EXPERIMENTS
By
David St. James
PRELUDE
Shea McTory felt guilty for photographing this cruel scene, but the world needed to know. No, the truth was, Shea McTory needed to further his hoped-for journalism career. And he had just learned something about himself that he would rather have not found out. He knew he had always been, basically, a loser, but he had always tried to not be an asshole too. But that’s what was going through his mind. He was an asshole.
The subjects of the cruel scene, the two boys, stood beside each other. They were skin and bone. I’m an asshole.
The sight of them, the smells in the room, the pure ugliness, all were making Shea’s insides crawl. His skin was crawling. He could barely look at the boys. No way could he touch them. No way. I’m an asshole. And Natalie hadn’t even said, specifically, what was happening, but he knew that she knew, and Shea didn’t even want to know.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
WAKEUP
1
WAKEUP
One month earlier
The need to urinate broke into Shea McTory's dream. Where the hell
was he? Rain was spattering on the dark window. Lightening flashed. The
huge cottonwood across the alley became visible.
Then he remembered. The nutrition research lab. For months. And still he wasn’t accustomed to the somewhat different living conditions. Somewhat? Likely no place on earth like it.
And he had to piss. That happened sometimes on rainy, cold nights. Or, could be his period. One of the things the lab had learned, that males too had monthly periods, or as they called them at the lab, water cycles. Whatever.
His dream too had been full of water. And a certain woman. They had
been dang close to consummating their relationship, and how many times had that happened in his dreams? Then he had to piss. No wet dream. Hell no.
He swung his legs to the floor, sat blinking for a few seconds, then slipped his sandals on, rose, and headed for the door.
****
Trying to keep the noisy latch quiet Shea pulled the door open. Natalie, the night nurse, sat at her desk. He always had erotic dreams when she came on duty at eleven, when everybody was supposed to be asleep. Strange how that worked. Rich brunette hair the color of German chocolate hung in curls to her shoulders. At the moment she had her head down.
It didn't matter if she saw him. Just a matter of privacy. Had to do with what the volunteers were required to do there. Staff had said no need for embarrassment, but with Natalie he felt some embarrassment.
He stepped into the hall, pulled the door back to the latch but did not close, then started across the darkened floor. About ten feet to the well-lit bathroom. He made it without her looking up.
He shaded his eyes from the brightness and groped toward the refrigerator, pulled the magnet-sealed door. His jug sat in front. One gallon. Blue label. His name: MCTORY. How did his always manage to reach the front? He snatched it and entered one of the private cubicles, made his urine deposit, returned the jug to sit with the other color-coded labels, but pushed his to the back. Each volunteer could have memorized his own color. Then they wouldn’t have had to put their names on the bottles. But hell no. Some dumbass would have forgotten and pissed in somebody else's piss.
At the door he covered his eyes and waited a few seconds for his eyes to readjust, then pushed the door open. Now if he could just get back to his room without Natalie looking up. What he would like would be to stride gallantly to the office, lay her down on the desk and let nature take its course. And that time of day just quadrupled his desire.
But what a dream. What a dreamer.
It wasn't a sound. Not a shadow. But something made him look first down the hall opposite of Natalie. What the hell? One of those stretchers-on-wheels being pushed down the hall? It disappeared.
He blinked three or more times then saw, vaguely, but yes, the elevator door closing. But there was no interior light. He thought not anyway. So damn dark. He blinked several more times. Or had he seen nothing?
No movement now.
He glanced toward Natalie. No movement there either. Not at her desk. Fine, so he didn't get to glimpse her again. Fine. So he didn't expect she stayed in one spot all night. He slipped back to his room. Done. He had gotten his privacy.
Back in bed he wondered about the stretcher-on-wheels. Had there been a body on it? If so, who? Why in the middle of the night? And why apparent secrecy? He didn't wonder long. Sleep came quickly in that place, and dreamland. Had to be the food.
****
Shea's morning erection had grown out of his shorts and was rock solid. A woman opened his door. He knew her. He knew the rosy cheeks. That lush hair. But he couldn't quite make out her face. He could not see definitely who she was. She stepped through the cracked-open door with a beam of light, then closed the door and glided to his bedside.
Waves of passion swept him but he knew what she would do. Nothing that he wanted. But wait. What was she doing? Pulling the sheet back? Exposing his erection? Then she knelt. Then she caressed the top of his upper right thigh. Then she leaned toward him, her lovely mouth opening wide.
"Vital signs, Shea. Good morning."
He awoke instantly and turned onto his right side. His rock solid erection shrank like a deflated balloon. The pitiable thing remaining retreated into his shorts, the sheet and the blanket. She wouldn't see it, and, again, would not know of his lust for her.
In the crack of light she stood, clipboard in hand, stethoscope around her neck, white sleeveless pullover smock reflecting morning from the hallway. Her rosy cheeks glowed as if she had just came in from zero degrees weather.
"Morning, Natalie."
She closed the door to its crack and walked to his bedside. She sat next to him. Human contact. So comforting. So rousing but he must control that. She inserted a thermometer into his waiting mouth, grasped his wrist, checked her watch, finally smiled her professional smile.
After a moment he knew she had finished the count of his pulse. But
she continued holding his wrist, occasionally glancing at his chest rising
and falling. Her way of measuring his respiration. The other nurses would
just drop his wrist and stare at his chest. But Natalie did it her way, and
he enjoyed the extended contact. Natalie could hold his wrist as long as she wanted.
He lay quietly gazing at the smooth shape of her face. Those lips. Full, perfectly shaped. Kissable. He ached to kiss them, to merge with her. The core of his groin stirred.
She released his wrist. The stir stopped.
Blood pressure next. She began wrapping the pressure cuff around his upper arm while his hand dangled close to her breast at times. Then she pumped the inflation bulb till circulation seemed threatened, placed the stethoscope
on the lower part of his arm beside the cuff, finally gazed at the manometer, watching the liquid in the tube gauge rise and then fall.
Efficient Natalie was. Blood pressure was the best time for seeing the sharpness in her eyes, and the softness. Her brown eyes held everything he had ever wanted. But today they seemed, sunken, as if she felt distressed by something.
"130 or 80. Not bad, Shea."
His blood pressure was lower still with the other nurses. Funny thing about that. At last she removed the thermometer, checked it, made her entries. The thermometers were outdated but handy to keep the volunteers from talking until the nurses were finished. Ditto for blood pressure, outdated in the new millennium but the lab had decided to keep the antiquated operations specifically for the volunteers psyche: better human contact with the nurses.
He wanted to ask, what? What could he ask? Why her eyes were sunken? Yeah, right. Make her feel real good about herself. But he had to say something, to at least remind her he was alive. Probably something stupid, "How about letting me listen." Yes, stupid. But he did want to compare the sound. He pointed to the stethoscope, "Ya got time?"
"Sure." She transferred the tips from her ears to his, then again pumped up the pressure.
Fabum Fabum Fabum
"Wow, that's my heart beating?" Didn't sound the same as with other nurses. He had checked with two. Definitely more intense with Natalie doing vitals.
Her smile glistened. The sunkenness of her eyes seemed to fade as her brow furrowed slightly and those deep eyes seemed to look right into his, for
a second. No longer. "Not exactly." She began rising, "It's a combination
of your heartbeat and the pressure of your blood as I release pressure from the cuff. Sounds kind of strange, huh?"
"Yeah." From the close distance he had also seen faint freckles on the upper part of her nose splaying onto her cheeks. But, vital signs finished. So was his favorite time of day. She remained close. Backlighting from the hall caused an aura in her rich-textured hair. He rose to his right elbow, had almost forgotten, "Natalie, did something happen last night?"
"Happen?"
Worded poorly. Totally groggy in the morning. Had to be the food, "Yeah, with one of the other volunteers?"
"I don't know, Shea. We haven't had our morning meeting yet." She gazed at him, obviously needing more information, "Do you know of something happening?"
"I don't know." He rubbed his eyes, then his forehead, "Probably dreaming."
She stood for a second longer, clasping that hard clipboard over her front with both arms, as if covering herself would lessen his lust for her, as if anything could.
"Meet you at the scales then?"
"Yes, ma'am." Then she was gone, so quickly sometimes as to have never been there at all. He glanced at his lighted digital clock. Six as usual. He threw the covers back, swung his legs, felt for his erection. Long gone. Really gone. Strong was his will power. Ha! Someday he would throw that will power right out the window. Yeah, right.
Sandals. Cutoffs. He slipped the articles on and headed for the door. Will power. What a laugh. Natalie should have been his to chalk up long ago. Yeah. Right.
****
Next stop the restroom. Shea, five-feet-ten, glanced at himself in the mirror as he passed, ran his hand through dark wavy brown hair. If straight it would have hung halfway to his shoulders, but rather it rambled as if styled that way. Good fortune with hair he attributed to the weeks sometimes his hair had gone without washing, and the buildup of oils. It probably would never need conditioner again. Dark eyebrows and lashes and dark blue eyes matched his hair.
He stared at the refrigerator. What an unholy piece of technology for what it contained. A jug of his urine as well as jugs from five other nutrition research live-in volunteers. But duty called. And nature. And Natalie would soon be waiting for him in the exercise room.
Ah, if only she waited just for him. But she would wake the others too, and take their vital signs. He winced at that. Natalie, sitting beside them
on their beds too, and they all probably experiencing similar fantasies.
He jerked the refrigerator door open. The blue-labeled jug sat there. Right in front again. Highlighted. His piss for the last twenty-four hours. He grasped it, slipped into a cubicle, removed the cap, unzipped, pulled out his penis, aimed and released. What a sound. His piss joining more of his piss in a plastic gallon jug with his name on it.
Finished. He shook out. The lab wanted every last drop. No cheating. And not that he considered cheating. But the idea of what went on there. Piss in the bottle. Shit in the bag. He chuckled, zipped up, pushed through the cubicle door, had just about replaced his jug when the swinging door opened.
Damn. He liked to get out of there and get finished weighing and showered and back to his room without having to face any of the other guys before breakfast. No such luck.
"How about that babe, huh?"
The ex-sailor. Shea gazed at the blocky young man, the shoulder length, stringy straight red hair, and tried denying Natalie had sat on his bed too, and had held his wrist. But denial was impossible. It was her job.
"Morning, Ballard." He pushed his jug to the back, closed, headed for
the door, but could not help hearing Ballard's second comment, "That woman don't shit, man. She candies."
Brutally, Shea pushed through the restroom door. He didn't consider that someone might be entering, until the bump. He pulled back, then opened more carefully. A man about six and a half feet tall with dark brown eyes, black hair, metal-rimmed glasses, stood there, evidently shaken.
"Sorry, Galloway."
"So what's the hurry, Shea?" Always needing a shave and older than Shea's thirty-one years, Galloway was his best friend at the lab. And he had almost flattened the man's face.
"Just anxious to get weighed and showered." Already irritated at Ballard, Shea would as soon avoid Ballard's and Galloway's skirmishes too, which could happen at any time and any place, "See you at breakfast."
He hurried toward the exercise room where he knew Natalie would by then be waiting, and part two of his favorite time of day, at least favorite when Natalie did the wakeups.
"Rendezvous with your sweetie, eh?" Galloway called.
Shea waved without turning. Yes, Galloway would think that. He passed Alison in the hall, "Oh, morning, Alison." Alison waved but barely looked at him, and he barely noticed her because he barely knew her. He did notice her face looked kind of taut, though. Alison usually worked only nights and did most of the wakeups. No pounding heartbeats and rampaging erections on those mornings, and not that she wasn't good looking. She was OK, but she wasn't Natalie. Natalie didn't often wake him, and that was all right with Shea, for if she woke him that meant the end of her shift.
Strange Alison would be there for the day shift.
But he thought no more about Alison, and slowed just before turning the corner. Clipboard against her front Natalie waited, that professional smile glowing. Oh yes, she’s my sweetie. Yeah, and he had the world by the ass too.
****
Shea stepped from his sandals onto the scales. He watched Natalie's delicate hand tap the slider. He always looked for a ring but never saw one. But not seeing one didn't mean anything. Lots of married people wore no ring, for whatever reason he did not care. With Natalie he cared. He wanted to know but did not ask. She was so close. He could smell her fragrance, could feel her body heat.
His penis began erecting. He stared down at his groin. Yes, cutoffs already bulging. He felt hot all over—Damn it!
The slider at last reached the right number and the bar hovered in balance. "Seventy-four kilos, Shea." Natalie wrote his weight on her chart, "Three days in a row."
Thank God. He stepped from the scales and turned away enough so that
she wouldn't see, bent slightly and brushed at his groin. The jerky movement loosened his penis enough so that it at least curved upward and did not, horrors, slide into view.
And thank God for the consistency in his weight, which rose and fell in cycles. His reprieve was good for another day. They would not change the calorie level of his diet and he would not have to eat any more of that fat-saturated…he hesitated to call it food.
"Seventy-four kilos, Churchill." Natalie called out his weight.
Oh no. He had forgotten. Physical work capacity. His absolutely least favorite weekly test. He looked at Natalie as if she could help him. She stood smiling her professional smile, clipboard across her front, "See you next week, Shea."
"Next week?" He swung toward her, then remembered the bulge in his cutoffs and swung away again, "But it's only Monday."
"I have the week off." She sobered. For a second her eyes took on that sunken look again. Some problem burdened her. Then the professional smile came back, "I have some personal matters to attend to." No, an almost-smile. Her eyes had not gotten into it that time.
