Union, WV
Michael Abraham
A novel
Pileated Press
Blacksburg, Virginia
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Trade paperback version available at author’s website:
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Also by Michael Abraham
The Spine of the Virginias,
Journeys along the border of Virginia and West Virginia
For updates and ordering information on my books, excerpts, and sample chapters, please visit my website at:
The author can be reached by email at:
<bikemike@nrvunwired.net>
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Union, WV
This is a work of fiction. Many historic figures are mentioned by name, but any resemblance to any living person is coincidental and unintentional.
Copyright © 2010 by Michael Abraham
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
ISBN 978-0-926487-53-6
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To Jane and Whitney Abraham,
the two most important people in my life.
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Acknowledgements
I am deeply indebted to many people who supported my effort. My editors worked countless hours to help me make my book readable, relevant, and grammatically correct.
Jane Abraham, Blacksburg, VA
Mary Ann Johnson, Blacksburg, VA
Kate McCoy, Blacksburg, VA
Tracy Roberts, New Castle, VA
I am also indebted to the people who helped me understand the Civil War, the culture of Northern Virginia and Union, West Virginia, and other technical aspects of the book. I thank them.
Jay Banks, Union, WV
Jeffrey Chain, Christiansburg, VA
Lee Chichester, Meadows of Dan, VA
Jennifer Copeland, Rock Camp, WV
Michael Gravely, Union, WV
Rod Graves, Union, WV
John Gregg, Blacksburg, VA
Lloyd and Garnett Haynes, White Sulphur Springs, WV
Stuart McGehee, Bluefield, WV
H. Craig Mohler, Union, WV
Mike O’Dell, White Sulphur Springs, WV
L. W. “Doc” Reed, Pickaway, WV
James I. “Bud” Robertson, Jr., Blacksburg, VA
Marion Shiflet, Union, WV
Warren Smith, Sweet Springs, WV
Mark Vanderberg, Blacksburg, VA
Jane Weiseman, Blacksburg, VA
Fred Ziegler, Greenville, WV
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Union, WV
Characters
Quarles Immediate Family
Wayne Derek Quarles———Protagonist
Donna Brickman Quarles———Quarles’ wife
Willa Angela Quarles———Quarles’ daughter
Edmund Thomas Quarles———Quarles’ son
Betsy McGranahan Quarles ———Quarles’ mother
Northern Virginia
Cynthia Menendez———Quarles’ paramour
Martin Kneeland———Quarles’ friend
Arnie Heckleman———Quarles’ friend and insurance agent
Wilson———Quarles’ boss
Union, West Virginia
Prof. Philip McGranahan———Quarles’ great uncle
Terry Yount———highway worker
Chris Witherspoon———rescue squad member
Renu Ramkija———emergency room doctor
Sheila———hospital orderly
Truman Hankins———Rotary Club member, former banker
Allen Smart———hospital doctor
Stuart Cummings———Monroe Watchman publisher
Ansel Cummings———Stuart’s son, coal miner
Gibby Robinson———guitarist
Mildred Webb———nurse, caretaker
Sherwood Webb———husband of Mildred
Reed Rathmell———Rotary member, former preacher, falconer
Juliet Rathmell———Reed’s daughter
Burton Jones———Rotary club president
Franklin McRoberts III———Rotary club member, former state senator
Clyde McCall———Bozoo storyteller
Fiona McGregor———minister
Christie and Jim Dickson———owners of Phil McGranahan’s house
Levi Rubenstein———musician, husband of Isadora
Isadora Rubenstein———pharmacist, wife of Levi
Andy McGranahan’s Monroe
James and Annie McGranahan———Scot couple
Thomas McGranahan———son of James and Annie
Katherine Lindsay McGranahan———wife of Thomas
Thomas McGranahan II———son of Thomas and Katherine
Stefan Holtz ———second husband of Katherine
Victoria Phelps McGranahan ———wife of Thomas McGranahan II
Thomas McGranahan III———son of Thomas II and Victoria
Andrew Jackson McGranahan———son of Thomas II and Victoria, twin brother of Teresa
Teresa McGranahan———twin daughter of Thomas II and Victoria, twin sister of Andrew
Josiah Raney———cobbler
Mordeci Mishkin———pharmacist
Rivka Mishkin———midwife, wife of Mordeci
Alison Larkin Littletree———wife of Andy
Wes Littletree———brother-in-law of Andy, husband of Teresa
Jacob Cox———Union officer
Anthony, Joseph, Silvio Pasko———Union soldiers
M. & M. Walker Crain———Goods Mill residents
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Union, WV
Part 1
August 27
**Soaring, pristine landscapes of white, creamy. Undulating, sensual. Tequila. Tits, luscious tits. Cream rivers of white milk. Ripe, red strawberries atop meringue tits. Soaring. Pink brown nipples. Tits. Round the luscious tits.**
“Mmmm!” sighed Wayne Derek Quarles. Before he opened his eyes, he let her scent, a sinful bouquet of woman-sex juice and floral perfume, waft deep into his nostrils. His opening eyelids revealed her right hand, where the tender touch of her fingernails twirled the hairs on his chest. “I must have been dreaming,” he said, languidly.
“You deserve the rest. You’ve been working pretty hard for the last hour,” said Cynthia Menendez as she rested lying prone. Her head was near his, with her belly down and shoulders propped up by her elbows. The tips of her breasts rested on the yellow sheets. She had deep-set brown eyes and dark mascara. She wore nothing but a half-dozen rings, two pierced earrings dangling from each ear and a gold bracelet on her right ankle.
Wayne looked at her butterscotch skin, the curvature of her buttocks and legs, and the lascivious tattoo of a rose at the small of her back. He rolled on his side and ran his index finger down the left ridge of her back from her shoulder to the tattoo. She giggled and her skin burst taut into a bronze landscape of goosebumps. He thought this was the most gorgeous sight he’d ever seen. Looking into her doe eyes, his mind flashed back to their first meeting in Baltimore, three-and-a-half months prior, in early April.
