Chapter 2

'That ain't tactics honey, that's the beast in me'

                                                                   Elvis Presley, from the MGM motion picture,  “Jailhouse Rock”

From the journal of 
Lawrence Gill
May 12

   I went to Tia’s store, arriving around 3:15 p.m. It was, as always, a pleasant experience. As you swing open the door, which jingles with the little bells affixed to the handle, the pleasant smell of exotic incense permeates the air. You find yourself surrounded by numerous oddities-strange statues of mysterious gods and goddesses, goblets and other tableware ranging in metals from brass to solid silver, an entire wall displaying bags of local and exotic herbs and literally hundreds of different colored candles. She also has athames and swords, as well as handmade linens. Near the desk are many different kinds of pagan jewelry. Also found there is a wide variety of pagan literature and books, as well as calendars and Tarot cards.  It’s difficult for the eyes to take it all in during one visit. 
   Tia greeted me from her desk, as I walked over to her and gave her the obligatory kiss on the forehead.
   “How are your legs and back today?” she asked.
   “Still hurting a bit, but I’m getting around,” I replied. She disappeared into the back room for a moment and returned with a small brown jar with my name written in Magic Marker on the lid.
   “As promised . . . ” she said.
   “Thank you, Tia. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I said. I was absolutely bursting inside with the desire to tell her what had happened last night. Finally, I could wait no more.
   “Guess What!” I said, sounding like an eight-year-old with a secret to tell. Tia only looked at me expectantly.
   “I’m having supper with Mina tonight,” I blurted.
   “Who?” she said, looking confused.
   “You know . . . Mina . . . Bride,” I replied.
   “Are you now?” she said rather slyly.
   “Yep. Nine o’clock tonight,” I said with some accomplishment.
   “So you finally got your nerve up . . . eh?” she asked teasingly.
   “Well . . . no . . . not exactly. She invited me to dinner.” Tia chuckled at this.
   “Well, that just figures,” she laughed.
   “I really don’t know much about her.” I said, hoping to lead her a bit.
   “Nor do I, sugar. I know she’s only been in town for about six months or so. She stops in about once a week-you know-to pick up incense and candle supples. We chit-chat, and I always remind her of upcoming Esbats. She’s asked about you more than once, I can tell you that.”
   “Whudshesay! Whudshesay!” I blurted in a tone so sophomoric I’m still cringing from it.
   “Just the usual questions a young lady would ask,” she said laughingly. “Were you married-did you have a girlfriend-why you . . . ” Tia trailed off.
   “Why I what?” I insisted.
   “Why you have to walk with a cane sometimes,” Tia said pensively.
   “Oh . . . ” I said as my heart and my stomach sank.
   “Look, sugar,” Tia continued, “She likes you . . . and if I may say so, she’d be damn lucky to get you, cane or not. You are as sweet a man as the deities ever put on this earth. How many times have I told you-it’s the heart that matters? It’s all in the heart, sugar.” 
   “Thank you, Tia,” I said, still unable to hide my disappointment.	
   “How long have you been alone, now . . . no wife . . . no girlfriend . . . nobody?” Tia asked.	
   “Seven years,” I said as I looked down. Tia leaned in on me, taking my right hand in both of hers.
   “Don’t you think it’s time you gave yourself a chance, son?” she whispered.
   “I’ll try,” I whispered back.
   “Get to it, then,” she nearly yelled, “no point standing around jackin’ your jaw with an old crone like me when there’s supper to be had with a beautiful young woman! Get home and get gussied up!” With that, I kissed Tia on the forehead again, attempted to pay her something for the poultice (which she wouldn’t hear of), and made my way home.
   I have four hours left to prepare myself for this dinner engagement. Subtracting the time I will spend fretting, second guessing what to wear and practicing lines in the mirror that I’ll never use, I have two
hours. I will write more when this evening is over.

From the journal of 
Lawrence Gill
May 13

The events of last night and this morning were as follows-

    I shook during most of my shower. As I got out of the tub, I sat on the toilet to steady myself. I felt as if I were just inches away from a panic attack. I began drying myself as I sat there running last night’s conversation with Mina over and over in my mind . . . 