"OK." His very soul went out to her. He wanted to help her. He would
do anything for her, but knew he could do nothing, for the look in her eyes said man. She had some problem with a man. Who? Husband? Ex-husband? Boyfriend? And he stuck here? Nothing he could do. Nothing. Except, "Bye. Good luck."
In turning, her eyes stayed in his for one second longer than usual, as if she knew how he felt, wanted his help, but knew he could not help, knew he was a part of this research for a specified length of time and could not leave outside of a near act of Congress. He had his duty. She had hers. Then she was gone.
A week. A week! His mettle drained right out of him.
"We're waiting, Shea."
Instinctively he grazed his groin with his hand. His erection was gone. And why wouldn't it be? Natalie gone for a week. He did not know how he could survive without her.
But he did turn, and faced his duty.
WAKEUP
One month earlier
The need to urinate broke into Shea McTory's dream. Where the hell
was he? Rain was spattering on the dark window. Lightening flashed. The
huge cottonwood across the alley became visible.
Then he remembered. The nutrition research lab. For months. And still he wasn’t accustomed to the somewhat different living conditions. Somewhat? Likely no place on earth like it.
And he had to piss. That happened sometimes on rainy, cold nights. Or, could be his period. One of the things the lab had learned, that males too had monthly periods, or as they called them at the lab, water cycles. Whatever.
His dream too had been full of water. And a certain woman. They had
been dang close to consummating their relationship, and how many times had that happened in his dreams? Then he had to piss. No wet dream. Hell no.
He swung his legs to the floor, sat blinking for a few seconds, then slipped his sandals on, rose, and headed for the door.
****
Trying to keep the noisy latch quiet Shea pulled the door open. Natalie, the night nurse, sat at her desk. He always had erotic dreams when she came on duty at eleven, when everybody was supposed to be asleep. Strange how that worked. Rich brunette hair the color of German chocolate hung in curls to her shoulders. At the moment she had her head down.
It didn't matter if she saw him. Just a matter of privacy. Had to do with what the volunteers were required to do there. Staff had said no need for embarrassment, but with Natalie he felt some embarrassment.
He stepped into the hall, pulled the door back to the latch but did not close, then started across the darkened floor. About ten feet to the well-lit bathroom. He made it without her looking up.
He shaded his eyes from the brightness and groped toward the refrigerator, pulled the magnet-sealed door. His jug sat in front. One gallon. Blue label. His name: MCTORY. How did his always manage to reach the front? He snatched it and entered one of the private cubicles, made his urine deposit, returned the jug to sit with the other color-coded labels, but pushed his to the back. Each volunteer could have memorized his own color. Then they wouldn’t have had to put their names on the bottles. But hell no. Some dumbass would have forgotten and pissed in somebody else's piss.
At the door he covered his eyes and waited a few seconds for his eyes to readjust, then pushed the door open. Now if he could just get back to his room without Natalie looking up. What he would like would be to stride gallantly to the office, lay her down on the desk and let nature take its course. And that time of day just quadrupled his desire.
But what a dream. What a dreamer.
It wasn't a sound. Not a shadow. But something made him look first down the hall opposite of Natalie. What the hell? One of those stretchers-on-wheels being pushed down the hall? It disappeared.
He blinked three or more times then saw, vaguely, but yes, the elevator door closing. But there was no interior light. He thought not anyway. So damn dark. He blinked several more times. Or had he seen nothing?
No movement now.
He glanced toward Natalie. No movement there either. Not at her desk. Fine, so he didn't get to glimpse her again. Fine. So he didn't expect she stayed in one spot all night. He slipped back to his room. Done. He had gotten his privacy.
Back in bed he wondered about the stretcher-on-wheels. Had there been a body on it? If so, who? Why in the middle of the night? And why apparent secrecy? He didn't wonder long. Sleep came quickly in that place, and dreamland. Had to be the food.
****
Shea's morning erection had grown out of his shorts and was rock solid. A woman opened his door. He knew her. He knew the rosy cheeks. That lush hair. But he couldn't quite make out her face. He could not see definitely who she was. She stepped through the cracked-open door with a beam of light, then closed the door and glided to his bedside.
Waves of passion swept him but he knew what she would do. Nothing that he wanted. But wait. What was she doing? Pulling the sheet back? Exposing his erection? Then she knelt. Then she caressed the top of his upper right thigh. Then she leaned toward him, her lovely mouth opening wide.
"Vital signs, Shea. Good morning."
He awoke instantly and turned onto his right side. His rock solid erection shrank like a deflated balloon. The pitiable thing remaining retreated into his shorts, the sheet and the blanket. She wouldn't see it, and, again, would not know of his lust for her.
In the crack of light she stood, clipboard in hand, stethoscope around her neck, white sleeveless pullover smock reflecting morning from the hallway. Her rosy cheeks glowed as if she had just came in from zero degrees weather.
"Morning, Natalie."
She closed the door to its crack and walked to his bedside. She sat next to him. Human contact. So comforting. So rousing but he must control that. She inserted a thermometer into his waiting mouth, grasped his wrist, checked her watch, finally smiled her professional smile.
After a moment he knew she had finished the count of his pulse. But
she continued holding his wrist, occasionally glancing at his chest rising
and falling. Her way of measuring his respiration. The other nurses would
just drop his wrist and stare at his chest. But Natalie did it her way, and
he enjoyed the extended contact. Natalie could hold his wrist as long as she wanted.
He lay quietly gazing at the smooth shape of her face. Those lips. Full, perfectly shaped. Kissable. He ached to kiss them, to merge with her. The core of his groin stirred.
She released his wrist. The stir stopped.
Blood pressure next. She began wrapping the pressure cuff around his upper arm while his hand dangled close to her breast at times. Then she pumped the inflation bulb till circulation seemed threatened, placed the stethoscope
on the lower part of his arm beside the cuff, finally gazed at the manometer, watching the liquid in the tube gauge rise and then fall.
Efficient Natalie was. Blood pressure was the best time for seeing the sharpness in her eyes, and the softness. Her brown eyes held everything he had ever wanted. But today they seemed, sunken, as if she felt distressed by something.
"130 or 80. Not bad, Shea."
His blood pressure was lower still with the other nurses. Funny thing about that. At last she removed the thermometer, checked it, made her entries. The thermometers were outdated but handy to keep the volunteers from talking until the nurses were finished. Ditto for blood pressure, outdated in the new millennium but the lab had decided to keep the antiquated operations specifically for the volunteers psyche: better human contact with the nurses.
He wanted to ask, what? What could he ask? Why her eyes were sunken? Yeah, right. Make her feel real good about herself. But he had to say something, to at least remind her he was alive. Probably something stupid, "How about letting me listen." Yes, stupid. But he did want to compare the sound. He pointed to the stethoscope, "Ya got time?"
"Sure." She transferred the tips from her ears to his, then again pumped up the pressure.
Fabum Fabum Fabum
"Wow, that's my heart beating?" Didn't sound the same as with other nurses. He had checked with two. Definitely more intense with Natalie doing vitals.
Her smile glistened. The sunkenness of her eyes seemed to fade as her brow furrowed slightly and those deep eyes seemed to look right into his, for
a second. No longer. "Not exactly." She began rising, "It's a combination
of your heartbeat and the pressure of your blood as I release pressure from the cuff. Sounds kind of strange, huh?"
"Yeah." From the close distance he had also seen faint freckles on the upper part of her nose splaying onto her cheeks. But, vital signs finished. So was his favorite time of day. She remained close. Backlighting from the hall caused an aura in her rich-textured hair. He rose to his right elbow, had almost forgotten, "Natalie, did something happen last night?"
"Happen?"
Worded poorly. Totally groggy in the morning. Had to be the food, "Yeah, with one of the other volunteers?"
"I don't know, Shea. We haven't had our morning meeting yet." She gazed at him, obviously needing more information, "Do you know of something happening?"
"I don't know." He rubbed his eyes, then his forehead, "Probably dreaming."
She stood for a second longer, clasping that hard clipboard over her front with both arms, as if covering herself would lessen his lust for her, as if anything could.
"Meet you at the scales then?"
"Yes, ma'am." Then she was gone, so quickly sometimes as to have never been there at all. He glanced at his lighted digital clock. Six as usual. He threw the covers back, swung his legs, felt for his erection. Long gone. Really gone. Strong was his will power. Ha! Someday he would throw that will power right out the window. Yeah, right.
Sandals. Cutoffs. He slipped the articles on and headed for the door. Will power. What a laugh. Natalie should have been his to chalk up long ago. Yeah. Right.
****
Next stop the restroom. Shea, five-feet-ten, glanced at himself in the mirror as he passed, ran his hand through dark wavy brown hair. If straight it would have hung halfway to his shoulders, but rather it rambled as if styled that way. Good fortune with hair he attributed to the weeks sometimes his hair had gone without washing, and the buildup of oils. It probably would never need conditioner again. Dark eyebrows and lashes and dark blue eyes matched his hair.
He stared at the refrigerator. What an unholy piece of technology for what it contained. A jug of his urine as well as jugs from five other nutrition research live-in volunteers. But duty called. And nature. And Natalie would soon be waiting for him in the exercise room.
Ah, if only she waited just for him. But she would wake the others too, and take their vital signs. He winced at that. Natalie, sitting beside them
on their beds too, and they all probably experiencing similar fantasies.
He jerked the refrigerator door open. The blue-labeled jug sat there. Right in front again. Highlighted. His piss for the last twenty-four hours. He grasped it, slipped into a cubicle, removed the cap, unzipped, pulled out his penis, aimed and released. What a sound. His piss joining more of his piss in a plastic gallon jug with his name on it.
Finished. He shook out. The lab wanted every last drop. No cheating. And not that he considered cheating. But the idea of what went on there. Piss in the bottle. Shit in the bag. He chuckled, zipped up, pushed through the cubicle door, had just about replaced his jug when the swinging door opened.
Damn. He liked to get out of there and get finished weighing and showered and back to his room without having to face any of the other guys before breakfast. No such luck.
"How about that babe, huh?"
The ex-sailor. Shea gazed at the blocky young man, the shoulder length, stringy straight red hair, and tried denying Natalie had sat on his bed too, and had held his wrist. But denial was impossible. It was her job.
"Morning, Ballard." He pushed his jug to the back, closed, headed for
the door, but could not help hearing Ballard's second comment, "That woman don't shit, man. She candies."
Brutally, Shea pushed through the restroom door. He didn't consider that someone might be entering, until the bump. He pulled back, then opened more carefully. A man about six and a half feet tall with dark brown eyes, black hair, metal-rimmed glasses, stood there, evidently shaken.
"Sorry, Galloway."
"So what's the hurry, Shea?" Always needing a shave and older than Shea's thirty-one years, Galloway was his best friend at the lab. And he had almost flattened the man's face.
"Just anxious to get weighed and showered." Already irritated at Ballard, Shea would as soon avoid Ballard's and Galloway's skirmishes too, which could happen at any time and any place, "See you at breakfast."
He hurried toward the exercise room where he knew Natalie would by then be waiting, and part two of his favorite time of day, at least favorite when Natalie did the wakeups.
"Rendezvous with your sweetie, eh?" Galloway called.
Shea waved without turning. Yes, Galloway would think that. He passed Alison in the hall, "Oh, morning, Alison." Alison waved but barely looked at him, and he barely noticed her because he barely knew her. He did notice her face looked kind of taut, though. Alison usually worked only nights and did most of the wakeups. No pounding heartbeats and rampaging erections on those mornings, and not that she wasn't good looking. She was OK, but she wasn't Natalie. Natalie didn't often wake him, and that was all right with Shea, for if she woke him that meant the end of her shift.
Strange Alison would be there for the day shift.
But he thought no more about Alison, and slowed just before turning the corner. Clipboard against her front Natalie waited, that professional smile glowing. Oh yes, she’s my sweetie. Yeah, and he had the world by the ass too.
****
Shea stepped from his sandals onto the scales. He watched Natalie's delicate hand tap the slider. He always looked for a ring but never saw one. But not seeing one didn't mean anything. Lots of married people wore no ring, for whatever reason he did not care. With Natalie he cared. He wanted to know but did not ask. She was so close. He could smell her fragrance, could feel her body heat.
His penis began erecting. He stared down at his groin. Yes, cutoffs already bulging. He felt hot all over—Damn it!
The slider at last reached the right number and the bar hovered in balance. "Seventy-four kilos, Shea." Natalie wrote his weight on her chart, "Three days in a row."
Thank God. He stepped from the scales and turned away enough so that
she wouldn't see, bent slightly and brushed at his groin. The jerky movement loosened his penis enough so that it at least curved upward and did not, horrors, slide into view.
And thank God for the consistency in his weight, which rose and fell in cycles. His reprieve was good for another day. They would not change the calorie level of his diet and he would not have to eat any more of that fat-saturated…he hesitated to call it food.
"Seventy-four kilos, Churchill." Natalie called out his weight.
Oh no. He had forgotten. Physical work capacity. His absolutely least favorite weekly test. He looked at Natalie as if she could help him. She stood smiling her professional smile, clipboard across her front, "See you next week, Shea."
"Next week?" He swung toward her, then remembered the bulge in his cutoffs and swung away again, "But it's only Monday."
"I have the week off." She sobered. For a second her eyes took on that sunken look again. Some problem burdened her. Then the professional smile came back, "I have some personal matters to attend to." No, an almost-smile. Her eyes had not gotten into it that time.