+ + + +
April 8
Wayne attended a two-day sales training conference at the Baltimore Harbor Omni a Thursday and Friday in early April. During one of the breakout work sessions on Thursday, Cynthia and he were assigned to the same table. Her dress was short; the décolletage was low. Everyone at the table exchanged business cards as they began to work. Wayne read hers. Cynthia Menendez. Kendall Associates, Commercial Real Estate. Glebe Road, Arlington. Her glance at him lingered longer than decorum would dictate. He thought to divert his stare, but held on longer than she.
After the day’s sessions were over, Wayne had dinner with a couple of guys he’d met the year before from Rockville. On his way out the door, he noticed her sitting with some women nearby. She looked up as he passed and gave him a friendly smile and wink. He lied to the Rockville guys, telling them he’d left his cell phone at the table. He walked past her again lightly brushing her hair. He nodded at her, and then moved to the bar. He ordered a Lynchburg Lemonade and lit a Marlboro.
Distracted by a NBA playoff game on the big-screen, he didn’t see her approach. She lightly ran her knuckle up his spine. Startled, he spun around to see her eyes inches from his.
“Hello again, Wayne. Mind if I join you?”
“Cindy is it, right? Sorry, Cynthia. Please.” Her shoulders were broad and pleasing. She wore a yellow dress, with two spaghetti straps wrapped over each shoulder. She had prominent cheeks with a mole on the left and a silver comb in her raven-black, curly, shoulder-length hair. She smelled good, with a familiar perfume.
She turned to the bartender and ordered a gin and tonic. She took a sip. “Are you a basketball fan?”
“Just something to watch. Car racing is really my passion. NASCAR. Grand Prix. Indy. I keep an old Triumph TR-3 at the racetrack at Summit Point in West Virginia for track days. I love speed. You?”
“Art. Jewelry. Clothes. Mostly, I’m devoted to my work. I love sales. I love the hunt, the subtle manipulation, the conquest. I love to see men squirm.”
He wondered uneasily how serious she was about this proclamation and whether she saw him squirm when she said it. He looked at her hands. Her nails were polished blue. She had a silver bracelet and there were too many rings to count. He said, “You married?”
“Maybe.”
He saw her looking at his hands, perhaps searching for a wedding band. His sat on the bureau at home.
She said, “You?”
“Maybe.”
She looked at him for a long moment. He was sure she was sizing him up and he wondered if she found him appealing. He was medium height, perhaps 5’11”. He had a cleft chin and hazel eyes, with bushy eyebrows. He had lots of freckles. He had a few more pounds than he should have but was still muscular. He wore designer eyeglasses. Rogaine was beginning to work on his male-patterned baldness. He had a crisp blue shirt and a navy blazer.
She looked at the television. She took a deep sip of her drink and looked at him again. She clenched her teeth. “What room are you in?”
“Four-eighteen”
“I’ll be up in a moment,” she said, and then left, tapping his knee as she swiveled past. Her bracelets clanged. Her aroma perplexed and intoxicated him.
He left a couple dollars tip on the bar, and then headed for the elevator, wondering to himself whether he was about to get lucky or whether he was the biggest sucker on planet Earth. Reaching his room, he slid the plastic key downward and then upward in the door slot. The tiny green light lit. Inside his room, he sat on the edge of his bed and wondered how to prepare for a fantasy moment that might or might not arrive. His head swam in a flood of lust and guilt, anxious over which was dominant.
He stood again, took off his blazer and draped it over a chair. He removed his pistol and holster and stowed them in a dresser drawer. He unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt, and then re-buttoned the bottom one. He turned on the TV, lowering the volume so he could listen for approaching footsteps. Larry King interviewing a Michael Jackson brother. Alexandra Steele on the Weather Channel. Crap! He turned it off. Silence, except some kids screaming down the hall. Raindrops fell on the windowsill and trickled down the glass, refracting the city lights.
Wayne turned the TV back on again and found a Blues music station when the knock came, shave-and-a-haircut. As he walked to the door, a black bluesman belted,
I
was once a boy, so little,
I found at age eight,
Behind the
zipper of my pants,
Was a tool of pleasure, oh so great...
He opened the door and there she was. Her scent of perfume and cigarette smoke reached his olfactory and his eyelids drifted downward as he breathed it in. “Hi.” She winked and walked past him.
“Hi.”
Now
a man I be,
Full-grown and true,
There are wondrous things,
I
can do for you.
“Can I get you something?” he said, realizing he had no booze to give her, had she said yes.
She held her index finger to her lips and shook her head. She held her hands on the sides of his ribcage and positioned him standing by the desk. “Here.” She took a small glass filled with a scented candle and a cigarette lighter from her purse. She lit the candle. She then turned off the lights, and closed the cabinet that housed the TV. She pulled the chair from under the desk, and motioned for him to sit. She kicked off her pumps. She hiked up her skirt. Lambent light from the candle cast her shadow across the room. She spread her legs and sat astride him, pulling his head towards her chest with both hands. She pushed her lips against his, and her tongue played on the rim of his teeth.
All
the sexy women,
Line up for me,
The good things in life,
They
say are still free.
He closed his eyes and bit her tongue. He felt her mouth move away. He opened his eyes and watched her slip the straps of her dress off her shoulders and expose her breasts. He closed his eyes again, soaking in the moment, and felt her hands move behind his head as she gently pulled him towards her . When he opened his eyes again, each eyelash brushed against a breast, while the cross medallion that hung from her necklace bounced against his forehead.
The
good things in life,
They say are still free.
He reached her damp clitoris and began to rub his knuckles against it, gently side-to-side. She writhed and moaned. Her breasts rubbed against his face, one on each of his cheeks. He felt her heart race and beads of sweat form. She climaxed, but he continued to rub, only stopping when her hand reached his wrist and pulled his hand away.
Moments later, she took a deep breath and lifted her weight from his lap. She tucked her breasts inside the fabric of her dress and looped the straps back over her shoulders. She brushed back her hair with her hands and stepped into her shoes. He grinned a sly grin and she smiled, gave him a peck on the lips, and then walked to the door. “Bye.” And she was gone.
The
good things in life,
They say are still free.
He shook his head, wiped his eyes, and sighed. “Holy orgasm, Batman.” He blew out the candle and clicked on a desktop lamp, not sure whether to feel elated or taken advantage of. He went into the bathroom and took off his clothes for his shower, dropping his soiled boxer shorts into the trash can. Before he closed the shower curtain, he ran his knuckles under his nostril.