“...dinner . . . nine o’ clock . . . it’s a date . . . I have something I want to give you . . . what do I call you . . . ”I continued to get ready. My hair, jet black and down to the middle of my back, was most uncooperative. I had blonde and silver hair naturally, but I had been dying it and my goatee for a few years. I ran some cheap leave-in conditioner through my hair which seemed to tame it somewhat. I shaved-twice. I carefully trimmed my moustache and goatee, but my hands were shaking and I nearly botched it.  
   Now, what to wear? I decided on my poet’s shirt, black with a lace-up front and slightly poofy sleeves. It looks like something from the Medieval age, and is just a hair’s breadth under the radar of being goofy looking. I do like it, however, and I know Mina likes it. She complimented me on it a few months ago at a meeting. She had even gone as far as far as asking where I bought it. 
    “Now, the pants,” I said out loud. I opted for a newer pair of Levi’s-a little baggy, but not “Hip-Hop” baggy. I pulled on my jump boots. They were authentic-just like the ones that the 101st Airborne Division wore. Then I was back at the mirror to see what was missing. In this anxious condition, the paunch of my belly looked three times its normal size. I had lines around my mouth and eyes. I had a permanent forward slouch in my posture. I looked to be a man of 45 than his early thirties, and a hard 45 at that.
   As I reached for the modest pentacle and strung it around my neck, my eye lighted on the Tiger-Eye ring in the bowl where I keep my jewelry. It is the simplest of rings, yet so beautiful. The stone is of a modest size and shaped in a long oval. It sets in a silver band with three holes in the silver on either side of the stone. The instant I touched it, a flood of memories came rushing into my mind-the 25th birthday when I had received it from my young daughter, Cindy. I always called her “Hoo-Hoo”, a name derived from Cindy-Lou Hoo in the Dr. Seuss cartoon “How The Grinch Stole Christmas.  Little Cindy-Lou Hoo who was no more than two.
   Inevitably, this led me to the memory of that night-that awful night-when the Goddess saw fit to call my baby away from me forever. I jerked myself back into the present moment. I was not going to do this to myself tonight. Everyone was right-I had to try to live the rest of my life. I at least had to try tonight. Oddly, I slipped the ring on my finger. Watch over me tonight, little Cindy-Lou Hoo . This was the first time I had worn the ring in eight years.
   I deducted that it would take me just over an hour to get to Mina’s place. I recognized the address as being in East Toledo, just across the Martin Luther King Bridge. The old-timers, black and white, still called it the Cherry Street Bridge.
   Toledo is wonderful in that there are little pockets of various ethnic neighborhoods that are still steeped in tradition. During the summer, there are Irish Festivals, German Festivals and Polish Festivals all packed with ethnic foods, dances and pageants. East Toledo, however, is completely different from the rest of the city. I find it has a much more southern flavor to it. The people over the bridge love the little city they have made for themselves. There have been people who were born, raised, schooled, earned a living, raised families of their own, retired and died without ever leaving East Toledo. Some people on my side of the bridge don’t like East Toledo, but I have always felt comfortable when visiting there. Just before I was ready to leave, I called the number that Mina had given me. She answered on the second ring.
   “Hello,” she said. Her voice reminded me of water.
   “Hey,” I said, failing to identify myself.
   “Hi Larry,” she giggled. I could hear some other girls in the background returning her giggles. 
   “I just wanted to make sure we were still on for tonight,” I said. I sounded about as suave as Curly from The Three Stooges.
   “Well, I HOPE so,” she said with mock sarcasm.
   “O.K.-good,” I said.
   “Say, do you want me to come over and pick you up,” she asked.
   “Oh . . . no. I have that all taken care of. I have a ride,” I fibbed.
   “O.K., Larry . . . see you in a bit,” she said in a sing-songy voice. So it was to be Larry. That’s what she was going to call me, and that was fine. She could call me anything she wanted . . . except late for dinner . . . I remembered, wincing. I grabbed my wallet and cane and headed out my front door. I wasn’t terribly sore right now, as the shower had loosened my joints a bit.