"OK." His very soul went out to her. He wanted to help her. He would
do anything for her, but knew he could do nothing, for the look in her eyes said man. She had some problem with a man. Who? Husband? Ex-husband? Boyfriend? And he stuck here? Nothing he could do. Nothing. Except, "Bye. Good luck."
In turning, her eyes stayed in his for one second longer than usual, as if she knew how he felt, wanted his help, but knew he could not help, knew he was a part of this research for a specified length of time and could not leave outside of a near act of Congress. He had his duty. She had hers. Then she was gone.
A week. A week! His mettle drained right out of him.
"We're waiting, Shea."
Instinctively he grazed his groin with his hand. His erection was gone. And why wouldn't it be? Natalie gone for a week. He did not know how he could survive without her.
But he did turn, and faced his duty.
SUSPICION
2
SUSPICION
From the area of the Ergo cycle three people gazed quietly at Shea. Churchill, research physiologist, red hair, beard, moustache, stood staunch at the heart monitor with electrodes in hand. Roper, exercise physiology technician, light brown hair, clean-shaven, powerfully built, stood solid beside the Ergo cycle with mouthpiece in hand. Melanie, also exercise physiology technician, blonde, slender, stood, sensitively, by the chair, with syringe in hand. And all, likely, had noticed his erection, for sure how he had grabbed at it.
Melanie had him first, "How are you, Shea?"
"I'm fine." But he wasn't totally fine. He sat in the plastic chair she offered. Pre-exercise blood draw. He extended his right arm, considered asking if any of them knew what had happened the night before. Certainly someone knew.
She applied a rubber tourniquet, swabbed with isopropyl alcohol, inserted the needle, and his mind went to something besides what had happened, or not, the night before.
A spurt of red soon filled the syringe. Melanie removed the needle, pressed a swab over the wound, held it tight while he doubled his arm, then smiled, "There you go, Shea."
Next a session of dabbing goop to secure the three chest electrodes, the placing of a terribly uncomfortable nose clamp, and a horribly uncomfortable mouthpiece leading to the basal metabolic measurement cart, portable equipment which brought Melanie bi-weekly to each volunteer's room before wakeup.
"Pre-exercise warm up, Shea." Churchill, a man of few words, hung onto the electrode wires, guided him onto the raised platform, settled him onto the Ergo cycle. Roper attached the cart's tube to his mouthpiece. Now to sit relaxed for five minutes, breathing, while his expelled breath was measured.
The easy part, and went quickly.
"Begin on the top of the minute, Shea." Roper pointed to the timer. Twenty seconds of bliss remaining to prepare his mind, if not his body, for
the task.
"Ten seconds."
Churchill snapped on the metronome, "Five seconds." which caused an irritating blinking red light and an even more irritating clicking that he must get into rhythm with.
"Three seconds."
He gripped the Ergo cycle's handles. His legs tensed.
"Begin!"
Shea began pumping. His heart rate moved quickly from a restful 60 to about 90, then settled out as he worked into the rhythm. But his mind left the lab and followed Natalie. Her last duty, having been there all night, was wakeup. He never knew beforehand who would come for the night, when all were asleep. Usually Alison, and again he wondered what she was doing there for the day shift. Again it didn't matter. When Natalie came for wakeup, inevitably those were the mornings of his best dreams and most powerful erections. Never failed.
"Increasing resistance, Shea." Roper always gave him a few seconds warning. How long had he been pumping? Five minutes? Ten? Was this a regular physical work capacity? Or the exhaustion one? He never remembered to ask, and with the hated mouthpiece now could not. Didn't matter anyway for his duty was simple. Breathe and pump his legs.
Roper increased the resistance. Shea's legs and mind pushed to the task. His heart rate climbed to 110, but again settled out as his mind went to Natalie, NATALIE, NATALIE!
Time passed. Churchill and Roper discussed football.
Puffing now, Shea knew his eyes were staring, probably protruding. And again Roper increased the resistance. Must be the exhaustion one. He bent to the task. He watched his heart rate zoom to 130, though still not his record of 150. Idly he wondered if anyone ever died on the Ergo cycle. He knew guys came from all over the country to volunteer, and some did not exactly describe the homey life. They could die here and probably nobody would notice.
A vision of the stretcher-on-wheels slipped through his mind. Only this time it carried a body under a white sheet. Had somebody died last night?
The thought distracted him, distracted his legs.
Out of sync with the metronome.
"What's wrong, Shea?" Churchill's voice.
Shea jerked toward him. Then he felt Roper's hand on his shoulder, patting, "You don't have long left, Shea."
He faced the clicking metronome and the blinking red light, and willed himself to get back into sync.
"That'a boy, Shea." The gentle Roper kept patting him, then squeezed
and released, "You're back in stride."
Damn, did they care about nothing except their research? He could have been dying but they wanted him to finish physical work capacity first. "…Super bowl…," one of them said. Something about the Minnesota Vikings going all the way this year. "Somebody dreams that every year," the other answered.
Evidently they did care about other things.
Movement to his left. Balancing the wires and mouthpiece, Shea turned. Doctor Delright in his long white lab coat. The doctor was tall, slim, no, skinny, the man was skinny and peaked looking, nearly as colorless as the coat. Shea's main memory of the doctor was the cold, gloved—he hoped gloved—finger in his rectum during his entrance physical. Too deep and too long for sure.
An unplanned picture of Delright standing over the body on the stretcher-on-wheels smashed through Shea's mind as he pushed his legs to keep pumping.
Delright sent a smile, no, not a smile but a change of facial features, a fake smile, then walked ahead. He passed the four of them and disappeared through a doorway leading into the hall past the volunteers' rooms. What did he want in there? The man never visited the living quarters. What did he want? And what was Alison doing there? And who was missing? There had to be somebody missing. He had seen Ballard and Galloway. Who else? Ives. Luther. Just one left. Who?
He couldn't think. Who was the sixth volunteer? The sixth was the guy who did not fit in. Nobody liked him. Not quite true. People didn't actually dislike the guy but he had made no friends. Nobody would miss him. And nobody, no volunteers anyway, even knew if he had a family. A perfect candidate for Doctor Delright's evil experiments.
Whatever they were. If they were.
Rubbish. "Puff" But as pressure increased through his arms, head, chest, "Puff" and sweat began pouring he wasn't so sure. If evil experiments were happening the colorless Doctor Delright would be the perfect character to play the mad scientist. "Puff Puff"
Again Roper increased the resistance, "One minute to go, Shea."
Yeah, right. Carry out the experiments. But would they take somebody
in the dead of night from his bed? To where? And for what?
"Puff"
He hadn't looked at the monitor lately. He didn't know what his heart rate was. He looked. His vision was watery. Didn't matter anyway. Fuck it. "Puff"
If he could have laughed he would have. But the cussed mouthpiece prevented any expression at all, except, he surmised, for bloating eyeballs, just before his brain exploded.
"PUFF" Physically he was finished—"PUFF”—but his will said go to the end—“PUFF”—no matter what they really had planned for him—"PUFF"—so he would—"PUFF PUFF PUFF"—so his mind and body pressed onward.
"WHEEZE"
His breath was coming in gasps. But he knew he was hardly making a sound, except for his nose, about to run. If it could run. Damned nose clamp!—I can’t go on, guys!
"PUFF WHEEZE!"
"Twenty seconds, Shea." Compassion showed on Roper's face, sounded in his voice, "Hang in there."
"PUFF WHEEZE PUFF WHEEZE!"
"Ten seconds, Shea." Good ol Roper. Always used first names like he
had known one all his life. He always sounded like he thought volunteers were special people, important to research.
Ha!
"PUFF! WHEEZE!"
"Five seconds, Shea."
"PUFF! WHEEZE! PUFF!”
"Stop on zero. One second—stop!"
As if he had to be told.
Three pairs of hands grasped the electrodes and breathing tube, and Shea. The touch was comforting, and necessary, for a complete stage of exhaustion besieged him. Legs like rubber. His feet touched the floor but did nothing as the three helped him from the Ergo cycle to the chair.
Again Melanie was at his side with another syringe. She had to take the post exercise blood draw within one minute. Before his heart rate slowed too much. Before blood chemistry changed and affected the research. And always his veins got funny after the exercise, really funny after the exhaustion sessions, making the second draw difficult.
His only duty now was to extend his other arm to her. He didn't care about anything except resting collapsed. Melanie skillfully took charge. She gently balanced his limp arm on her leg and introduced the needle. Was Melanie part of the conspiracy? What conspiracy? He felt like laughing again, but couldn't with that fucking mouthpiece jammed in his mouth and throat! Just
as well he couldn't talk. Nothing sensible would have come out anyway.
He felt her manipulating, evidently not getting much blood. He didn't care about the pain. He barely was aware of it, knew she was doing her best, "Oh, Shea, I'm hurting you." A genuine sound of concern from her. Melanie
was part of no conspiracy.
And of course Doctor Delright wasn't either. Even though he didn't especially like the man he had heard nothing but good things about how well
he ran the nutrition lab…but, maybe, too well…?
Then Melanie swabbed his arm, placed a piece of cotton over the wound, bent his arm back. His breath coming easier he had begun sensing the warmth
in her slender thigh, and felt sorry the human contact ended. Melanie wasn't Natalie, but she was right up there. "All done, Shea." She patted his shoulder. "
He glanced up but couldn't return her smile because of the mouthpiece, but he waved, then just lay back and watched the remaining minutes tick away as his heart rate fell to near normal.
Several minutes passed. He thought of nothing except knowing that physical work capacity was over for another week. And he tried pushing away
the disturbing suspicions he had felt earlier. During the last minutes of exhaustion sessions crazy thoughts had come before, but nothing crazy as evil experiments.
"That's it, Shea." Churchill began removing the electrodes and wiping clean the sticky goop, while Roper removed the nose and mouthpiece. "See you
at underwater weighing tomorrow," Churchill added.
Well, that was tomorrow. His legs still wobbly, he said his good-byes
and headed for the shower. Just before turning the corner he slowed and wondered again if they knew anything about the previous night. No, he would rather ask Natalie. He started out again. But she would already be gone.
For a week! Again he grimaced at the thought. But he could wait. Likely nothing happened anyway. Likely he slept all night.
Shower time. A little hot water always worked wonders.
****
Shea turned the valve and adjusted to hot, then let the water run on him. How he loved it right there between his shoulder blades. How it warmed and relaxed him. Before coming to the lab he had experienced very little hot water in his recent past. He had since made up for it, and today really needed it. Physical work capacity was never pleasant, and the exhaustion session was ten times worse.
Ah. But Natalie gone. A week! He still could not believe it, and continued believing the so-called personal matter was man-related. Maybe
she got married the past weekend, and the coming week was honeymoon.
Steam began rising. He loved it. He needed it.
Natalie married. She could not be. She would have told him, so he could have had a chance to stop her. Yeah, right. Why would she have told him? Why on God's earth?
He let the water run on him for a long time.
"Hey, McTory, there's other people out here."
"Yeah, well, there's two showers."
"You've been in there the longest." Ballard's voice had its usual air
of importance, "Let's get a move on."
In truth Ballard was right. Shea had been in there way past his turn. Usually no problem, for by special request he had gotten permanent first wakeup. Then he could take his sweet time in the shower, get back to his room, maybe get some reading in, and be all fresh and friendly at breakfast.
Especially friendly.
But physical work capacity always screwed up his routine, and the exhaustion sessions really screwed things up, so today he did not feel friendly, "Pack it, Ballard."
SLAM! Went the shower room door.
A few minutes passed in which he did begin shampooing with a research-approved product, though not hurrying at all, and the vision of the previous night returned. Maybe the person in the other shower had heard or seen something. "Who's in the other shower?" he called.
"Ives, my dear fellow."
Good ol Ives. But how could he ask the question without raising the question of why he wanted to know? He did not want to be the cause of a rumor, but he did want to know, "Ives, have you seen all the guys this morning?"
"All but Fenton."
Fenton. That's who was missing.
"Why do you ask, my good man?"
The shower room door opened.
"Shea?" The voice of the head nurse.
He knew the tone. She would also save him from having to answer Ives' perfectly legitimate question. "Yes, Catherine?"
"Ballard would like to take a shower too." Entirely diplomatic, "Are
you finishing soon?"
"Pretty soon, Catherine." He began rinsing his hair.
"I'm done right now." Good ol Ives, "Ballard can have this one."
"Is that all right, Ballard?" Catherine asked.
Ballard's answer was a kick in the wall, "Sure!"
"Good." Shea heard Catherine go through the door, and considered antagonizing Ballard further. But probably he had said enough already.
He began soaping his chest.
The door opened again. "See you gentlemen at breakfast."
A grunt from the other shower, a low, "Yeah."
"You bet, Ives," Shea called, "Thanks."
The door closed. A quiet moment as Shea left the water running on him wherever he could, and began spreading more soap.
"Going out to Otter Creek again this weekend, Shea?" Ballard's voice
from the other shower was friendly. The guy was like that. Mad one minute. Explosion. Then friendly again.
"Plan to. If the weather's nice."
"Mind if I go along?"
"Fine." Nice of Ballard to ask. Not that Shea could have stopped him. He didn't mind either, long as there were no more comments about Natalie. Likely there wouldn't be, for Otter Creek changed people. Everybody changed when they got out of this place for a few hours. "More trails to explore, you know."