+ + + +
April 9
The following day, a Friday, the second day of the conference, Wayne entered the large conference room and scanned it looking for Cynthia. But she was gone. He kept her card in his briefcase, but calling was out of the question. He figured it was a one-time, spontaneous fling. Sitting in an audience of bored people with a PowerPoint presentation on the screen, he furtively held his knuckles to his nostril again, straining vainly to recapture her scent. Her memory aroused him nonetheless.
At the end of the day, he drove his cherry-red Hummer home near Park Avenue in Vienna, Virginia, smoking Marlboros and fighting maddening traffic all the way from Baltimore on I-95. He hated the traffic and sometimes felt that he was drowning in a rising tide of humanity. Whenever traffic stopped entirely, he pulled his harmonica from his pocket and played to himself. He had gotten it as a teenager, a Christmas present. He was never skilled enough to find a paying audience, but playing it soothed his nerves. The numbing, soporific sameness of suburban driving forced him back into the realities of his life.
He and Donna had been married for nine years. Their wedding was more memorable than they hoped it would be, in that it was held at the Alexandria Episcopal Church the Saturday after an airliner slammed into the Pentagon on a gorgeous fall Tuesday in September 2001, a couple miles to the north. A UVA classmate of Donna’s was in that burning wreckage and her funeral was the day before the wedding in the same church. Should they call off the wedding just because the United States had been attacked and the smell of burning flesh and kerosene was still wafting through the air?
Wayne and Donna met on a double-date in Charlottesville, a month before he was expelled for Honor Code violations, 30 credits shy of a degree in economics with a minor in history. She was pretty, with dirty-blond hair and fair skin, from New Rochelle, New York. She had finished her degree in accounting, and later earned her CPA license. She worked for a Falls Church accounting firm until the babies arrived. Willa was now 7 and Edmund was 5.
Wayne had slept with Sally, one of Donna’s bridesmaids, a week before the wedding. Two years later Donna was pregnant with Willa. Wayne was revolted by the thought of having sex with Donna during pregnancy, envisioning himself tupping the fetus’ head. When he ran into Sally at an Annandale bar during Donna’s 32nd week, Sally invited him to her apartment where they copulated again.
Wayne and Sally had two more carnal unions during the following week before Donna caught them, tipped off by another of her bridesmaids. With her round belly, swollen ankles, and tears streaming from her eyes, Donna read Wayne the riot act and swore she’d leave him in an instant if he ever cheated on her again. He wondered how the attractive woman he’d married had so quickly come to look so puffy, rubicund, and unappealing. As she ranted, he envisioned a squealing sow.
Still, her threat was enough to keep him faithful, excepting his encounter with the wafer-thin blond prostitute at the automaker’s convention in Las Vegas. And he wasn’t looking for a new affair when Cynthia came along; at least he didn’t think he was.
Their marriage had gone as well as he’d ever expected, given the stresses. But all new marriages waver, he told himself. During her pregnancies, Donna was no more interested in sex with him than he was with her. Once Willa was born, Donna seemed overwhelmed with work and mothering. In his mind, he knew she would never cheat.
When Donna’s mother’s dementia became worse during recent months, Donna became increasingly detached from him. They spoke less. When they did converse, it was obligatory stuff, plans for the day and so forth, not of aspirations, ideas, or affection. She never flirted nor reached for him in bed.
Donna’s dad was years dead, so she began to travel home more often to take care of her mom, eventually every other weekend. Most of the time, she and the kids took Amtrak, leaving Friday afternoon and coming back Tuesday morning.
Donna had left on Friday and was gone by the time he arrived at home. He did some household chores over the weekend, trying to keep the place straightened. He took his shirts to the dry-cleaners and spent two hours at the shooting range in Fairfax, as usual on Saturday morning. He washed the Hummer and the Harley, as he did each weekend. He did some day-trading and posted a blog entry on www.redhawk.com, his favorite rant site.
Whenever he thought about Cynthia, he quickly and successfully fought back any signs of guilt. He’d done nothing wrong and had no reason for remorse; he hadn’t even penetrated. On Sunday afternoon, he washed the shirt and trousers he’d worn in Baltimore. He smelled her perfume on the collar of his shirt and became aroused. He knew Donna would be able to smell it; women’s sense of smell always astounded him. He soaked the sweet aroma into his nose before dropping the shirt into the swirling, soapy water.
+ + + +
April 12
Donna and the kids were already at home when he returned from work on Tuesday evening. He and Donna exchanged dutiful kisses. For an instant, he wondered if she suspected anything. But she seemed oblivious in her exhaustion. By the next morning, they were back to their routine. He assured himself his singular indiscretion in Baltimore would quickly become inconsequential.
+ + + +
April 21
Wayne’s office was in downtown Washington, but he only went in on Mondays. He sold fleets of Chevys, Buicks and Cadillacs to rental agencies and other buyers throughout the Metro area. As a salesman, most of his work was on the road. He enjoyed the freedom to go where he thought most lucrative, but that freedom had a cost. He was constantly anxious and angry behind the wheel, increasingly infuriated by all the blunt skulls with whom he was forced to share the road. He put 35,000 hard miles each year on his cars and traded every two or three years. He was currently driving his third Hummer. He’d bought it in February. He used it for work but he felt it was a reflection of his personality and his superiority over the teeming low-lifes of which the area was increasingly populated.
Years prior, his first Hummer had been keyed-up near the downtown office – parking spaces were non-existent anyway – so he stopped driving and started taking the Metro, leaving his car at the Vienna station on the Orange line. He always parked in the same area at the back of the lot. He also figured it would be away from more of the cellphone yakking morons who couldn’t even park a car, although the lots were almost always full by the morning rush.
A week after the Baltimore conference, he was first in line at a traffic light on his way to see a client in Silver Spring when his cellphone rang. He gulped the last bite of his Whopper, spilling ketchup on his lap, and threw the wrapper out the window before grabbing his cell phone. The 703 area code was on his caller ID, but he didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello, this is Wayne.”
“Hi Wayne. It’s Cynthia.”
Cynthia, he thought. He closed his eyes and remembered the scent of her perfume. Cynthia. Cyn. What an appropriate nickname. “How’s everything going?”