   I made my way to the bus stop in front of my apartment. It was already dark and cool outside, as the longer days of summer were still a few weeks away. I had to catch the number 20 bus to downtown, and then transfer to the number 14 to East Toledo. There was a five minute wait between buses, so I amused myself by watching the other commuters waiting for their buses. I stifled a laugh when I thought to myself how shallow the gene pool became at this time of night in downtown Toledo. As I boarded the number 14, the panic started to return. It won’t be long, now. All I could hope for now was that the panic would induce a heart attack before I had time to make a fool of myself.
   I exited the bus on Main St., right in front of a pizza parlor. I looked at the small piece of paper Mina had given me (Why? I had every scratch and symbol on it memorized). 301 Main St., it read. I was a block too far east. I was numb with anxiety, save for the pains that the night air was returning to me, as I walked back west on Main St. The buildings  were mostly shops and variety stores, in those old-timey two and three story buildings that you can’t help but look at and wonder what they were in their hay-day. I stopped in front of a tobacco shop that had a circular neon sign that read “301 Main St.” For just a moment, I thought I’d been had. That made more sense-a cruel trick played on a stumbling bumpkin from southern Indiana. Just then, I heard Mina’s voice from up above.
   “Hey YOU! Are you lost?”I looked up to find her in an open window, her chin resting on her hands.
   “Hey, what are you doing up there? Are you a tobacco farmer?” I said, pointing to the sign.
There you go. Now THAT didn’t take long, did it? I’d said something stupid before I had even got in the door.
   “Go around . . . to the side,” she said, motioning with her finger. In seconds I was standing in front of the door. I figured I had about sixty seconds to get it together, and I wasn’t going to make it. There was a click of the lock, and the door swung open.
   I’ve read several descriptions from various faiths of what angels look like, but I never need wonder again. Mina stood there in a blinding white floor length dress, with tied string shoulder straps. The front was only mildly revealing, with just an inch of cleavage showing. Her blonde hair was down and free flowing, and seemed much more curly than usual. She wore a two-inch wide white ribbon around her neck. The ribbon held a medium size cameo with some sort of crest on it . . . a bird . . . maybe an eagle.
   “You look nice,” she said with a smile.
   “You look . . . incredible,” I said with an exhale.
   “Come on up,” she invited, motioning with her hand. I followed behind her on the dimly lit staircase, and saw that the back of her dress was cut lower than the front. The skin of her back and shoulders was creamy and white, flawless and without a blemish.
   I don’t know what I expected to see at the top of the stairs, but I certainly didn’t expect what was there. There was no door in which to enter her apartment. When I reached the top of the stairs, I was in the apartment.
   “This place is huge,” I remarked.
   “Thanks. We have the entire floor,” she turned to me and said. Damn it. She said WE, didn’t she? Sensing my apprehension, Mina added,
   “I have two roommates, the girls you’ve seen me with at the Esbats,” Unbelievably, I let slip an audible “Whew.” Mina only smiled. Trying to switch gears, I said, “So where do you want to eat?”“Here,” she replied. “I’m cooking supper for you tonight.”
   “No shit?” I slipped. Note to self: Hang yourself when you get home. Mina laughed hard.
   “Yeah, no shit,” she chimed. Only then did I realize that I could smell vegetables and rice in the air.
   “You do eat meat . . . right?” she asked.
   “Yes, I do,” I said. “And you?”
   “I’m definitely a carnivore,” she replied, arching her eyebrows. Then she asked, “How do you like your steak?”
   “Medium-well,” I answered.
   “Oh, we better get yours’ started then. Everything is ready except the meat.”
   “Anything I can do to help?” I asked.
   “Yes. Go in the study and pick out some dinner music,” she said, pointing to the open room directly to my left. 