"Yeah, I really enjoy that, man." Ballard was about ten years younger than Shea, and at times did seem to look up to him. Not that Shea liked being looked up to but accepted it. Younger people needed role models. A part even questionable guys like himself could play, and he guessed Ballard didn't have anybody else. "Maybe shoot some pictures too, huh, guy?"
"We'll see." His camera. The only valuable property he had managed to attain before the party started. During one of his more sober trips home he had left it with his sister for safekeeping. How long ago? Years? He didn't remember, but then had sent for it after arriving at the lab. He hadn't used it for awhile. Not since the candid of Natalie way back in July. That film remained unfinished. Might as well use it up and get it developed. Then he could ogle Natalie's picture when she wasn't around. "Yeah, Ballard, I'll take my camera all right."
Then the day didn't look so bad, nor the less than two months remaining before the present nutrition study concluded.
Then freedom.
But first breakfast. If they could just get through breakfast. But quite often breakfast was a difficult meal.
SUSPICION
From the area of the Ergo cycle three people gazed quietly at Shea. Churchill, research physiologist, red hair, beard, moustache, stood staunch at the heart monitor with electrodes in hand. Roper, exercise physiology technician, light brown hair, clean-shaven, powerfully built, stood solid beside the Ergo cycle with mouthpiece in hand. Melanie, also exercise physiology technician, blonde, slender, stood, sensitively, by the chair, with syringe in hand. And all, likely, had noticed his erection, for sure how he had grabbed at it.
Melanie had him first, "How are you, Shea?"
"I'm fine." But he wasn't totally fine. He sat in the plastic chair she offered. Pre-exercise blood draw. He extended his right arm, considered asking if any of them knew what had happened the night before. Certainly someone knew.
She applied a rubber tourniquet, swabbed with isopropyl alcohol, inserted the needle, and his mind went to something besides what had happened, or not, the night before.
A spurt of red soon filled the syringe. Melanie removed the needle, pressed a swab over the wound, held it tight while he doubled his arm, then smiled, "There you go, Shea."
Next a session of dabbing goop to secure the three chest electrodes, the placing of a terribly uncomfortable nose clamp, and a horribly uncomfortable mouthpiece leading to the basal metabolic measurement cart, portable equipment which brought Melanie bi-weekly to each volunteer's room before wakeup.
"Pre-exercise warm up, Shea." Churchill, a man of few words, hung onto the electrode wires, guided him onto the raised platform, settled him onto the Ergo cycle. Roper attached the cart's tube to his mouthpiece. Now to sit relaxed for five minutes, breathing, while his expelled breath was measured.
The easy part, and went quickly.
"Begin on the top of the minute, Shea." Roper pointed to the timer. Twenty seconds of bliss remaining to prepare his mind, if not his body, for
the task.
"Ten seconds."
Churchill snapped on the metronome, "Five seconds." which caused an irritating blinking red light and an even more irritating clicking that he must get into rhythm with.
"Three seconds."
He gripped the Ergo cycle's handles. His legs tensed.
"Begin!"
Shea began pumping. His heart rate moved quickly from a restful 60 to about 90, then settled out as he worked into the rhythm. But his mind left the lab and followed Natalie. Her last duty, having been there all night, was wakeup. He never knew beforehand who would come for the night, when all were asleep. Usually Alison, and again he wondered what she was doing there for the day shift. Again it didn't matter. When Natalie came for wakeup, inevitably those were the mornings of his best dreams and most powerful erections. Never failed.
"Increasing resistance, Shea." Roper always gave him a few seconds warning. How long had he been pumping? Five minutes? Ten? Was this a regular physical work capacity? Or the exhaustion one? He never remembered to ask, and with the hated mouthpiece now could not. Didn't matter anyway for his duty was simple. Breathe and pump his legs.
Roper increased the resistance. Shea's legs and mind pushed to the task. His heart rate climbed to 110, but again settled out as his mind went to Natalie, NATALIE, NATALIE!
Time passed. Churchill and Roper discussed football.
Puffing now, Shea knew his eyes were staring, probably protruding. And again Roper increased the resistance. Must be the exhaustion one. He bent to the task. He watched his heart rate zoom to 130, though still not his record of 150. Idly he wondered if anyone ever died on the Ergo cycle. He knew guys came from all over the country to volunteer, and some did not exactly describe the homey life. They could die here and probably nobody would notice.
A vision of the stretcher-on-wheels slipped through his mind. Only this time it carried a body under a white sheet. Had somebody died last night?
The thought distracted him, distracted his legs.
Out of sync with the metronome.
"What's wrong, Shea?" Churchill's voice.
Shea jerked toward him. Then he felt Roper's hand on his shoulder, patting, "You don't have long left, Shea."
He faced the clicking metronome and the blinking red light, and willed himself to get back into sync.
"That'a boy, Shea." The gentle Roper kept patting him, then squeezed
and released, "You're back in stride."
Damn, did they care about nothing except their research? He could have been dying but they wanted him to finish physical work capacity first. "…Super bowl…," one of them said. Something about the Minnesota Vikings going all the way this year. "Somebody dreams that every year," the other answered.
Evidently they did care about other things.
Movement to his left. Balancing the wires and mouthpiece, Shea turned. Doctor Delright in his long white lab coat. The doctor was tall, slim, no, skinny, the man was skinny and peaked looking, nearly as colorless as the coat. Shea's main memory of the doctor was the cold, gloved—he hoped gloved—finger in his rectum during his entrance physical. Too deep and too long for sure.
An unplanned picture of Delright standing over the body on the stretcher-on-wheels smashed through Shea's mind as he pushed his legs to keep pumping.
Delright sent a smile, no, not a smile but a change of facial features, a fake smile, then walked ahead. He passed the four of them and disappeared through a doorway leading into the hall past the volunteers' rooms. What did he want in there? The man never visited the living quarters. What did he want? And what was Alison doing there? And who was missing? There had to be somebody missing. He had seen Ballard and Galloway. Who else? Ives. Luther. Just one left. Who?
He couldn't think. Who was the sixth volunteer? The sixth was the guy who did not fit in. Nobody liked him. Not quite true. People didn't actually dislike the guy but he had made no friends. Nobody would miss him. And nobody, no volunteers anyway, even knew if he had a family. A perfect candidate for Doctor Delright's evil experiments.
Whatever they were. If they were.
Rubbish. "Puff" But as pressure increased through his arms, head, chest, "Puff" and sweat began pouring he wasn't so sure. If evil experiments were happening the colorless Doctor Delright would be the perfect character to play the mad scientist. "Puff Puff"
Again Roper increased the resistance, "One minute to go, Shea."
Yeah, right. Carry out the experiments. But would they take somebody
in the dead of night from his bed? To where? And for what?
"Puff"
He hadn't looked at the monitor lately. He didn't know what his heart rate was. He looked. His vision was watery. Didn't matter anyway. Fuck it. "Puff"
If he could have laughed he would have. But the cussed mouthpiece prevented any expression at all, except, he surmised, for bloating eyeballs, just before his brain exploded.
"PUFF" Physically he was finished—"PUFF”—but his will said go to the end—“PUFF”—no matter what they really had planned for him—"PUFF"—so he would—"PUFF PUFF PUFF"—so his mind and body pressed onward.
"WHEEZE"
His breath was coming in gasps. But he knew he was hardly making a sound, except for his nose, about to run. If it could run. Damned nose clamp!—I can’t go on, guys!
"PUFF WHEEZE!"
"Twenty seconds, Shea." Compassion showed on Roper's face, sounded in his voice, "Hang in there."
"PUFF WHEEZE PUFF WHEEZE!"
"Ten seconds, Shea." Good ol Roper. Always used first names like he
had known one all his life. He always sounded like he thought volunteers were special people, important to research.
Ha!
"PUFF! WHEEZE!"
"Five seconds, Shea."
"PUFF! WHEEZE! PUFF!”
"Stop on zero. One second—stop!"
As if he had to be told.
Three pairs of hands grasped the electrodes and breathing tube, and Shea. The touch was comforting, and necessary, for a complete stage of exhaustion besieged him. Legs like rubber. His feet touched the floor but did nothing as the three helped him from the Ergo cycle to the chair.
Again Melanie was at his side with another syringe. She had to take the post exercise blood draw within one minute. Before his heart rate slowed too much. Before blood chemistry changed and affected the research. And always his veins got funny after the exercise, really funny after the exhaustion sessions, making the second draw difficult.
His only duty now was to extend his other arm to her. He didn't care about anything except resting collapsed. Melanie skillfully took charge. She gently balanced his limp arm on her leg and introduced the needle. Was Melanie part of the conspiracy? What conspiracy? He felt like laughing again, but couldn't with that fucking mouthpiece jammed in his mouth and throat! Just
as well he couldn't talk. Nothing sensible would have come out anyway.
He felt her manipulating, evidently not getting much blood. He didn't care about the pain. He barely was aware of it, knew she was doing her best, "Oh, Shea, I'm hurting you." A genuine sound of concern from her. Melanie
was part of no conspiracy.
And of course Doctor Delright wasn't either. Even though he didn't especially like the man he had heard nothing but good things about how well
he ran the nutrition lab…but, maybe, too well…?
Then Melanie swabbed his arm, placed a piece of cotton over the wound, bent his arm back. His breath coming easier he had begun sensing the warmth
in her slender thigh, and felt sorry the human contact ended. Melanie wasn't Natalie, but she was right up there. "All done, Shea." She patted his shoulder. "
He glanced up but couldn't return her smile because of the mouthpiece, but he waved, then just lay back and watched the remaining minutes tick away as his heart rate fell to near normal.
Several minutes passed. He thought of nothing except knowing that physical work capacity was over for another week. And he tried pushing away
the disturbing suspicions he had felt earlier. During the last minutes of exhaustion sessions crazy thoughts had come before, but nothing crazy as evil experiments.
"That's it, Shea." Churchill began removing the electrodes and wiping clean the sticky goop, while Roper removed the nose and mouthpiece. "See you
at underwater weighing tomorrow," Churchill added.
Well, that was tomorrow. His legs still wobbly, he said his good-byes
and headed for the shower. Just before turning the corner he slowed and wondered again if they knew anything about the previous night. No, he would rather ask Natalie. He started out again. But she would already be gone.
For a week! Again he grimaced at the thought. But he could wait. Likely nothing happened anyway. Likely he slept all night.
Shower time. A little hot water always worked wonders.
****
Shea turned the valve and adjusted to hot, then let the water run on him. How he loved it right there between his shoulder blades. How it warmed and relaxed him. Before coming to the lab he had experienced very little hot water in his recent past. He had since made up for it, and today really needed it. Physical work capacity was never pleasant, and the exhaustion session was ten times worse.
Ah. But Natalie gone. A week! He still could not believe it, and continued believing the so-called personal matter was man-related. Maybe
she got married the past weekend, and the coming week was honeymoon.
Steam began rising. He loved it. He needed it.
Natalie married. She could not be. She would have told him, so he could have had a chance to stop her. Yeah, right. Why would she have told him? Why on God's earth?
He let the water run on him for a long time.
"Hey, McTory, there's other people out here."
"Yeah, well, there's two showers."
"You've been in there the longest." Ballard's voice had its usual air
of importance, "Let's get a move on."
In truth Ballard was right. Shea had been in there way past his turn. Usually no problem, for by special request he had gotten permanent first wakeup. Then he could take his sweet time in the shower, get back to his room, maybe get some reading in, and be all fresh and friendly at breakfast.
Especially friendly.
But physical work capacity always screwed up his routine, and the exhaustion sessions really screwed things up, so today he did not feel friendly, "Pack it, Ballard."
SLAM! Went the shower room door.
A few minutes passed in which he did begin shampooing with a research-approved product, though not hurrying at all, and the vision of the previous night returned. Maybe the person in the other shower had heard or seen something. "Who's in the other shower?" he called.
"Ives, my dear fellow."
Good ol Ives. But how could he ask the question without raising the question of why he wanted to know? He did not want to be the cause of a rumor, but he did want to know, "Ives, have you seen all the guys this morning?"
"All but Fenton."
Fenton. That's who was missing.
"Why do you ask, my good man?"
The shower room door opened.
"Shea?" The voice of the head nurse.
He knew the tone. She would also save him from having to answer Ives' perfectly legitimate question. "Yes, Catherine?"
"Ballard would like to take a shower too." Entirely diplomatic, "Are
you finishing soon?"
"Pretty soon, Catherine." He began rinsing his hair.
"I'm done right now." Good ol Ives, "Ballard can have this one."
"Is that all right, Ballard?" Catherine asked.
Ballard's answer was a kick in the wall, "Sure!"
"Good." Shea heard Catherine go through the door, and considered antagonizing Ballard further. But probably he had said enough already.
He began soaping his chest.
The door opened again. "See you gentlemen at breakfast."
A grunt from the other shower, a low, "Yeah."
"You bet, Ives," Shea called, "Thanks."
The door closed. A quiet moment as Shea left the water running on him wherever he could, and began spreading more soap.
"Going out to Otter Creek again this weekend, Shea?" Ballard's voice
from the other shower was friendly. The guy was like that. Mad one minute. Explosion. Then friendly again.
"Plan to. If the weather's nice."
"Mind if I go along?"
"Fine." Nice of Ballard to ask. Not that Shea could have stopped him. He didn't mind either, long as there were no more comments about Natalie. Likely there wouldn't be, for Otter Creek changed people. Everybody changed when they got out of this place for a few hours. "More trails to explore, you know."
