out of the subbasement.  He's the Head Supervisor for Building Services … and he wants to meet you in the cafeteria.  He's not paying anyone anything until he's heard from you-- a public pronouncement.  You should expect an audience of between one and two hundred doctors, nurses and assorted staff to be hanging on every bite of your meat loaf because this looks to be the largest pool in hospital history!”

 

“Double wow!!  Is it too late for me to get in on the action?”

 

“NAUGHTY BABY!  Vickie laughed, but she also slapped Ian's thigh very hard.  “Are you looking for another spankie when we come back upstairs, hmm?  'Cause I love spanking your cute, widdle butt!”

 

“You are coming back up with us, aren't you?”  She was worried that, once free of the ward, Ian would refuse to reenter it.

 

“I've got religion,” he responded as he reached out once more to pull Vickie close.  “You and Rita, both; you've convinced me that I'm on very shaky ground.  Friday morning is not here, Vix.”  Ian was tapping on his forehead.  “And it's scary.  Which reminds me … can you ask Princess Poopy Pants if she was there?  Maybe she can fill in the missing pieces.”

 

“That's a terrific idea!  Ian, thank you … you know, you would have made a great therapist!  How could I have missed this?”  Vickie was shaking her head in exasperation-- therapists weren't supposed to miss the screamingly obvious.

 

“I'll send you a bill,” he chuckled.

 

“And can I pay in the currency of my choice?”  Vickie was licking her lips in anticipation, thinking about the bowls of cranberry sauce that undoubtedly awaited in the cafeteria.  In her imagination, she was slowly pouring the sauce all over her chest, and Ian was stepping forward to lick it off.  She was holding his head in her hands, his tongue flicking like a serpent's, first to one breast and then to the other.  And the whole hospital, suitably awestruck, was cheering them on, Manny Cepeda calling out the odds on the exact minute when she would have another earth-shattering orgasm …

 

“Are you okay?”  Returning to earth, Vickie could see concern written all over Ian's face … concern for her.  It felt good to be loved.

 

“Yes and no.  I was thinking about that damned diaper cover of yours.  It's keeping you in, but it's also keeping me out.  I NEED SEX!!!”

 

“Well, couldn't we, like, cut it off?”

 

“No.  The lining is reinforced with steel thread, and the canvas itself is too thick to attack with scissors.  We're stuck.”

 

Vickie climbed to her feet, and pulled Ian up to stand beside her.  “Let's go collect Rita, and head downstairs.  Just remember that someone may ask us about the call that we made for a crash team to stand by.  We can hide behind doctor-patient confidentiality, but we can't stop the rumors.  Rita and I both think that it would be in your best interest simply to admit that you had an event, that you don't remember the details, and that we are treating you for it.  I want our neurology unit to look you over, and this will get you in there quick.”

 

“But I can't afford ...”

 

“They'll lose the bill.”

 

“How about … do I need to sign some kind of waiver to protect Rita … the … the confidentiality thing?”

 

Vickie shook her head in mock despair.  “Do you always have to be such a nice guy?  Do you have any idea how hard you're making it for me to spank you?  Do you?  I swear, Ian; I love you, but sometimes you're just no fun at all!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Ian walked out of the ward with his tie off and his shirt collar unbuttoned.  In all other respects, he appeared to be the same man who had entered the ward on Wednesday afternoon, and he knew it.  But there was simply no putting the lid back on Pandora's Box, and he wasn't about to try running away from a reality that kept rising up and kicking him where it hurts.  How was he supposed to ignore the face that he was now closely flanked by Rita and Vickie?  Were they his babysitters, bodyguards, or both?  He loved Vickie, but what was he to make of his feelings for Rita?  Almost overnight, his life had become very, very complicated.

 

In the corner off to his right, Ian spotted Phil Kettering.  Phil was talking with an older couple, and the scene reeked of awkward and long overdue family reunion.  Becky, sitting a bit to Phil's right and looking very relaxed, glanced up and smiled in his direction.  He smiled in return, glad to see that things were going well.

 

Ian looked up at one of the television screens overhead, and stopped in mid-stride.  Wile was collecting still another package from Acme, doubtless yet one more Rube Goldberg device to be deployed in his never ending quest to catch, cook, and eat the detestable Roadrunner.  Ian Samuel Grady and Wile E. Coyote were kindred spirits, but still …

 

How is Wile paying for all this stuff?  Can coyotes get credit cards?

 

All in all, Ian was in a very good mood as they entered the elevator and started the long descent to the basement.   

 

 

 

 

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