    The room had been decorated with impeccable taste. The study was filled with cherry. The desk, the bookshelves, the hardwood floor, all made of cherry. The lamps and other embellishments were made of brightly polished brass, and my memory was immediately back to the office my father worked in. This room certainly had the same feel to it. I looked at some of the books on the shelves-Voltaire, Mallory, Freud, Darwin-it was a fantastic collection. On the opposite side of the room was another set of shelves. On one of them sat a modest stereo, with compact disks lined up two deep on either side. The collection was a plethora of musical styles-Mozart, Holst, Black Sabbath, Buddy Holly, Green Day, Nine Inch Nails-this was obviously the result of the three girls’ musical tastes being conglomerated into one collection. My mind and fingers searched feverishly for what I thought a young lady might find as romantic and appropriate dinner music. Ahhh . . . there it was! Kenny G-I could suffer through anything while having dinner with Mina.
   After starting the music, I stood there for a few minutes with nothing to do. I had no idea where the kitchen was and I wasn’t about to go wandering around. I had noticed a sitting room directly across from the study, on the other side of the stairs. I made my way there. The room was carpeted in red, and there was a black leather couch and matching recliner, and an old wooden rocking chair in the corner. Two shelves went all the way around the three walls, decorated with figurines and knick-knacks-angels, unicorns and friendly looking baby dragons. A coffee table, made entirely of brass and smoked glass, sat in front of the couch. I sat on the edge of the seat of the recliner, fidgeting with my fingers and waiting for what seemed like a long time.
   Finally, Mina whizzed by from the back of the apartment and went to the study. Turning the music up, she said, “Ooo . . . that sounds so good,” then asked, “are you ready to eat?”
   “Sure,” I said. She motioned for me, and I followed. I noticed that she seemed shorter than I remembered. I followed her down the hallway, passing doors on either side as we went. We were near the end of the hall when she made a sharp right. I followed her into the candle-lit dining room. Everything was in place, and the food was on the table. She motioned to my plate, but I stopped short to pull out her chair.
   “Why, Thank you, Sir,” she said in a mock debutante style accent. I took my place and looked at the food in front of me-New York Strip, sauteed mushrooms, baked potato, shrimp cocktail, a flavored rice of some kind, real butter and sour cream, crescent rolls-Yep, all the four food groups were represented here. Also, she had pulled it off without so much as one spot on her immaculately white dress. I nervously eyed the bottle of wine sitting in the middle of the table. Thankfully, there was a large filled water glass in my place setting, so I wouldn’t have to ask for something else to drink.
   As we began eating, the first thing I noticed was that Mina didn’t pick at her food like some girls. She actually ate it, and with some conviction. She was certainly not ill-mannered, but I could tell that she really enjoyed her food. I found this refreshing. My gaze fell to her plate, and my eyes boggled at the site. Her steak was red. I mean to say, her steak was RAW. It didn’t appear that she had even bothered searing the outside. Blood was running all over her plate. It ran into and mingled with the mushrooms and rice. I shivered and directed my gaze back to my own plate.	
   “Aren’t you going to have some wine?” she asked.
   “I can’t. I’m allergic,” I said. I had learned to use this line in Alcoholics Anonymous. Alcoholism is indeed a type of allergy, and this was a graceful way of turning down a drink without exposing your malady to people who offered you a casual drink.
   “Oh . . . I’m sorry,” she said, looking a bit disappointed.
   “Oh . . . no,” I said. “You feel free to have some. It doesn’t bother me . . . I just can’t have any.”
   “No. I just thought you might like some. I don’t like it either. I never drink . . . wine.” Other than the occasional compliment of Mina’s cooking, I ate in silence, and so did she. Mina seemed just as interested in finishing her meal as I was in not saying anything stupid.
   As we both finished the meal, Mina wiped her mouth and began stacking dishes.
   “Please, let me help,” I said, stacking my own dishes. 
   “O.K. Let’s just put them in the sink,” she replied. The kitchen was just off from the dining room, close enough that I could make the trip without my cane. I stacked a load of dishes in the sink, and as I turned around, Mina was right behind me. She looked up at me, and her face was within six inches of mine. Her face had only traces of light make-up. Her lips were full and bright red, and her eyes had a heavy lidded sleepy quality to them. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Suddenly, I came to myself.