"Yeah, I really enjoy that, man." Ballard was about ten years younger than Shea, and at times did seem to look up to him. Not that Shea liked being looked up to but accepted it. Younger people needed role models. A part even questionable guys like himself could play, and he guessed Ballard didn't have anybody else. "Maybe shoot some pictures too, huh, guy?"
"We'll see." His camera. The only valuable property he had managed to attain before the party started. During one of his more sober trips home he had left it with his sister for safekeeping. How long ago? Years? He didn't remember, but then had sent for it after arriving at the lab. He hadn't used it for awhile. Not since the candid of Natalie way back in July. That film remained unfinished. Might as well use it up and get it developed. Then he could ogle Natalie's picture when she wasn't around. "Yeah, Ballard, I'll take my camera all right."
Then the day didn't look so bad, nor the less than two months remaining before the present nutrition study concluded.
Then freedom.
But first breakfast. If they could just get through breakfast. But quite often breakfast was a difficult meal.
BREAKFAST
3
BREAKFAST
Thanks to a colossal series of windows east and south, the dining area always was bright, and the volunteers often were treated to the sunrise. That's how it was when Shea walked in at ten to eight. Bright. The lab's grandeur name was manifested in calligraphic, eight-inch black letters over peach walls above the closed kitchen window: THE METABOLISM & EXCRETION ANALYSIS LABORATORY, and its acronym: MEAL.
The excretion-analysis part always got him.
Four other volunteers were already there. Fenton missing. He waved to Ballard and Luther, the young jogger studying for the ministry and most benign of the group. Not quite relaxed as he would have liked he headed for the table with Galloway and Ives, antique collector and junk rat, as Ballard called him, from Montana, and second most benign.
They got along well for the most part, but woe to anyone who crossed
the meal table lines. The wrong personality too close while eating was quietly and mutually accepted by all as against the rules. And it had not taken long to decide who would get along best with who, and to pair off at the tables.
"Needed a shower this morning, eh, Shea?" Ives had a way of making simple comments sound like calculated political statements.
"Yep." Shea pulled his chair and sat, then crossed his legs, ankle on knee, and sprawled, seeking comfort. Still a few minutes before breakfast. "Glad you were there to bail me out, Ives. I really appreciate hot water."
"We know," Ballard said, "You must have been in there a half hour." Ballard's eyes drilled Shea from a tilted forward head, not exactly an intelligent-looking position, "What do you do in there all that time?"
"Just enjoy, Ballard." Shea sent a glance, "Just enjoy."
"You use more hot water than the rest of us put together," Ballard added.
"I hear head nurse had to come and pull you two apart." Galloway snickered, then rose and went to the television, ran through all thirty channels, then left it on the Today Show.
"The head storm trooper you mean." Ballard made his comment, then jerked toward the television, "Hey! I was watchin' the news!"
"That's bull crap." Galloway stood back, appraising his favorite show, "You haven't even looked at the TV."
"Bull crap, hell." Ballard hurried to the television and switched back to CNN, then stood with his head back, chest out.
Galloway glowered down at him but let it go and returned to his chair, "Little shit-brain."
"Now, where were we?" Ives looked over his two table mates, "Oh yes. Catherine pulled Shea and Ballard apart."
"There was no pulling apart." Shea stared at Ballard returning to his chair, felt his blood pressure rising. Personally he preferred the news too but hated to see Galloway always giving in to Ballard. "Just a simple misunderstanding and Catherine settled it."
"You mean I settled it."
"All right, Ives. You settled it. I thank you again." Heat began creeping into Shea's head. Such things as blood pressure had never bothered him before he joined this crazy research outfit. He felt certain the high fat food caused it.
"Me'n Luther discussed it once, Shea." Ballard leaned against the back of his chair, head up, showing that not exactly intelligent-looking expression again, "Sometimes you act like you ain't never seen hot water before."
A rush of heat slashed Shea's entire body. Where the hell was breakfast?
"I didn't exactly agree," Luther began.
"You probably did all the discussing, Ballard," Galloway said.
"Fuck you." Ballard leaned ahead, "I didn't say anything wrong."
"Luther wouldn't say anything negative about anybody," Galloway returned.
"Well, how about you, Galloway?" Ballard's head lay back again. Something coming. Galloway was Ballard's favorite person to annoy. "Your hair's a little greasy. Ain't it about time you used some hot water and soap too?"
"Fuck you." Galloway's color went to medium purple. Ballard sat back, appeared relaxed as a block of granite, like a young bull daring somebody to come and push on him. Galloway was considerably taller but the two weighed about the same. If things ever got serious, Shea feared Galloway would wear himself out, whereas Ballard probably could not be dented.
"Ahhh," Ballard's voice came low, irritatingly calm, "The intellectual's pissed."
"Asshole-fuckhead!"
"Such family names, Galloway."
Ballard had done it again. Shea didn't know how things could spiral
out of control so quickly. Where the hell was breakfast?
Two snaps came from the kitchen window, taking everyone's full attention. Though everybody claimed they hated the food, nobody ever missed a meal. Of course they weren't allowed to actually miss a meal but rarely was anyone ever even late.
****
The six-foot-wide space opened. "Breakfast is served, boys."
The dietetic technicians, dressed identically in red-and-white checkered tops, dark blue bottoms, and hair nets making them look, well, not exactly sensual, began delivering the trays. Regardless of the outfits Shea still had his favorite. A tall brunette with a slender face lined her eyes up with his as she approached, usually bearing his tray.
"Shea always gets served first. How come?"
The technician stopped, glanced toward Ballard, then turned and called, "Bring Ballard's tray, please." She looked again at Ballard, "OK, Ballard?"
Ballard jerked away, glanced toward Luther, then looked down. Diplomacy was the main thing needed at MEAL. Some volunteers maybe had it but mostly didn't use it. The staff had it, used it, but didn't have to live there.
The technician then gazed at Shea, her closed mouth curved in a way signifying a smile. And he returned it. No matter where, when, what, if a group of women existed he always picked one to like. And sometimes got return attention, though usually short-lived and insincere. About what he gave too. He felt guilty about that, for it told him he was faithless, undependable, that he could not love just one woman. Natalie gone less than two hours and already he had enjoyed the attention of two other lovely young women.
But too bad. He had not had much attention of any kind for a very long time. He would take it where he could get it. Good or bad.
A technician arrived with Ballard's tray and everyone finally got served. Shea kept his eyes on the woman before him as she set his breakfast down. "Thanks, Deli. How's the weather out there?"
"Nice, Shea." Her smile widened though slightly, either a professional smile, as he sometimes suspected Natalie's was, or just subdued for the sake of the others present. He chose to believe subdued, as he also sometimes chose to believe Natalie's was. "Early November but the weather's really staying warm. Will you be getting out today?"
"Hey, where's Fenton?" The question came from Ballard, who then leaped
up and began hurrying in the direction of the rooms, "I'll get him."
"Fenton's gone," Deli said.
Everybody stared at her.
"Just, gone?" Ives asked, "Did he quit?"
"I don't know." Some color possibly left Deli's face.
The stretcher-on-wheels flashed through Shea's mind. This time it definitely carried the hulk of a body beneath the sheet and the sheet was stained red. Did Deli know something but wasn't saying? Maybe she couldn't.
A shiver grabbed him.
"Shea, I asked if you'd be getting out today." If Deli had lost any composure it was back. She glanced toward Ballard, then pointed at his empty chair. Ballard hunched his shoulders and returned. Deli returned her attention to, "Shea?"
"Yeah,” he hadn't yet thought about getting out that day, but usually did at least once. If nowhere else, then to the mall to gawk at the girl shoppers. If no girls they gawked at manikins at Penny's, Macy’s, or any number of other women’s' clothing stores. The missing Fenton, who nobody missed anyway, would not change anything, "Yeah, probably the library if nowhere else."
"Well, have fun." For a second, as Deli turned, in a way so nobody saw her, she smiled fully, showing teeth and a sparkle in her eyes, "See you at noon." She disappeared into the kitchen area. Deli was present only at serving time, and Shea felt satisfied about that. Eating, one of their main functions at MEAL, was difficult enough without the added distraction of too many good-looking women around.
Everybody was already eating. He better too. Quiche. Originally nauseating, the mixture of eggs, ground round, cheese, onion flakes, etc., had become one of his favorite dishes. He lifted the steamed glass lid, licked the condensed moisture, then laid it on the table beyond his tray, where it wouldn't get touched by any other morsel of food.
"Ahead of yourself, aren't you, Shea?" Ives spoke in smooth, educated tones, sounding at times a lot like an Englishman, "That tiny amount of moisture would have evaporated even as we speak."
Shea glanced at the impassive Montanan, then grabbed a spoon and dug in, taking a bite before he spoke, "What do you think about Fenton, Ives?" The flavor of onion came through strongly. He savored it. In most of their food flavor was nearly nonexistent.
"He quit, I suppose."
"In the middle of the night?"
"That's true. Fenton was here for the evening snack, so that means he had to have left in the middle of the night." Ives sipped his grape juice, "But I swear, Shea, that boy could come and go and usually I didn't notice. That's how, oh, I don't know what word to describe him…unfriendly? That's how unfriendly he was? Shy?"
"He was nuts." Ballard snorted his opinion.
"I agree." Shea glanced at Ballard, "A guy could go nuts in here. But I don't think Fenton was nuts."
"What do you think then, Shea, and about the other one?"
"Other one?"
"Yes. I just now remembered. Another young man was gone already on our second or third morning."
"He was nuts too."
Shea glanced at Ballard but redirected his comment, "He wasn't nuts either. But he was shy, like Fenton. Hell, Ives, I can't even remember his name."
"Nor can I," Ives admitted, "But likely he and Fenton would have become table mates."
"Right. But as it was Fenton sat alone, and went nuts in the middle of the night." Shea took a drink from his grapefruit juice, then redirected again, "You're probably right, Ballard. They were both probably nutty."
Ballard's answer was a raising of his nearly empty juice glass in a toast, then the last swallow and a grin before setting it off to the side.
Without really thinking about it, Shea noticed Ballard didn't lick out and rinse his juice glass. Now it would be harder to clean. He took another sip of his own juice, a large gulp. The strange tasting sweetness always left him unsatisfied. Gulping sometimes seemed to help. He knew it didn't. Polycose, the sweetener, the head dietitian had told him during indoctrination, was a glucose polymer, a high calorie corn starch product used to raise or lower their calorie levels as needed. A simple way to keep track of the thousands of bits of information about each individual volunteer's menu.
He returned to the quiche. Better to finish one item before the glass got too cold and dry. With spoon he scraped everything possible, mouthed that, then poured in water and began washing with index finger.
"You appeared to be leading somewhere, Shea." Ives' voice came low, "Something mysterious about the disappearance of Fenton, and, whatever ol’ what's-his-name’s name was?"
Something mysterious all right, or seemed so. The bowl squeaked with cleanliness. He tipped it up and drank, then poured more water, ran his finger around once more, swished it, drank again. Finally he picked up the bowl and began licking, "I don't know, Ives. I guess mainly it's just that we didn't see them leave."
"Of course no friendship was involved," Ives offered.
"Maybe staff just thought it would be less hard on the rest of us if we not see another leave." From the studying minister, who would try to look at the brightest side, "Since the rest of us wish to continue trying to stay."
"Good thought, Luther," said Ives, "But if one of us others were to leave, one of us who has made friends, well, I would hope somebody at least noticed I was gone, and hopefully would even remember my name."
"I'd miss ya, Ives." Was Ballard going to say something nice? "I'd wonder where all that junk went."
Evidently not. The boy just did not know how.
"Staff would think of something." Again from Luther.
"Staff'd throw a party," Ballard said, "With cake and dancing girls."
Yes. The all-knowing staff would think of something. Even so, Luther had made a point. But even so, a chilly air edged into the dining area. The bowl was absolutely clean. Shea added more water.
"Kind of sousing the Super Q, aren't we, Shea?"
"Most potent stuff we have, Ives." He grinned at the heavyset man with the black Vandyke beard, glad the subject had changed, then drank, then licked the bowl dry once more, then set it out with its cover, "I don't think we can get drunk from super distilled water though."
"Potent maybe," Galloway added, "But bland. Sometimes I feel like pouring my ration of salt and sugar into it." He took a long swallow, then said very, very, low, "Maybe there's some secret research going on in the basement."
A grin spread across Galloway's face. A pause. Then the grin became downright lewd as he spoke louder, "Maybe something sexual. Maybe Fenton and what's-his-name are strapped down, and every, oh, every hour or so, a gorgeous lady comes in," Galloway's eyes widened, "And gives each a blowjob."
"You're sick, Galloway!" Ballard shouted.
"Fuck you, Ballard." Galloway continued eating.
"A guy couldn't even take that!"
Shea glanced at Ballard. Absolutely sober, the boy had taken the comment seriously. Shea had to choke off a grin.
"You mean you couldn't." Galloway barely glanced toward his antagonist, "But how's anybody ever going to find out if we don't research it?"
Shea glanced at Ballard again. The boy's eyes were wide open but kind of narrow, too close together. He choked off another grin, and felt kind of guilty for even wanting to laugh at Ballard's ignorance. Or was it innocence?
"Do you suppose it could become like a sort of torture?" Ives sounded
a bit innocent too. Now Shea really wanted to laugh, but still refrained.
But Galloway was going, "Torture? My god, Ives, that'd be heaven. And we've got a big beautiful crop of comely young women right here at our good neighbor next door."
"Where?" Ballard's expression was so innocent. Though mad, he was swallowing Galloway's every word.