“Fine. I’ve been missing you. Sorry I had to leave the conference without saying goodbye. A friend had a minor medical emergency and I left to help her.”
“I wondered if I said something I shouldn’t have.”
“Not at all.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
“May I see you again?”
“Sure.” He thought for a moment and realized Donna would be away that weekend. “How about the day after tomorrow, Friday? Where’s good?”
“Meet me at Starbucks at the Rosslyn Metro station. Seven o’clock. We’ll take a ride together. Bye!”
In his mind’s eye, he saw her full breasts wrapping around his face again. He felt a tightening of his lap belt and looked around self-consciously. He pressed the accelerator and entered the intersection before the light had turned green and was almost nailed by a UPS truck coming from his left.
+ + + +
April 23
Two evenings later, he got home from work early and took a shower to prepare for his second rendezvous with Cynthia. He stared at his wardrobe and fidgeted over what to wear. What the fuck? She wouldn’t care what he wore anyway.
He drove to the Metro lot, parked his Hummer in its usual spot and rode the Orange line towards the city. He hated mixing with all the teeming humanity that the Metro meant. But since he got on at the start of the Orange line, he always got a seat. He exited the station at Rosslyn. She was waiting when he arrived, sipping a cappuccino from a Styrofoam cup and reading Vogue.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi yourself. Nice to see you again.” He sized her up and she was just as sexy as he remembered.
“Didn’t your momma teach you not to stare?” she teased.
His eyes darted from her bustline to her eyes. “Sorry! I was reworking an old fantasy. That was quite an introduction we had in Baltimore!”
“Yeah. I’m thinking an encore is in order. But sit for a moment. Let’s talk. Tell me more about yourself.”
“Must we?”
“Let’s not move so fast this time.”
“Very well, I sell cars,” he said, looking at her intense brown-eyed gaze. “I’ve always loved them. The bigger and faster they are the better. I sell to the agency buyers. It’s a killer competitive world, but it’s what I know. I’ve learned every trick in the book. I read the personalities, assess the weaknesses, and move in for the kill. The strong survive. The money has been good in recent years, but I never seem to have enough. Lately, the recession has hit me.
“What else is there? I also do some day-trading. I read about war history, mostly about weapons. I have a penchant for all things mechanical: cars, motorcycles, tools, and guns. Loud things.” He wondered if his display of manhood was resonating with her.
“Wife?”
“Do you want to know?”
She nodded.
“Yes, a wife and two kids. Shall we not talk about them? You married?”
“Yes. My husband is overseas a lot. He’s overseas now. I don’t know exactly what he does and I wouldn’t be able to tell you if I did. We’ve been married six years. No kids. It gets pretty lonely. Women have urges.”
Quiet.
“I’ve got a place for us to go,” she said. “Come.”
She led him onto the Blue Metro line towards Alexandria. They emerged on King Street and walked to South Royal Street. They entered a five-story condo, and walked past an elderly couple who Wayne thought looked at them suspiciously, as if they knew what he and Cynthia had planned.
Wayne and Cynthia entered the elevator. A pre-teen girl entered the elevator just before the doors slid shut. While the girl faced towards the closed door, Wayne playfully rested his hand on Cynthia’s ass and gave it a little squeeze. Cynthia brushed his hand away. The girl got off at the third floor without looking back at them and Wayne put his hand back on Cynthia’s ass. This time, she let it stay.
As they left the elevator on the fourth floor and walked the dim hallway, Cynthia said, “This place belongs to my friend Katie. She splits her time here and in L.A. I watch it for her while she’s gone.” She turned the key and they went inside. Cynthia adjusted the air conditioning, turned on a ceiling fan, and lit some candles. Wayne felt the warmth of the room and smelled a scent of cinnamon. He felt beads of sweat build on his eyelids. The artwork on the wall looked expensive and had sexual overtones. Cynthia took a bottle of zinfandel from the wine cooler. She poured a couple of glasses.
“The night we met in Baltimore… I guess I owe you an apology. I was a bit self-indulgent with my lap-dance.”
“It wasn’t anything I minded,” he chuckled.
“Still, tonight’s yours.” She reached over and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. She put her index finger in the wine glass and smeared the red fluid on his neck under his left ear. She licked it. “What’s your pleasure?”
They had sex on the sofa. He was on his way home by 11 p.m.
+ + + +
On the Metro train, he saw six Asian kids mumbling in their rapid-fire, incoherent language. Vietnamese? Cambodian? Damn gooks! They sounded like they just got off the boat. What the hell were they doing in the United States of Goddamn America?
In bed at 2 a.m., he couldn’t sleep. He got up, lit a Marlboro, and logged onto the www.redhawk.com site under his blog name, QUARRELLER, and typed.
Who opened the floodgates to every black, Hispanic, Asian, Muslim, or Arab in the world? Our government seems hell-bent to overwhelm us with rights of specific minorities. Prior to the 1960s, the US was relatively homogenous, but today people of the world’s races and ethnicities are streaming in. They resent being minorities and are actively forcing their culture on us.
He absentmindedly blew a few notes into his harmonica as he composed.
Over the past few years, a church in Chantilly has begun importing refugees from the war in Zimbabwe. These people are blacker than midnight and have no interest in adapting to our culture. While there are only a few here, their cultural needs will be easily handled. But when they procreate and overwhelm the existing society, there will be no ability to force conformity with the current society. In the name of “political correctness” they will annihilate us. As charitable as this might seem today, the future will bring strife and mayhem. I don’t want to live in New Zimbabwe, do you?
Blacks have never assimilated into American life. It’s all about shucking and jivving, hooting and hollering. The teenage boys wear their pants around the cracks in their asses and the girls copulate with anything that has a dick.
What’s with all the signs that have Spanish in addition to English? This isn’t Tijuana. The cost to our local governments to bring a Babel of languages to every new sign is inestimable. Anyone who wants to live in America should speak English!
It’s time to shut down the borders. Illegal immigrants are giving birth to babies in this country who are automatically American citizens. That’s got to stop! Employers who hire illegal immigrants should be fined, increasingly until they stop. It’s time to end Affirmative Action and bilingual programs. The deluge of foreigners will turn you into a minority in your own country. Are you ready for that? Se habla espanol?