   “Here,” I said, taking the dishes she held. I put them in the sink, and when I turned back around Mina was still standing there, in the same position. Was she waiting for me to kiss her? My heart sped in anticipation. She pushed up as if standing on her toes, took my hand, then said, 
“Let’s go sit in the front room.” She dropped back down flat-footed. We walked back up the hall, side by side, her hand still holding mine. We stopped at the staircase, and Mina motioned toward the sitting room.
   “Have a seat while I pick out some more music,” she said. I made my way in and sat on the edge of the recliner. From the study, I could hear the changing of the CD, followed by the opening notes of
Tchaikovsky's ‘Swan Lake.’ Mina appeared in the opening of the sitting room.
   “Oooh NO!” she said in mock scolding, “On the couch, so I can sit next to you.” As I stood up, I found us again only inches apart. Suddenly, my mouth engaged itself again without benefit of my mind.
   “You look shorter than usual,” I blurted. Would there be no end to my asininity? Mina stuck one leg out, and the dress rode up to just the bottom of her calf. I saw her foot, twisting in a circle at the ankle, clad only in a thin white nylon with small red dots on it. 
   “You’re used to seeing me in my mules,” she smiled, then said, “Why? You don’t like short girls?”
   “Oh . . . no . . . I love short girls . . . I mean . . . I . . . uh . . . ” I trailed off. I wondered where they sold those little cyanide capsules that you just bite down on when you’re in a pinch and . . . 
   “It’s O.K.,” Mina laughed, “I know what you meant.” We sat down together on the couch. My body was more stiff than Al Gore in a starch factory. Mina snuggled a bit closer, her legs drawn up under her. She put her elbow on the back of the couch, with her head resting in her open palm. I drummed my fingers on my knees, afraid to open my mouth again.
   “Do I make you nervous?” she asked.
   “No, I make me nervous,” I answered stiffly. Mina smiled and said, 
   “You’ll be fine once we get to know each other better.” All I could say was, “O.K.” Mina began asking me questions about where I was from. I loosened a bit and told her about Franklin and my childhood. Finally, when the subject swayed that way, she asked, “Have you ever been married?”
   “Yes, for about six years. I’ve been divorced for seven,” I answered, “and you?”
   “ I’m a widower,” she answered, with no change in her demeanor. 
   “Oh . . . I’m sorry,” I said with a wince.
   “It’s O.K., dear. It was a very long time ago,” she said.
   “It couldn’t have been that long,” I said, “You’re so young.”
   “I’d bet that I’m not as young as you think I am,” Mina said. It was quiet for a minute, then Mina asked,
   “So what happened-with your wife, I mean? Do you have any children?” Now what do I do? Do I tell her the truth, or just gloss the whole thing over?
   “We had a daughter,” I started. “Her name was Cindy. She was born with cerebral palsy. She got really sick when she was five-a really bad respiratory infection. The doctors . . . they did everything they could . . . ” I trailed off for a second, then continued, “My wife tried to stick it out with me . . . but all I could do was drink. She finally left me.” I looked over at Mina, and a single tear was streaming down her cheek.
   “Maybe we should talk about something else,” I suggested. Mina rallied and said,
   “So I hear you’re an artist.”
   “Yes,” I said, “I paint and sculpt, and I have some training in working with stained glass. I just finished a series of paintings that I was commissioned to paint for that big Baptist church out by the interstate . . . pastoral scenes, mostly.”
   “Wow!” Mina said, “You must do pretty well for yourself.”
   “I do O.K.,” I said.”I also receive structured payments on the inheritance my grandmother-my dad’s mother- left me. She passed away a few years ago. She was so proud of me when I got so . . . ”
   “When you what?” Mina insisted.
   “When I got sober,” I admitted. “I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been sober for four years.” I could hardly believe I was telling her all of this.
   “Good for YOU!” she said proudly, squeezing my shoulder. As I sat there, I realized that this was the first time I had been able to tell anyone these things about myself . . . anyone that wasn’t getting paid to listen, anyhow. By this time, I was completely at ease. I had no more secrets to keep from Mina-no more skeletons-save for one. However, even that was about to change. 