"Well, the university, of course."
"You're so fucking sick! Those girls wouldn't do that!"
"Right. They wouldn't do it for you, pea brain."
"All right." Shea finally raised his hand, "We've got our breakfast to eat, guys."
Ballard jerked his chair so that, much as possible, it faced away from Galloway, who just grinned, but had won one.
Interesting observations from all. But mainly he wanted to forget the
so-called missing volunteers and just get breakfast out of the way. Bread, margarine, grape jelly. He hated white bread, but spread the margarine and jelly, took a large bite, then another, relishing what sweetness his diet allowed. A final gulp of juice. Finished, he poured Super Q into the glass, rinsed, drank, rinsed and drank again, licked into the glass far as possible, then slapped the bottom, encouraging the last clinging globule to fall. White skim milk. He poured it down, went through the same procedure with the glass.
Last item. Black coffee with caffeine. He set it out with the other clean dishes, picked up the tray, tapped it so the few crumbs slid to the corner, dumped them into his hand then to his mouth. Finally he piled everything back onto the tray and pushed it away.
Finished.
****
The coffee sat there, steaming.
If only he had a cigarette. Nicotine craving swept him. Four months. The day before entering MEAL Shea had bought one last pack of straight Camels with his last money, plus a quarter he had panhandled and one thin, discolored penny he had found by a street drain, and had smoked them all, throwing the empty package into MEAL's garbage, smoking the last cigarette and carrying his belongings as he approached the main entrance.
After seeing the ad in a discarded newspaper, and the 1-800 phone call, and then living in an alley near a post office and general delivery for two weeks while corresponding with MEAL, he had spent a week on the road just getting there, hitchhiking and mostly walking. He was lucky to have arrived
in time to begin the study. Two hours later and he would have missed his first meal and would have been disqualified, back in the street, penniless.
Penniless.
The thought jabbed his self-respect. How often had he been down to no money? Many times. Now he had managed to save some, had bought some decent clothes, had met a woman. A good woman. A nice woman.
He would never forget that first meeting. Natalie had spoke with him during the original phone call, and had answered his ring from MEAL's locked front door. They had talked again. Just routine questions and answers about what he would be getting into at the lab. It was the warmest voice he had ever heard. Then she had come down to greet him. She had opened the door with a smile, and instantly, for just a second the smile had changed to…his best guess was horror, total dismay, disbelief. But her professional smile had come right back, and she had never stopped smiling it.
Obviously his appearance had shocked her. He had not considered it.
How long since he had worried about how he looked? How many times had he gone sometimes weeks without bathing or shaving, scratching from one job to another, raiding garbage cans and dumpsters for food or anything else he could use or sell or trade? And how many hundred times had he searched for cigarettes in gutters and filthy butt kits? He sometimes lost track of time itself. So who cared about appearances? Just occasional vague glances at store windows that always reflected back someone he did not know.
But when he saw that look on Natalie's face, well, he knew he didn't ever want to get that low in life again. After that, Natalie had seemed to give him special attention, toward his welfare anyway. He could not bring himself to consider that her attention went any further than that. So his didn't either.
"Reminiscing something special, Shea?"
"Yeah." Shea blinked, stared at Ives. He had been the last of the new crop of volunteers to arrive. Nobody but Natalie had seen him. Or would, for her first order of business was to personally get him into a shower on the ground floor, and his clothes into a washing machine. His first hour at MEAL had been with Natalie alone. He would never forget it, "Yeah, Ives. Something special."
"Will you share this something special?"
Just the sound of Ives' voice sometimes made him want to chuckle, but
what he had been thinking he would not share, "Yeah, I want a smoke, Ives."
"And I want a steak dinner, but neither of us may have what we want,
may we?"
Shea laughed, then pushed slightly away from the table and crossed his right leg again, then drew the coffee close and sprawled. He would make do
with what he did have. Coffee, and, new, mostly friendly, acquaintances. The cigarette would just have to remain a fantasy, “Nope, Ives, we sure mayn't."
He sipped the coffee and watched the others either finishing their meal or cleaning and licking their dishes. How strange they would appear to someone from the outside world. How easily they had all adjusted, at least to the task of cleaning their dishes.
But some had not adjusted at all, and had quit. At least, apparently, staff wanted the remaining volunteers to think that. And what did he think? That Fenton and what's-his-name had been kidnapped? Actually hidden and strapped down in some secret compartment in this huge building? Truth was, the building was huge, and he had not begun to see even a tenth of it.
"So what do you think, Shea?" Ives spoke low, likely did not want
to get Ballard started again, "Did they quit? Or were they kidnapped?"
"I don't know."
Coffee finished.
"But what do you think?"
"I don't know, Ives. I really don't care, and I really don't want to think about it anymore." That, was somewhat of a lie. He had been thinking about it quite a bit. It seemed to have attached itself to the back of his head. But a rumor of kidnapping at the very least could cause chaos among the volunteers. And telling what he saw last night could set it off. Or what he thought he saw.
The sense of caffeine in his system spread through him. Then the craving for a cigarette came again. The two went so together. Sometimes he wished he had asked for two cups of coffee during that first interview with the nutritionist. Too late now. And just as well. He licked out the cup, then headed for inspection.
****
Shea set his tray on the counter of the kitchen window. One of the technicians, a shorter, older woman, saw him and came immediately, “All finished, Shea?”
“All finished, Roxanna.” He watched as she checked each dish and eating utensil, even holding them to the light, making sure he had not missed even a molecule of a crumb. He sometimes felt silly in his situation, yet knew the inspection was necessary.
While waiting he watched another woman weighing food, carefully adding and removing seemingly micro-bits of food until it weighed within 0.01 gram, as the head nutritionist had told him. So he guessed it important he did his part and ate every scrap possible. As he stood, not really paying good attention to anything, something happened in the rear of the kitchen. Something like a window slid open, a technician reached through, removed three trays—uncleaned dishes—then the window closed again, so quickly—
"Want to go to the mall, Shea?" Ballard set his tray on the counter. Another technician immediately began checking. Shea dismissed what his mind had just recorded and looked at the brute-like, sometimes-buddy, wishing the boy would give him less attention, "Sure, maybe after dinner."
"Taking your camera?"
"Sure, why not?" He had not been to the mall for a couple days, seemed eternity, "Yeah, we'll do that, Ballard."
"Ballard, there's some smudges on this juice glass." The discrepancy announced, the other technician sounded impatient, "Would you try to do a little better, please?"
"Sure! Ffff—!" Ballard muttered under his breath, "Swell!"
Shea felt sure he had almost heard the F-word, but knew Ballard had
been warned about his language in the close proximity of the ladies working
in the kitchen. He looked away, as if he had not heard the technician. No use embarrassing Ballard further. At the same time he saw no reason Ballard could not get his dishes clean the first time too. From the corner of his eye he watched Ballard grab the glass and begin licking furiously.
"Yours is fine, Shea."
"Thanks, Roxanna." He left quickly, almost wishing it had been him whose glass wasn't licked clean. Just one more reason for jealousy and frustration.
But at least they had gotten through breakfast. Just six breakfasts to go before Otter Creek, and one more meal before the mall.
BREAKFAST
Thanks to a colossal series of windows east and south, the dining area always was bright, and the volunteers often were treated to the sunrise. That's how it was when Shea walked in at ten to eight. Bright. The lab's grandeur name was manifested in calligraphic, eight-inch black letters over peach walls above the closed kitchen window: THE METABOLISM & EXCRETION ANALYSIS LABORATORY, and its acronym: MEAL.
The excretion-analysis part always got him.
Four other volunteers were already there. Fenton missing. He waved to Ballard and Luther, the young jogger studying for the ministry and most benign of the group. Not quite relaxed as he would have liked he headed for the table with Galloway and Ives, antique collector and junk rat, as Ballard called him, from Montana, and second most benign.
They got along well for the most part, but woe to anyone who crossed
the meal table lines. The wrong personality too close while eating was quietly and mutually accepted by all as against the rules. And it had not taken long to decide who would get along best with who, and to pair off at the tables.
"Needed a shower this morning, eh, Shea?" Ives had a way of making simple comments sound like calculated political statements.
"Yep." Shea pulled his chair and sat, then crossed his legs, ankle on knee, and sprawled, seeking comfort. Still a few minutes before breakfast. "Glad you were there to bail me out, Ives. I really appreciate hot water."
"We know," Ballard said, "You must have been in there a half hour." Ballard's eyes drilled Shea from a tilted forward head, not exactly an intelligent-looking position, "What do you do in there all that time?"
"Just enjoy, Ballard." Shea sent a glance, "Just enjoy."
"You use more hot water than the rest of us put together," Ballard added.
"I hear head nurse had to come and pull you two apart." Galloway snickered, then rose and went to the television, ran through all thirty channels, then left it on the Today Show.
"The head storm trooper you mean." Ballard made his comment, then jerked toward the television, "Hey! I was watchin' the news!"
"That's bull crap." Galloway stood back, appraising his favorite show, "You haven't even looked at the TV."
"Bull crap, hell." Ballard hurried to the television and switched back to CNN, then stood with his head back, chest out.
Galloway glowered down at him but let it go and returned to his chair, "Little shit-brain."
"Now, where were we?" Ives looked over his two table mates, "Oh yes. Catherine pulled Shea and Ballard apart."
"There was no pulling apart." Shea stared at Ballard returning to his chair, felt his blood pressure rising. Personally he preferred the news too but hated to see Galloway always giving in to Ballard. "Just a simple misunderstanding and Catherine settled it."
"You mean I settled it."
"All right, Ives. You settled it. I thank you again." Heat began creeping into Shea's head. Such things as blood pressure had never bothered him before he joined this crazy research outfit. He felt certain the high fat food caused it.
"Me'n Luther discussed it once, Shea." Ballard leaned against the back of his chair, head up, showing that not exactly intelligent-looking expression again, "Sometimes you act like you ain't never seen hot water before."
A rush of heat slashed Shea's entire body. Where the hell was breakfast?
"I didn't exactly agree," Luther began.
"You probably did all the discussing, Ballard," Galloway said.
"Fuck you." Ballard leaned ahead, "I didn't say anything wrong."
"Luther wouldn't say anything negative about anybody," Galloway returned.
"Well, how about you, Galloway?" Ballard's head lay back again. Something coming. Galloway was Ballard's favorite person to annoy. "Your hair's a little greasy. Ain't it about time you used some hot water and soap too?"
"Fuck you." Galloway's color went to medium purple. Ballard sat back, appeared relaxed as a block of granite, like a young bull daring somebody to come and push on him. Galloway was considerably taller but the two weighed about the same. If things ever got serious, Shea feared Galloway would wear himself out, whereas Ballard probably could not be dented.
"Ahhh," Ballard's voice came low, irritatingly calm, "The intellectual's pissed."
"Asshole-fuckhead!"
"Such family names, Galloway."
Ballard had done it again. Shea didn't know how things could spiral
out of control so quickly. Where the hell was breakfast?
Two snaps came from the kitchen window, taking everyone's full attention. Though everybody claimed they hated the food, nobody ever missed a meal. Of course they weren't allowed to actually miss a meal but rarely was anyone ever even late.
****
The six-foot-wide space opened. "Breakfast is served, boys."
The dietetic technicians, dressed identically in red-and-white checkered tops, dark blue bottoms, and hair nets making them look, well, not exactly sensual, began delivering the trays. Regardless of the outfits Shea still had his favorite. A tall brunette with a slender face lined her eyes up with his as she approached, usually bearing his tray.
"Shea always gets served first. How come?"
The technician stopped, glanced toward Ballard, then turned and called, "Bring Ballard's tray, please." She looked again at Ballard, "OK, Ballard?"
Ballard jerked away, glanced toward Luther, then looked down. Diplomacy was the main thing needed at MEAL. Some volunteers maybe had it but mostly didn't use it. The staff had it, used it, but didn't have to live there.
The technician then gazed at Shea, her closed mouth curved in a way signifying a smile. And he returned it. No matter where, when, what, if a group of women existed he always picked one to like. And sometimes got return attention, though usually short-lived and insincere. About what he gave too. He felt guilty about that, for it told him he was faithless, undependable, that he could not love just one woman. Natalie gone less than two hours and already he had enjoyed the attention of two other lovely young women.
But too bad. He had not had much attention of any kind for a very long time. He would take it where he could get it. Good or bad.
A technician arrived with Ballard's tray and everyone finally got served. Shea kept his eyes on the woman before him as she set his breakfast down. "Thanks, Deli. How's the weather out there?"
"Nice, Shea." Her smile widened though slightly, either a professional smile, as he sometimes suspected Natalie's was, or just subdued for the sake of the others present. He chose to believe subdued, as he also sometimes chose to believe Natalie's was. "Early November but the weather's really staying warm. Will you be getting out today?"
"Hey, where's Fenton?" The question came from Ballard, who then leaped
up and began hurrying in the direction of the rooms, "I'll get him."
"Fenton's gone," Deli said.
Everybody stared at her.
"Just, gone?" Ives asked, "Did he quit?"
"I don't know." Some color possibly left Deli's face.
The stretcher-on-wheels flashed through Shea's mind. This time it definitely carried the hulk of a body beneath the sheet and the sheet was stained red. Did Deli know something but wasn't saying? Maybe she couldn't.
A shiver grabbed him.