+ + + +
April 24
Per his usual weekend routine, Wayne drove the Hummer to the dry-cleaners to exchange suits. He stopped at the Exxon station for his weekly fill-up, which came to $88. He bought a carton of Marlboros, cursing the price he paid for them, laden with goddamn sin taxes.
His final stop was the shooting range. He was constantly worried about maintaining his skills. Since he witnessed a drive-by shooting in DC when he was in his teens, he vowed to never be without his gun or the wherewithal to use it. Everyone he saw on the street or in an adjacent car at the stoplight was a potential adversary. He had a concealed weapons permit and kept a SigSauer P220 “Talon” under his dashboard. The sales guy at the gun shop, heavy bars on the windows, said it was likely fatal with one or two bullets. “Hit him before he hits you,” the salesman had told him. Wayne always carried a Taurus .38 special either on a holster on his belt or on a shoulder-strap holster.
Back home, he logged in as QUARRELLER on his rant website and keyboarded a tirade against the government lawyers who wanted to disarm citizens.
Stock up, my fellow Americans! The President’s new appointee to the Supreme Court is a wretched gun-hater. He believes, and his prior judgments amply show, that the Second Amendment means nothing. Gun control is coming to America. First, registration will be mandatory. Any gun not registered will be confiscated. This slippery slope leads to an imposition of martial law, and with it a weapons ban. All privately owned firearms will be surrendered to “protect” the public. Private citizens will have no way to defend themselves. It’s coming! Pinko groups like the Brady Center are overwhelming our elected officials.
When only the criminals and the government have guns, liberty in America is over. Personal defense is your only defense.
Guns are used in many violent crimes every day, but the crimes are already illegal. Making the guns illegal only disarms the potential victim. Wake up, people! Now is the time to stock up on guns and ammo. They’re coming!
+ + + +
May 7
Two weeks later, Wayne and Cynthia met again, this time traveling separately to Alexandria. They met at Vandenberg’s Bookstore on Duke Street. Cynthia was thumbing through a Kristin Hannah romance novel when he spotted her, wearing a pink and white dress. She purchased the book and he bought a copy of Motorcycle Cruiser Magazine. They walked together to Katie’s place. After they’d had sex, they walked to the coffee shop, The Beanery on South Washington. She said, “Last time we met, you started to tell me about yourself.”
“Not much more to tell. I sell cars to fleet buyers. That means I sell to anyone who buys more than one car at a time. It’s a cutthroat job. I got a good order last week for eight cars from Memorial Hospital. I’ve known the buyer since high school. We played together on the football team. The only way I could get the order was if I gave him $100 kickback for each car out of my commission. I hate this sort of thing, but that’s the way business is done these days.
“Dad was one of the last soldiers to die in Viet Nam while mom was pregnant with me, so I never met him. He was infantry. Fell into a booby trap where his leg was sliced by a bamboo spear with feces smeared all over it. He died a few days later from infection. He left for war one day and came home in a flag-draped coffin. Mom has a photo of her standing with my brother by Dad’s coffin. She was large with pregnancy. He was an only child, so I have no relatives on his side. Mom remarried and lives in Boston. Her husband is a self-righteous ass. They seem to spend a lot of time overseas, in Third World countries.
“My older brother was killed in a freak accident when I was nineteen. We were driving in a VW Beetle on I-66 when the engine died. We coasted to the shoulder, and he and I were having a look under the hood when a carload of Spics crashed into us and then drove off. My arm was broken but my brother was killed. The driver of the other car was never found.”
“That’s horrible! I’m so sorry.”
“It was a real wake-up call for me, knowing that somebody could kill somebody else and never be punished for it. When something like this happens, you never get over the bitterness.”
“What did you do?”
“There was nothing to do. Somebody in a passing car stopped to help and eventually rescue crews arrived, but my brother was dead already. Ever since then, I’ve driven bigger, more reliable cars and I never go anywhere unarmed.”
“Do you have other family?”
“Mom’s family had some uncles and cousins. One cousin lives in London, another in Hawaii, but I have no idea what they’re doing. We got a Christmas card from the one in London a few years ago, but that’s about it. I tried looking up the other when we were in Hawaii on vacation five years ago, but he just couldn’t seem to find time to see us. Mom has an uncle somewhere in West Virginia she was once close to, but he must be a hundred by now. He’s an old professor; supposedly he was once a brilliant guy. I saw him last when mom remarried, 20 years ago. I doubt I’d even recognize him any more.
“My wife’s mom is still alive, but just barely. My wife’s visits with her in New York are what allow me to see you without risk of being caught.” He looked into her enticing eyes and realized he didn’t know much about her. “How about you?”
Cynthia said, “You know I sell commercial real estate. As I told you, my husband works overseas. No kids. I have a large family in Texas where I was born and California. I’m one of five children but I’m the only one who lives east of the Mississippi. My husband and I moved here when he got a job with a security contractor after Desert Storm. I have lots of girlfriends that I go to restaurants and shopping with. I’m a pretty talkative person. But I think it’s best if you and I communicate in other ways.”
“Works for me!” he grinned. “Let’s head back to Katie’s place for a nightcap, shall we?”
+ + + +
May 26
**Chocolate. Iniquity’s bed. Beach sex and martinis. Chocolate, luscious Cynthia. Harems of mons and clits, honey clits. Bikinis, honey thighs seduction. Soaring sand sex. Erotica’s fingers. Sweet seduction deep fudge indulgence. Cross medallion Cynthia. **
“Wayne, wake up!” yelled Donna. “You already hit the snooze button twice. It’s your day to take the kids to school and they’ll be late if you don’t get out of bed!”
It was two-and-a-half-weeks later, a Wednesday. Wayne shook with anxiety, fearful Donna may somehow have read his dreams. He wiped tear crumbs from the corners of his eyes and convinced himself that his dreams had remained his alone; he marched into the bathroom for his morning testimonials.
An hour later, he dropped off Willa at school. He was revolted by all the brown, black, and slanty-eyed children streaming into the building. America was becoming chokingly polyglot. What happened to the Arian purity that built our nation?
Later that day, somebody in an old Chrysler scraped against his Hummer on an exit ramp on I-66 near Fairfax. It left a long, white strip of paint and a sizeable indentation on the right side of his car. The driver stopped for a second, then sped ahead and Wayne wasn’t able to read his license plate. There was a bumper sticker with a flag with green and red, from some country he didn’t recognize.