   “Larry, why do your legs and back hurt sometimes?” she asked. I replied in a somber tone,
   “About a year after my daughter died, I was driving drunk. I rolled my truck and hit a telephone pole out in the country. I was there, unconscious, for about two hours before someone found me. I was busted up pretty bad.”
   “Larry, is that when your wife left you,” Mina asked.
   “Yeah,” I replied. I looked at my watch . . . the time had gotten away from me.
   “I should really be going. The last buses run in about a half-hour, and . . . ” Mina interrupted,
   “None of that . . . I’m taking you home tonight.”
   “I really couldn’t ask . . . ”
   “Hey,” Mina interrupted, “are you afraid for me to know where you live or something?”
   “Oh . . . gosh no!” I said, Gosh? Where in the hell had that come from?
   “Then I won’t have any argument,” Mina said, “I really want you to stay for a while, so I’m taking you home tonight.” I wasn’t about to argue with that . . . and besides, I didn’t mind at all if Mina knew where I lived . . . or my phone number . . . or the pin number on my bank account, or . . . 
   “So, you’ve been alone for a long time, then,” Mina said.
   “Yes . . . a long time,” I agreed.
   “Larry, how long has it been since you kissed a woman?” Mina asked, turning my face toward hers with one finger.
   “It’s been a long time,” I said, turning my face back to the floor.
   “How long?” she insisted.
   “Seven years,” I admitted reluctantly.
   “That’s too long,” she said, turning my face up again. With that, Mina straddled my lap with her knees. She looked down on me, just a few inches from my face. 
   “Much too long,” she whispered. She put her open mouth over mine, her hands gently running up the back of my head. My arms instinctively folded around her, holding her tightly. Yes, she was right . . . this had been too long in coming. Her lips ran gently down my cheek, then lingered at my throat. Her warm breath on the side of my neck caused my entire body to shudder. Then, she kissed my neck, and gave it the most gentle of nibbles. I shivered again. She kissed her way back to my mouth. My tongue found its way into her mouth, and she sucked on it. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the kiss was over. Mina maneuvered herself so that she was sitting sideways in my lap, her fingers laced behind my neck. She laid her head on my chest, and we sat there holding each other. Her hair smelled so sweet, like myrrh, and I buried my face in the top of her head. I wanted this moment to last forever. Eventually, Mina took her place next to me on the couch. After this, my physical need to urinate won out against my desire to remain at her side. 
   “Where’s your bathroom?” I asked sheepishly.
   “Just go down the hall . . . second door on the left . . . the little door,” she instructed. As I stood up, I wobbled a little-partly because of my knees-but mostly from the rush of passion I had just experienced. I grabbed my infernal stick and headed for the bathroom.
   The bathroom was very small and plain compared to the rest of the house, about the size of a service station rest room, with a stand up shower in it. I relieved myself, and as I washed my hands, I discovered something strange. There was no mirror above the sink. Instead, there was a square piece of what appeared to be black glass. However, it had a shine to it and I could see myself well enough. I washed my face with cold water, and smoothed down my hair. How strange-three young women lived in this apartment, yet there was no proper mirror in the bathroom. 
   I made my way back to the sitting room. Mina still sat on the couch, eyes closed and swaying her head gently out of time to Swan Lake’s  Act 2 : No.13 Danses des cygnes : V. Pas d'action: Andante - Andante non troppo - Tempo I - Allegro. Her angelic look coupled with the soothing sound of the harp created an almost surreal scene, like something I would dream about her . . . an angel lost in the heaven of her mind.
   I studied the scene intently, trying hard to capture it in my mind like a photograph. I could never paint anything this beautiful. I surrendered myself to the feelings that I had been experiencing since the first time I had lain eyes on her, and for the first time allowed my mind to say the words that my heart had known all along-‘I am in love with her.’ Mina opened her eyes and saw me there, and covered her face with both hands, as if embarrassed. 