"Shea, I asked if you'd be getting out today." If Deli had lost any composure it was back. She glanced toward Ballard, then pointed at his empty chair. Ballard hunched his shoulders and returned. Deli returned her attention to, "Shea?"
"Yeah,” he hadn't yet thought about getting out that day, but usually did at least once. If nowhere else, then to the mall to gawk at the girl shoppers. If no girls they gawked at manikins at Penny's, Macy’s, or any number of other women’s' clothing stores. The missing Fenton, who nobody missed anyway, would not change anything, "Yeah, probably the library if nowhere else."
"Well, have fun." For a second, as Deli turned, in a way so nobody saw her, she smiled fully, showing teeth and a sparkle in her eyes, "See you at noon." She disappeared into the kitchen area. Deli was present only at serving time, and Shea felt satisfied about that. Eating, one of their main functions at MEAL, was difficult enough without the added distraction of too many good-looking women around.
Everybody was already eating. He better too. Quiche. Originally nauseating, the mixture of eggs, ground round, cheese, onion flakes, etc., had become one of his favorite dishes. He lifted the steamed glass lid, licked the condensed moisture, then laid it on the table beyond his tray, where it wouldn't get touched by any other morsel of food.
"Ahead of yourself, aren't you, Shea?" Ives spoke in smooth, educated tones, sounding at times a lot like an Englishman, "That tiny amount of moisture would have evaporated even as we speak."
Shea glanced at the impassive Montanan, then grabbed a spoon and dug in, taking a bite before he spoke, "What do you think about Fenton, Ives?" The flavor of onion came through strongly. He savored it. In most of their food flavor was nearly nonexistent.
"He quit, I suppose."
"In the middle of the night?"
"That's true. Fenton was here for the evening snack, so that means he had to have left in the middle of the night." Ives sipped his grape juice, "But I swear, Shea, that boy could come and go and usually I didn't notice. That's how, oh, I don't know what word to describe him…unfriendly? That's how unfriendly he was? Shy?"
"He was nuts." Ballard snorted his opinion.
"I agree." Shea glanced at Ballard, "A guy could go nuts in here. But I don't think Fenton was nuts."
"What do you think then, Shea, and about the other one?"
"Other one?"
"Yes. I just now remembered. Another young man was gone already on our second or third morning."
"He was nuts too."
Shea glanced at Ballard but redirected his comment, "He wasn't nuts either. But he was shy, like Fenton. Hell, Ives, I can't even remember his name."
"Nor can I," Ives admitted, "But likely he and Fenton would have become table mates."
"Right. But as it was Fenton sat alone, and went nuts in the middle of the night." Shea took a drink from his grapefruit juice, then redirected again, "You're probably right, Ballard. They were both probably nutty."
Ballard's answer was a raising of his nearly empty juice glass in a toast, then the last swallow and a grin before setting it off to the side.
Without really thinking about it, Shea noticed Ballard didn't lick out and rinse his juice glass. Now it would be harder to clean. He took another sip of his own juice, a large gulp. The strange tasting sweetness always left him unsatisfied. Gulping sometimes seemed to help. He knew it didn't. Polycose, the sweetener, the head dietitian had told him during indoctrination, was a glucose polymer, a high calorie corn starch product used to raise or lower their calorie levels as needed. A simple way to keep track of the thousands of bits of information about each individual volunteer's menu.
He returned to the quiche. Better to finish one item before the glass got too cold and dry. With spoon he scraped everything possible, mouthed that, then poured in water and began washing with index finger.
"You appeared to be leading somewhere, Shea." Ives' voice came low, "Something mysterious about the disappearance of Fenton, and, whatever ol’ what's-his-name’s name was?"
Something mysterious all right, or seemed so. The bowl squeaked with cleanliness. He tipped it up and drank, then poured more water, ran his finger around once more, swished it, drank again. Finally he picked up the bowl and began licking, "I don't know, Ives. I guess mainly it's just that we didn't see them leave."
"Of course no friendship was involved," Ives offered.
"Maybe staff just thought it would be less hard on the rest of us if we not see another leave." From the studying minister, who would try to look at the brightest side, "Since the rest of us wish to continue trying to stay."
"Good thought, Luther," said Ives, "But if one of us others were to leave, one of us who has made friends, well, I would hope somebody at least noticed I was gone, and hopefully would even remember my name."
"I'd miss ya, Ives." Was Ballard going to say something nice? "I'd wonder where all that junk went."
Evidently not. The boy just did not know how.
"Staff would think of something." Again from Luther.
"Staff'd throw a party," Ballard said, "With cake and dancing girls."
Yes. The all-knowing staff would think of something. Even so, Luther had made a point. But even so, a chilly air edged into the dining area. The bowl was absolutely clean. Shea added more water.
"Kind of sousing the Super Q, aren't we, Shea?"
"Most potent stuff we have, Ives." He grinned at the heavyset man with the black Vandyke beard, glad the subject had changed, then drank, then licked the bowl dry once more, then set it out with its cover, "I don't think we can get drunk from super distilled water though."
"Potent maybe," Galloway added, "But bland. Sometimes I feel like pouring my ration of salt and sugar into it." He took a long swallow, then said very, very, low, "Maybe there's some secret research going on in the basement."
A grin spread across Galloway's face. A pause. Then the grin became downright lewd as he spoke louder, "Maybe something sexual. Maybe Fenton and what's-his-name are strapped down, and every, oh, every hour or so, a gorgeous lady comes in," Galloway's eyes widened, "And gives each a blowjob."
"You're sick, Galloway!" Ballard shouted.
"Fuck you, Ballard." Galloway continued eating.
"A guy couldn't even take that!"
Shea glanced at Ballard. Absolutely sober, the boy had taken the comment seriously. Shea had to choke off a grin.
"You mean you couldn't." Galloway barely glanced toward his antagonist, "But how's anybody ever going to find out if we don't research it?"
Shea glanced at Ballard again. The boy's eyes were wide open but kind of narrow, too close together. He choked off another grin, and felt kind of guilty for even wanting to laugh at Ballard's ignorance. Or was it innocence?
"Do you suppose it could become like a sort of torture?" Ives sounded
a bit innocent too. Now Shea really wanted to laugh, but still refrained.
But Galloway was going, "Torture? My god, Ives, that'd be heaven. And we've got a big beautiful crop of comely young women right here at our good neighbor next door."
"Where?" Ballard's expression was so innocent. Though mad, he was swallowing Galloway's every word.
"Well, the university, of course."
"You're so fucking sick! Those girls wouldn't do that!"
"Right. They wouldn't do it for you, pea brain."
"All right." Shea finally raised his hand, "We've got our breakfast to eat, guys."
Ballard jerked his chair so that, much as possible, it faced away from Galloway, who just grinned, but had won one.
Interesting observations from all. But mainly he wanted to forget the
so-called missing volunteers and just get breakfast out of the way. Bread, margarine, grape jelly. He hated white bread, but spread the margarine and jelly, took a large bite, then another, relishing what sweetness his diet allowed. A final gulp of juice. Finished, he poured Super Q into the glass, rinsed, drank, rinsed and drank again, licked into the glass far as possible, then slapped the bottom, encouraging the last clinging globule to fall. White skim milk. He poured it down, went through the same procedure with the glass.
Last item. Black coffee with caffeine. He set it out with the other clean dishes, picked up the tray, tapped it so the few crumbs slid to the corner, dumped them into his hand then to his mouth. Finally he piled everything back onto the tray and pushed it away.
Finished.
****
The coffee sat there, steaming.
If only he had a cigarette. Nicotine craving swept him. Four months. The day before entering MEAL Shea had bought one last pack of straight Camels with his last money, plus a quarter he had panhandled and one thin, discolored penny he had found by a street drain, and had smoked them all, throwing the empty package into MEAL's garbage, smoking the last cigarette and carrying his belongings as he approached the main entrance.
After seeing the ad in a discarded newspaper, and the 1-800 phone call, and then living in an alley near a post office and general delivery for two weeks while corresponding with MEAL, he had spent a week on the road just getting there, hitchhiking and mostly walking. He was lucky to have arrived
in time to begin the study. Two hours later and he would have missed his first meal and would have been disqualified, back in the street, penniless.
Penniless.
The thought jabbed his self-respect. How often had he been down to no money? Many times. Now he had managed to save some, had bought some decent clothes, had met a woman. A good woman. A nice woman.
He would never forget that first meeting. Natalie had spoke with him during the original phone call, and had answered his ring from MEAL's locked front door. They had talked again. Just routine questions and answers about what he would be getting into at the lab. It was the warmest voice he had ever heard. Then she had come down to greet him. She had opened the door with a smile, and instantly, for just a second the smile had changed to…his best guess was horror, total dismay, disbelief. But her professional smile had come right back, and she had never stopped smiling it.
Obviously his appearance had shocked her. He had not considered it.
How long since he had worried about how he looked? How many times had he gone sometimes weeks without bathing or shaving, scratching from one job to another, raiding garbage cans and dumpsters for food or anything else he could use or sell or trade? And how many hundred times had he searched for cigarettes in gutters and filthy butt kits? He sometimes lost track of time itself. So who cared about appearances? Just occasional vague glances at store windows that always reflected back someone he did not know.
But when he saw that look on Natalie's face, well, he knew he didn't ever want to get that low in life again. After that, Natalie had seemed to give him special attention, toward his welfare anyway. He could not bring himself to consider that her attention went any further than that. So his didn't either.
"Reminiscing something special, Shea?"
"Yeah." Shea blinked, stared at Ives. He had been the last of the new crop of volunteers to arrive. Nobody but Natalie had seen him. Or would, for her first order of business was to personally get him into a shower on the ground floor, and his clothes into a washing machine. His first hour at MEAL had been with Natalie alone. He would never forget it, "Yeah, Ives. Something special."
"Will you share this something special?"
Just the sound of Ives' voice sometimes made him want to chuckle, but
what he had been thinking he would not share, "Yeah, I want a smoke, Ives."
"And I want a steak dinner, but neither of us may have what we want,
may we?"
Shea laughed, then pushed slightly away from the table and crossed his right leg again, then drew the coffee close and sprawled. He would make do
with what he did have. Coffee, and, new, mostly friendly, acquaintances. The cigarette would just have to remain a fantasy, “Nope, Ives, we sure mayn't."
He sipped the coffee and watched the others either finishing their meal or cleaning and licking their dishes. How strange they would appear to someone from the outside world. How easily they had all adjusted, at least to the task of cleaning their dishes.
But some had not adjusted at all, and had quit. At least, apparently, staff wanted the remaining volunteers to think that. And what did he think? That Fenton and what's-his-name had been kidnapped? Actually hidden and strapped down in some secret compartment in this huge building? Truth was, the building was huge, and he had not begun to see even a tenth of it.
"So what do you think, Shea?" Ives spoke low, likely did not want
to get Ballard started again, "Did they quit? Or were they kidnapped?"
"I don't know."
Coffee finished.
"But what do you think?"
"I don't know, Ives. I really don't care, and I really don't want to think about it anymore." That, was somewhat of a lie. He had been thinking about it quite a bit. It seemed to have attached itself to the back of his head. But a rumor of kidnapping at the very least could cause chaos among the volunteers. And telling what he saw last night could set it off. Or what he thought he saw.
The sense of caffeine in his system spread through him. Then the craving for a cigarette came again. The two went so together. Sometimes he wished he had asked for two cups of coffee during that first interview with the nutritionist. Too late now. And just as well. He licked out the cup, then headed for inspection.
****
Shea set his tray on the counter of the kitchen window. One of the technicians, a shorter, older woman, saw him and came immediately, “All finished, Shea?”
“All finished, Roxanna.” He watched as she checked each dish and eating utensil, even holding them to the light, making sure he had not missed even a molecule of a crumb. He sometimes felt silly in his situation, yet knew the inspection was necessary.
While waiting he watched another woman weighing food, carefully adding and removing seemingly micro-bits of food until it weighed within 0.01 gram, as the head nutritionist had told him. So he guessed it important he did his part and ate every scrap possible. As he stood, not really paying good attention to anything, something happened in the rear of the kitchen. Something like a window slid open, a technician reached through, removed three trays—uncleaned dishes—then the window closed again, so quickly—
"Want to go to the mall, Shea?" Ballard set his tray on the counter. Another technician immediately began checking. Shea dismissed what his mind had just recorded and looked at the brute-like, sometimes-buddy, wishing the boy would give him less attention, "Sure, maybe after dinner."
"Taking your camera?"
"Sure, why not?" He had not been to the mall for a couple days, seemed eternity, "Yeah, we'll do that, Ballard."
"Ballard, there's some smudges on this juice glass." The discrepancy announced, the other technician sounded impatient, "Would you try to do a little better, please?"
"Sure! Ffff—!" Ballard muttered under his breath, "Swell!"
Shea felt sure he had almost heard the F-word, but knew Ballard had
been warned about his language in the close proximity of the ladies working
in the kitchen. He looked away, as if he had not heard the technician. No use embarrassing Ballard further. At the same time he saw no reason Ballard could not get his dishes clean the first time too. From the corner of his eye he watched Ballard grab the glass and begin licking furiously.
"Yours is fine, Shea."
"Thanks, Roxanna." He left quickly, almost wishing it had been him whose glass wasn't licked clean. Just one more reason for jealousy and frustration.
But at least they had gotten through breakfast. Just six breakfasts to go before Otter Creek, and one more meal before the mall.
THE MALL
4
THE MALL
One minute to one. Camera hooked over his shoulder, Shea stood by the bulletin board. His and Ballard's were the only names written for errands, and he was impatient to get moving.