When he got home, Wayne left a message for his old UVA chum, Arnie Heckleman at Allstate to report the accident. Then Wayne settled down with a stiff gin-and-tonic and his keyboard, contributing another post to www.redhawk.com.
The loathsome chimps are everywhere. The Asians can’t drive. The Mexicans can’t think, much less drive. The Middle-Eastern hash-smoking cabbies are repugnant. Who gave everyone in America – hell, everyone in the world, the right to produce more writhing leechettes than they can afford? Who gave the right to illegal aliens to proclaim their blithering babies American citizens just because they were born inside our borders, even if their parents are here illegally?
Why are drooling grandmothers hogging the left lane???? Why doesn’t Suzie hang up the phone and put away her make-up when she drives? What is going on on our highways?
+ + + +
May 28
That weekend, Donna and the kids were home. They got a babysitter on Friday night and went to Olive Garden for dinner. Donna said as he spooned some soup into his mouth, “You’ve been awfully quiet lately.”
He immediately thought she may have found out his affair. He swallowed hard, shuttered and stammered, “Work has been on my mind. Wilson got all the sales people together on Monday and said our numbers were down. My numbers are not the best and not the worst. I think I’ll be okay. You know how tough it’s been this year.”
Wayne looked up from his plate. She was giving him a hard, disapproving look. Could she read his thoughts? A waitress dropped a full tray of food near them. Wayne snickered and Donna scowled at him. She wrapped her fork with pasta and said, “Don’t forget Eddie’s soccer game tomorrow. You said you’d take him. Willa and I are going to the new Harry Potter.”
That night, he and Donna made love, but it seemed perfunctory to him. She didn’t climax; she didn’t even seem aroused. Did she enjoy herself? He felt no hint of sexual excitement from her. When he closed his eyes, even being with Donna, he envisioned Cynthia. Why was sex so much more dynamic and urgent with Cynthia?
+ + + +
May 30
On a warm late May Sunday, Wayne played golf with Martin Kneeland, a friend from UVA. Martin had finished his law degree and worked for the Feds in the Labor Department downtown. Martin and his wife, Cheryl, lived near Wayne and had two boys. The elder son was Eddie’s age and they were friends.
Martin had known Donna at UVA, too. Still, Wayne decided to confide in him. As Martin lined up an 8-foot putt on the 15th hole, Wayne said, “I’ve been seeing someone.” As the words left his mouth, he was unsure why he’d chosen to confide in this friend his illicit couplings.
Chit, chit, chit, chit, chit, tttzzzzzzzzz. Chit, chit, chit, chit, chit, tttzzzzzzzzz. Drops of water from a nearby sprinkler borne on the wind dampened Wayne’s shirt.
Martin looked up from his golf ball on the green and processed what Wayne had said. “Seeing someone? What do you mean? Are you having an affair?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I am. I met this woman several weeks ago and we’ve been seeing each other. Actually, we’ve seen quite a lot of each other,” Wayne chuckled. He watched two small does wander from the woods to graze on grass by the fairway. He raised his iron and pointed it towards them as if aiming a gun. “Pow! Pow!” He bounced back in mock recoil.
Martin said, “I seem to remember you tried that type of behavior several years ago, with unhappy results. Weren’t you sleeping with one of Donna’s girlfriends? If you’re sleeping around again, Donna will be livid!”
“She’ll never find out. And if she does, she’ll get over it,” Wayne said, with all the conviction he could muster.
“Listen to what you’re saying. You know you don’t believe it yourself.”
“She seems to have no interest in sex.” Wayne protested. “She’d probably be happy someone else is satisfying me so she doesn’t have to worry about it.”
“Bullshit. You’re treading on thin ice over a pond filled with piranhas, my friend.”
“Remember Jason from UVA? I ran into him at the cleaners last week. We chatted in the parking lot for a few minutes and he was bragging about how many women he has had. He talks like he has more mistresses than Tiger Woods. What’s the big deal? Why does he deserve more than me?”
Martin re-focused on his putt. He hit the ball which badly missed the hole, rolling to a stop 4 feet beyond. “Shit! Damn you! My concentration’s gone to hell.
“So, what’s she like?”
“Dark. Sexy... Great.”
Martin shook his head. “Dammit, Wayne. How would you feel if Donna was sleeping around?”
“Good question. She doesn’t have it in her, though.”
+ + + +
Sitting in his bed at midnight, Wayne opened his laptop and lit a Marlboro. He logged onto www.redhawk.com and began to rant.
Who saw the goddamn Redskins play the Cowboys Sunday? Pitiful! I long ago shut off the ceaseless, inane chatter from the mindless commentators, but the on-field antics are deplorable. Even when the Redskins were behind by 24 points, their jungle bunnies jumped for ecstatic joy whenever they made a rare good play. Their cornerback looked like he was going to fracture a rib as hard as he was beating his chest and flexing his muscles, whooping a war dance and glowering over the wide receiver he’d just sent into a concussive state. Looked like a fucking gorilla.
Blacks totally dominate football these days – basketball, too – and have turned the game into a glorified war dance. Are they taking the name Redskins a bit too seriously? Next thing you know they’ll be taking scalps. May we please have some dignity and honor again in sports? These overpaid Sambos should all go back to Africa and do their celebratory bodily gyrations when they fell an elephant.
+ + + +
August 13
Late on a Friday night in mid-August, he returned home from an assignation with Cynthia to find a voice message from his mom, asking him to return her call. It was after midnight and he wondered if his mother knew Donna was out of town and sensed his misbehavior. Mothers somehow knew things.
He called her back the next morning. As they exchanged pleasantries, he feared his guilt echoed in his voice, but was pleased she seemed not to notice. She said, “Wayne, my uncle, Phil, in West Virginia, is 94 years old. He’s sold the mansion. He’ll be moving into a nursing home sometime soon. The new owner doesn’t want the furniture so Phil’s got some things to give away. He wasn’t sure when the new owner would be moving in. You’re about the only family around, so I told him I’d ask you. He’s probably got some nice things, some antiques. If you and Donna want any of his things, you’ll have to go and see him. I have no idea what condition things are in.”
“Thanks, Mom. We don’t need anything but I’ll keep it in mind.”