   “I didn’t want to interrupt you,” I said, sitting back down next to her. As the music continued, Mina said,
   “I have something I want to give you.” I could think of no gift greater than having been in her arms. She reached under the couch, pulling something from underneath. It was . . . a cane. She handed it to me, and I took it gently in my hands. The bulk of it was made of some type of metal, black and shining. The pure silver top was round just above the stick part, and stretched out into an elongated shape. Upon closer examination, I saw that the round part formed a pentacle, and where the handle stretched out, there was the head and neck of a wolf, ears laid back and teeth bared. It was absolutely beautiful, and I was speechless. 
   “I just thought,” Mina said, “that it looked more like a dressy walking stick than a cane, and that it might not bother you so much to be seen with it.” I could not stop the swell of tears that came to my eyes, then fell streaming down my cheeks. 
   “I...don’t know what to say,” I choked.
   “Well,” Mina said, “you could say you like it.”
   “I love it.” I said aloud, ‘and I love you, too,’ my mind said silently to myself.
   “There’s a surprise inside,” Mina smiled, “in case you ever need it.” She took it and unscrewed the handle, and affixed to the handle was a thirteen-inch dagger, sharpened on both sides. She ran her thumb lightly up the blade, warning, “Be careful-it’s very sharp.” She had no more than said the words when she pulled her hand back with a start. I took her hand and saw that she had a tiny incision on her thumb, a single drop of blood forming in the center. I kissed it, and playfully sucked her thumb. 
   “There . . . is that better,” I asked.
   “Yes . . . much. You have an incredibly sexy bedside manner, Doctor,” she said with a smile. I carefully slid the dagger back in its place, and screwed the cane back together. I continued to examine and admire it. I noticed that the pentagram on it was upside-down. In paganism and ceremonial magick this was usually associated with the “left-hand path,” which I had always tried to avoid. However, in this case, it was of no consequence. I would love and cherish my new prize for what it was, and moreover, for who had given it to me.
   Eventually, I looked at my watch again. It was quite late, and I feared wearing out my welcome. I said to Mina, “Am I keeping you up?”
   “Not at all,” she said, “but I do have some work to do, so I should really get you home.”
   “What kind of work do you do,” I asked.
   “I have an online business,” she replied. I sat there waiting for more details, which never came. Mina grabbed her purse from the floor on her end of the couch, and looked at me with some anticipation. I stood up and followed her to the staircase. She stopped at the edge to put her feet in some slipper type shoes, and we made our way down the stairs. On the way to my apartment, we talked about how much we had enjoyed ourselves. I thanked her repeatedly for the meal and the cane. When she had found a parking space at my apartment complex, she put the car in park and left the engine running. She exited the car, motioning for me to come around to her side. I left the car, carrying both canes now, and walked around to where she stood. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me-long and passionately.
   “Call me tomorrow?” she asked, sticking her lower lip out in a pout.
   “Absolutely,” I said, “what time?”
   “Call me in the evening,” she said, “daytime isn’t good for me.”
   “O.K., tomorrow evening, then,” I said adding, “and thank you again . . . for everything.” After one more quick kiss, I made my way to my apartment building, stopping at the door to watch Mina drive away. I went into my apartment, heading straight to the closet, and put my old wooden cane there. I was completely exhausted, both mentally and physically. I went to bed, and my dreams were filled with visions of Mina, swaying in an offbeat ballet to music I’d never heard before.  Shortly after waking up this morning, I began this entry in my journal. More later.

e-mail from Mina to undisclosed recipient

May 13   4:15 a.m.
   My evening with our friend went better than could be expected. Not only did he accept the cane (and with tears of gratitude, I might add), but through an unforseen accident, my blood now courses through his veins. It was only a drop, but more than enough to bring him over.
   I am growing quite fond of our friend. I have done nothing more than be myself with him, and he seems to love me dearly. Although I lost the ability to feel guilt of conscience many decades ago, I find myself wishing that I could lead him to his destiny in complete honesty-without deceit. I suppose that, in the end, it won’t much matter. I only ask that, for as long as he is fulfilling his purpose, he remain in my possession. It’s been so long since I had a pet, and he will be more likely to obey me than anyone else. After all, it is my 
blood that is now running through his veins.