+ + + +
August 27
By late August, three-and-a-half months had gone by since Wayne’s first taste of Cynthia’s forbidden fruits at the hotel in Baltimore. They had repeated their trysts every other Friday since April, except once in late July when Eddie was sick and Donna had to cancel her trip to New York.
Wayne shook off his flashback of a summer of licentiousness and deceit as Cynthia smiled at him. He thought of the lovemaking they’d done before his impromptu nap and breathed deeply again of her redolence. He took another look at her curvaceous backside and the rose tattoo and said under his breath, “This is too, too sweet.”
She smiled a smile of sadness and resignation, and said, “I have something to tell you. Let’s get dressed.”
They took a walk to The Beanery. The night was steamy hot and moths danced around the streetlights. Lightning crackled from heavy, grey clouds over the Potomac River. He lit a Marlboro and took a few drags. Arriving at the coffee shop, he threw his burning cigarette into the street. They took a seat at a secluded booth near the front window where chilled air blew onto his legs from a floor vent. His right hand rested on the table. She started playing with the loose skin on the back of his hand. She said, “It’s really been great what we’ve had together these few months. So it breaks my heart to say this. Tonight is the end for us. I won’t be able to see you again. Ever.”
He looked at her, disconsolate, wondering what he’d done wrong. “I…”
“Shhh. Please don’t talk. My husband is coming back next week, on Thursday. His company, Xe, is bringing him back stateside, giving him a new job at the downtown office. They’re a military defense contractor. He’s been with them since he left the Marines after Desert Storm. He’s the kind of guy who really shouldn’t find out what we’ve been doing. If we continue to meet, he’d find out somehow, I’m certain.”
Wayne took a deep breath and he gulped. He wanted to hug her hard. He took her left hand, held it by his cheek. His mind drew up a list of possible retorts. “Thanks for the memories.” “It was good while it lasted.” “Can’t we find a way to continue?” But instead he said nothing. He got up, kissed her on the forehead, and without saying anything walked outside into a driving rainstorm, with drops splattering high from the concrete sidewalk. He had brought no wrap or umbrella and quickly became soaked. He walked past a Mercedes with diplomatic plates, parked in a marked handicapped space with the right front wheel on the curb. He looked around and saw nobody walking the sidewalk. He took his keychain from his pocket and ran one of his keys along the length of the car, putting a long scratch in the paint. Then he kicked the front quarter-panel hard enough to dent it and crack his big toenail.
He sat on the Metro train, livid and dripping. Whenever he looked up, invariably people were staring at him, and he sneered back. Continuing to vent his frustration as he returned to his empty home that night, he got right on www.redhawk.com.
Why do bleeding heart liberals think criminals will obey gun laws? Why are the Congress-leeches in the pocket of every warlord and corporate maggot in the Country?
And where do the Jigaboos get the money for all their unlaced $200 basketball shoes?
He took two drags from his Marlboro, played a funeral dirge on his harmonica, then continued typing.
“Diversity” and mass immigration are happy smokescreens for giving our nation to indolent, blood-sucking hoards from Second and Third Worlds. Diversity only strengthens the corporate blood-suckers of consumerism. For the rest of us, it’s the road to poverty and mayhem.
Forget the Chevy slogans: when the real American Revolution starts, count me in!
+ + + +
August 30
On Monday, Wayne parked the Hummer at the expansive Metro lot and took the train into the city. He was already in a choleric mood from his terminated affair when a morbidly obese ebony woman sat next to him, her five curly-headed children in tow. Her folds of pulpy flesh strained the fabric of her Washington Wizards T-shirt and draped over his leg. The littlest girl had a hundred colored beads woven into her kinky hair. Wayne grumbled under his breath about the insane fecundity of Niggers. Who was going to pay for these kids when they became unwed mothers, starting their own indigent, fatherless homes? The woman berated her children from the moment she sat down. The children pestered each other mercilessly.
He was relieved to be exiting only two stops later at the Archives/Navy Memorial Station. He walked six blocks to his office on Eighth Avenue and could feel beads of sweat drip from his armpits by the time he arrived. He went straight to his cubicle without talking to anyone. He caught up with his email communications and made some phone calls. After their regular 2 p.m. sales meeting, Wilson, his boss, said, “Come to my office, Wayne.”
Wayne wondered nervously what Wilson had on his mind. Private meetings following group meetings often portended strife. Sure, he’d had a couple of bad months. But there were several deals pending. He just needed to close a couple more sales. He burst into Wilson’s office, yakking, “Boss, I think I’m just a couple of days from closing the Rez-Tech order.”
“Sit down,” Wilson ordered. The veins in Wilson’s ruddy cheeks dilated, turning the skin a crimson color. His white shirt had a coffee stain on it and his tie was frayed and crooked. Wayne had always thought Wilson’s complexion was particularly unappealing.
Wayne sat. He clenched his jaw. “I’m sure…”
“Shut up, Wayne.” Wilson stared out the window and continued. “As you know, sales have been down in recent months. Corporate says we have to ax two salespeople. We’re laying off Addison today because his numbers are the weakest. I don’t think he’ll ever really get it. I was having a difficult decision as to who else would be cut until Teri showed me the invoice for your corporate MasterCard. It seems that you’ve been stocking up on a few household items on our dime. The $400 gas grill you bought at Home Depot jumped out like a red strobe-light. That made the decision easy. What were you thinking?”
Wilson was silent for a moment. Wayne couldn’t tell if the question was meant rhetorically or if Wilson was waiting for an answer, which he didn’t have.
“If I weren’t firing you now, corporate would fire you and me both by the end of the week.”
Goddamn, Wayne muttered under his breath. He wondered how many MasterCard invoices they’d looked over and if they were planning to come after him for months of unauthorized purchases. “Listen, Wilson,” he protested.
Wilson interrupted, “You’ve got an hour to pack up your personal items from your desk. There’s a cardboard box for you,” pointing to a corner. “Personnel reminded me that by policy, I’m not to let you out of my sight until you leave the building. And I need your key and your corporate charge card right now. Don’t make me call Security.”
The room was quiet.
“Your key, Wayne. Do us both a favor and get out of here without saying another word. If you’ve been wrongly accused you can take it up with our corporate lawyer. But you and I both know you haven’t been wrongly accused. The laptop computer is yours but we’ll need to erase all your work related files. Let’s get this done,” said Wilson. “This is no easier for me than for you.”
As the men marched out of Wilson’s office towards Wayne’s cubicle, Wilson’s secretary and one of the other salesmen looked at Wayne sympathetically. Wayne removed the framed sales awards off the fabric walls and placed them in the box under Wilson’s watchful eye. Wayne packed the photos of Donna and the kids. Timmy, the company propeller-head, sat nearby with Wayne’s laptop, erasing all company files. Wilson then escorted Wayne to the front door. Wilson held out his hand in a cordial farewell, but Wayne, laden with his large box, looked at him and said, “Go to hell, Wilson.”
“Don’t blame me for your dishonesty. You can go to hell alone.”
Wayne walked to the Metro station and took the train back to the Vienna station. Other people stared at him on the train, but an unspoken rule on Metro was that practically nobody talked to anybody.
It rained heavily while Wayne was en-route. When he emerged at Vienna the parking lot was steaming. Rather than cooling things off, the rain had turned a hot August day into a sauna. He sweated profusely as he walked the hundred yards to where he’d parked the Hummer.
Fuck! The Hummer was gone. He dropped the box from chest level, cracking the glass on the framed photos and his ceramic Redskins coffee mug. Where the hell is the car? “Fucking shit! Goddamn fucking shit!” he screamed.
He grabbed his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. He told the dispatcher that his car had been stolen, and within a few minutes, a cop was there to investigate. An hour had passed before he was on his way home in a cab. On the way he dialed Arnie Heckleman at Allstate. “Arnie, I have a bigger problem,” Wayne said, and explained the situation. Arnie said he’d prepare the paperwork and call back the next day.
After he paid the cabbie, a dark-skinned man with a turban whom he couldn’t understand, Wayne emerged from the cab and beheld his yard. A bedroom window was open on the second floor and his clothes were strewn across the shrubbery. His black Harley Davidson V-Rod Muscle was on its side lying against a forsythia bush beside the driveway. The garage door was open but Donna’s minivan was nowhere to be seen. He dropped the box hard enough to shatter more glass and ran to the garage. What the hell?
His heavy tool case was still there, but the golf clubs were gone, as was his Trek bicycle. He went to the front door, but it was locked and his key didn’t work. He called Donna on the cell phone. As it rang, it occurred to him that she’d done this damage, and thought himself an idiot for taking so long to realize it. She didn’t answer.
He sat on the front steps of his house, seething. The Mortons, an old couple from down the street, walked by with their dachshund on a leash. They looked at Wayne. He looked back at them. The dog barked. The Mortons stopped for a moment. Mrs. Morton, who always seemed to have a vacuous expression, looked like she wanted to say something but was unable to find words. They continued walking.
He gathered the clothes from the yard and put them in a couple of boxes he found in the garage. He lowered the garage door but didn’t close it fully, preventing it from locking as his key no longer worked.
He called his golfing buddy Martin Kneeland. “Martin, I have a problem. Can you drive over?”
Wayne walked over to the fallen Harley and picked it up, leaning it on its side-stand. He straightened the mirrors. He looked at the sizeable dent in the faux gas tank. The muffler was also dented and the chrome was scratched. He shook his head and gritted his teeth.
Martin arrived a few minutes later in the BMW. They picked up Wayne’s belongings and Martin drove them to his house as Wayne followed on the Harley. As they arrived in Martin’s driveway, Martin said sarcastically, “I think I may have suggested that Donna wouldn’t be happy.”
Wayne barked, “Did you tell her, you son of a bitch?”
“Not on your life, asshole. I haven’t said a word. This one’s on you.”
Martin’s wife, Cheryl, fixed dinner while Martin pumped the air mattress in the family room downstairs for Wayne to sleep on. Cheryl barely spoke at dinner, indicative to Wayne of her displeasure either with the behavior that precipitated his expulsion or over having her Acura SUV displaced by the Harley in the garage, or both. As they cleared the plates after dessert, Martin told Wayne, “You’re my friend and I’ll help you as much as I can. But don’t overstay your welcome. This isn’t a hotel.”
At 8 p.m., Wayne tried calling Donna again. This time she answered, “Hello Wayne.”
“Donna, where are you?”
“I’m home. I’m not at home, but I’m in town. The kids and I came back to town early because I had some things to attend to at the house.”
“I noticed. Donna, my Hummer was stolen today.”
“Really?”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Surprised? No, I’m not. I left your spare key on the hood.”
“You bitch!”
“I’m not even going to honor that with a response. I know you’ve been sleeping around. One of my friends from college lives in Alexandria. She called me a few weeks ago to ask when we got divorced! When I asked her what she meant, she told me she saw you with another woman walking in her neighborhood. I hired the best private investigator around. Now I know everything. You better hope to God your Ms. Menendez’ husband, Carlos, never finds out what you and she have been doing. You’re a bastard. I never want to see you again.”
“Let’s talk this over,” he insisted.
“There’s nothing to talk about. You’ve committed an unpardonable offense. Our marriage is over. I hope you burn in hell.” She hung up.
He wondered if she knew he’d been fired, too.
+ + + +
August 31
The next day, Wayne set up a working desk on Martin’s ping-pong table. He called around and made some appointments to look at renting an apartment. He called Arnie Heckleman at Allstate again. Heckleman said their adjusters were determining a value for the Hummer and he’d call back when he could get a check cut. Wayne told Heckleman to call him on the cell phone rather the home phone when the check was ready. Heckleman said it would take a couple of days to arrange a rental car for Wayne to use.
Remembering that his recent call with his mother regarded furniture, Wayne called her. “Hi mom, it’s Wayne.”
“Hello sweetie. How is everything?”
“My Hummer was stolen yesterday. I’ve not had a very good week. Say, mom, when we talked a couple of weeks ago, you said Uncle Phil has some furniture to give away. Donna and I have been talking it over and we’d like to have a look. What’s his number?” Beyond prevaricating about Donna, he made no mention of his firing. His mother gave him Phil’s number and he hung up.
He gingerly called his uncle, having no idea what to expect from such an old man. The voice on the other end of the line answered cheerfully, “Professor McGranahan here!”