Exactly at one o’clock a university psychology student arrived, a young woman about twenty-five with straight, rusty peppermint hair to her waist, tiny nose, twinkling blue eyes, "Hi, Shea!"
He nodded and grinned.
She stopped beside him and looked at the sparse list, "Ballard ready?"
"Haven't seen him, Jayne." Growing more impatient Shea walked past her, kind of stomping, "I'll check his room."
He came to the missing volunteer's room. What the hell was his name
again? Fenton. In passing he grabbed the knob and turned. Locked. Of course. Why wouldn't it be? Being locked proved nothing. Solved nothing either.
At Ballard's door he knocked, "Ballard!" He glanced down the hall. Jayne sent a big smile. Lovely girl, about the most patient person around. But he was not. He doubled his fist and banged on the door.
At last came a muffled, "Yeah?"
"Ballard, are you going to the mall?"
More awake sounding, "Yeah. C'mon in."
He did not want to go in. He did not want to encourage that much closeness. But he turned the knob, pushed the door open, "Let's go, Ballard. Jayne's waiting and so am I."
Ballard rolled off his bed, "Yeah," then lay propped against it, blinking, "Give me a couple minutes."
"You got five, Ballard, then we're going." Shea left the door open a crack and started back to the bulletin board. Jayne might know whether Natalie was married. He knew they were friends. Wouldn't be many private moments to ask.
But two more bodies now hovered around her.
"Ives wants to go to the library, Shea." Jayne's brow was raised, as if expecting protest, "And Galloway wants to go along for the ride. Is that OK?"
"Of course." He lifted both hands about shoulder high and grinned,
though he didn't totally feel like grinning, "The more the merrier." So
much for privacy.
At last they were ready. "Everybody got their essentials?" Jayne's way of saying bags and bottles for their excretions, should anyone ever need to release in public. Only Ives ever did. "Well, get them, boys." She clapped her hands, "Hurry."
****
A dark purple three-quarter-ton 2007 Chevrolet van provided the ride. Shea sat high in shotgun, the lusted-for position that finally required taking turns. That meant more work for Jayne and the other chaperones, as they had to keep a record of who had sat where last. And each volunteer had to sign his name by the time and date.
More juvenile treatment but he didn't mind. Was worth it to ride in front occasionally and see the world, the traffic, the city, and the sun-tanning girls.
About a mile distant jutted the city water tower, white with red top
and a smiling face meeting incoming traffic from the east, frown on the opposite side meeting outgoing traffic.
"Heyyyy," Galloway announced, "Eyes right, guys."
Shea jerked right as they passed a sorority house front lawn, where about a dozen young ladies lay surrendered to the sun with little as possible covering them.
"Honk the horn, Jayne!" Ballard exclaimed.
While turning, to be able to appreciate the young ladies longer, Shea's gaze swept past Jayne. She grinned but did not honk. Then he glanced at Galloway and gave a salute.
"Not bad, huh, Shea?" Galloway was grinning broadly, "We won't be seeing much more of that up here in Dakota."
"I imagine we won't." Ives, next to Galloway, gave his rendition, "If
a normal year their little tootsies would be freezing off about now."
"Gets cold in Montana too, sir," Ballard commented from the rear.
Shea looked back. Ballard still gawked in the direction of the girls.
"Hey, Ballard. Ya think those chickies wouldn't do it every hour?" Galloway evidently had discovered a weakness in his antagonist, and would capitalize on it, "For the advancement of science, and enough money, you
damn right they would."
"Shut up!" Ballard yelled, but did not turn around.
Shea again glanced at Jayne taking everything in stride. He felt glad
she would not know what they were referring to, but wondered about Ballard.
The boy's anger seemed a little more personal than just trying to protect all college girls. But he did not plan to broach any personal subjects with him.
Jayne threw a glance back, smiled, then kept her eyes on the road. Shea thought about slipping a note with his question about Natalie, but decided it would be better to ask in person. He considered asking her thoughts about Fenton too. If anyone would have an opinion, Jayne the psychology student would.
Geometric Mall appeared from the clutter on the city horizon. Even
with Ives' errand to the library they would still make a good day of it.
****
The first thing to hit Shea's consciousness as they entered the wonder world
of Geometric Mall was the aroma of chocolate, Chocolate, CHOCOLATE!
At times it threatened to make him crazy. Worse than the essence of cigarette smoke that sometimes managed to drift from the smoking sections of
the very few areas that still allowed smoking, if any, maybe just the clothes from passing smokers. But chocolate was indubitably everywhere.
"Ahhhhhhà ," Galloway took deep drafts of the stuff, "We're in heaven."
"The Carousel!" Ballard gave his warning shout, then disappeared into
a darkened area emanating with colored lights, beeps, electronic explosions.
"Looks like we wait for awhile, Shea." Jayne looked concerned, "Hope you're not in a hurry."
"Nope. Let'im have his fun." He didn't have any major errand to perform, just needed film.
The four of them moved to the center of the wide aisle. Jayne, Galloway and Ives moved on to one of the scattered plastic hexagon seating areas. Galloway, he noticed, sat next to Jayne, as usual. He suspected the man liked the young lady, and likely there wasn't more than seven or eight years difference in their ages. Other than that they didn't seem to have a lot in common. But Jayne didn't seem to mind, and often appeared to talk really openly with Galloway.
Shea slipped his Fujica ST605 onto his neck. Not wanting an automatic
he had found the quite old model at a used shop. He checked the settings, then sighted with the 240mm Revuenon, equipment added since arriving at MEAL. The lens was way too big for most purposes but the Fujica had been difficult finding accessories for. Photography had captured his interest in high school. He had planned a career, had even begun one as a studio helper in a big city far from Iowa. But then the party began. But even with his alcohol-saturated past he had learned a few basics about cameras.
Brunette hair appeared in the viewfinder. He looked up. The woman's back was turned but she looked like Natalie. "I'm going a ways further, Jayne." He held up the camera, "Won't be long."
Jayne's blue eyes twinkled a smile, "Go ahead, Shea. I trust you."
He nodded, then slipped around the hexagon area and moved toward the woman. She kept her back turned and moved slowly along the windows of a uniform shop. About twenty feet away he stopped behind a large wooden pentagon container filled with green foliage plants and again looked through the viewfinder, turning the focus until she came clear.
Not Natalie. Nonetheless a real looker. He snapped on the strobe to charge the batteries, continued focusing as she moved along, hoping she would show a clear view of her face. Finally she turned, her face lit in recognition. He snapped the picture.
She saw him immediately and her lit face faded. He waved, advanced the film, then started to approach to say he had thought she was somebody else. A partly true story.
"Why'd you take a picture of my girl?" An unfriendly sounding voice from behind demanded an answer.
Face burning embarrassment Shea spun, then swallowed and blinked. About four feet away stood Attila the Hun himself, "If you don't have a decent answer I'll wrap that camera around your scrawny neck!"
Of course Shea didn't have a decent answer, and the guy, more than six
and a half feet with bulging chest, was big enough to do as threatened.
"What's the trouble here?"
Both Shea and Attila faced Jayne.
"This guy sneaked a picture of my girl!"
"He didn't mean any harm, sir." Jayne's face was totally sober for once, her eyes steady and professional, "He takes lots of pictures of girls, and they never mind."
"Well, I mind." Attila’s chest swelled as he glowered down at tiny Jayne, "And who are you, anyway?"
"I'm his chaperone."
"Chaperone?" A look of astonishment swept Attila's face, "You mean he's not right? He’s…weird?"
"Not exactly weird."
"But, retarded…, though?"
"Somewhat." Jayne's face remained absolutely serious.
Attila looked again at Shea, who felt he maybe should drool or something, and the way he felt it wouldn't be that difficult.
"I guess it's OK then." Attila appeared unconvinced, yet started away, dragging his girlfriend with him, and growled back, "He's lucky you were with him."
****
"You not only got yourself in trouble, Shea, you could have gotten MEAL in trouble. We don't need bad press."
"I'm sorry."
"You should be. Had Ballard done such a thing I wouldn't have been so surprised, but, you, Shea."
"All right. OK." He clicked the lens cover on and turned away, "I
said I'm sorry—maybe I'm a little horny. Ever think of that?" Absolutely unnecessary to say.
Jayne folded her arms, "That's not my concern and that's no excuse."
He glanced at her. She dropped her arms and started toward where Ives
and Galloway were watching but still seated. But it was the moment of privacy he had hoped for to ask about Natalie's marital status, "Jayne, can I ask you a question?"
"What?" She stopped, barely turned, and did not smile.
"It's kind of a private question. Could you come back over here, please?" He felt stupid standing there with his camera, like as if somebody had just pulled down his pants.
"I don't know if I want to share any secrets with you right now." She refused to smile. He didn't know how such a smiley person could take on such
a straight face. "What's it about?"
"Can't you come here? It's important." He felt as if he were fighting with a girlfriend. People were even stopping to watch.
Finally she did come, though it appeared to be very difficult for her,
"OK, what is it?"
"Somewhat retarded, huh?" He hoped that would make her smile.
It didn't, "Somewhat, yes. Now, what is it?"
"Hey, guys! Jayne!" That quickly Ballard appeared, gathered Ives and Galloway and joined Shea and Jayne. "I killed the missiles. They were coming as fast as I could squeeze the trigger, but I got'em all!"
"That's great, Ballard." Jayne patted his shoulder.
Ives shook his hand and congratulated him. Even Galloway said something nice. Shea barely heard. He had been interrupted again.
"Shea, isn't it great what Ballard did?" Jayne's eyes were shining, glinting, even.
He gawked at her. She was really on him to want him to praise Ballard. He guessed it would not hurt him, "Yeah, that's wonderful, Ballard." He shook the boy's hand, felt Ballard's excitement in the grip, "I know you’ve worked hard on that game. What is it again, anyway? Battlefield?"
"ArmageddonBattlefield."
"Oh, right, right."
"Hey, guy, get any pictures while I was gone?" Ballard just had to
bring it up, "Any girlies?"
"You mean you've done this before, Shea?" Jayne's sober look turned
to unfettered contempt.
"Yeah, once, I guess."
"You should see some of the pictures he's got." Ballard had to keep
right on, "And not all of'em from your own camera. Am I right there, guy?"
Shea cursed that first day when everybody was new and choosing sides. Galloway had seemed too quiet, then. Ives too old. Christ, what was he? Five or six years older? So he had sat with adolescently outgoing Ballard at that first meal. Had even allowed the boy into his room where small pinups resided on the inside of his closet door. Scraps he had found during his destitute travels. Then his camera arrived, and he and Ballard went to the mall together and shot a whole roll of film just of girls strolling. "Yeah, right," he whispered harshly, "Now get over it, will you?"
"Why?" Ballard whispered back, "What's wrong?"
"Anybody else have errands?" Thank God for Jayne and her common sense. Whenever events threatened to get out of hand she managed to smoothly change the subject.
"Yes." Ives started toward the center of the mall, where aisles went in all directions like the spokes of a giant wagon wheel, "Let's just take a turn through the maze."
****
So, for the next hour they walked the indoor streets of Geometric Mall, smelling chocolate, cigarette smoke, popcorn, maple syrup. Shea swore he could even smell Coca Cola. But none could they have. For even a drop of food or drink alien to the research would be enough to get them dismissed from the study.
And women. All sizes and shapes. Redheads, blondes, brunettes, a hundred shades in between. The mall seemed alive with them, gushing with them. They could not have the women either. No sex. Shea carefully kept his camera under wraps. No more shooting pictures of girls when Jayne was around.
Each volunteer in turn drew the others into a shop of his choosing while he made a purchase. A toothbrush, magazine, paperback novel. Usually nothing big, but a reason to go someplace different, experience the real world for awhile.
Thanks to Galloway they walked through Victoria’s Secret, where lived the livest- looking manikins on earth. Shea especially liked one that stood at the entrance. Dark brunette hair, like Natalie's, even the facial features were similar, and she always wore a different, clingy dress. As they passed he stared long and hard, for a manikin did not care if she got gawked at.
Finally each volunteer carried a package. At the wheel's hub, even though they had not walked every spoke, Ives asked, "Is anyone not finished?"
No one spoke.
Without another word they filed down the spoke that would take them to the lane in the parking lot where the purple van waited to return them to MEAL.
Shea still did not have his answer. Natalie could be the mother of twelve
children for all he knew. But it wasn't the time to ask Jayne anyway. A couple days should probably pass before he broached such a personal subject again.
THE MALL
One minute to one. Camera hooked over his shoulder, Shea stood by the bulletin board. His and Ballard's were the only names written for errands, and he was impatient to get moving.
Exactly at one o’clock a university psychology student arrived, a young woman about twenty-five with straight, rusty peppermint hair to her waist, tiny nose, twinkling blue eyes, "Hi, Shea!"
He nodded and grinned.
She stopped beside him and looked at the sparse list, "Ballard ready?"
"Haven't seen him, Jayne." Growing more impatient Shea walked past her, kind of stomping, "I'll check his room."
He came to the missing volunteer's room. What the hell was his name
again? Fenton. In passing he grabbed the knob and turned. Locked. Of course. Why wouldn't it be? Being locked proved nothing. Solved nothing either.
At Ballard's door he knocked, "Ballard!" He glanced down the hall. Jayne sent a big smile. Lovely girl, about the most patient person around. But he was not. He doubled his fist and banged on the door.
At last came a muffled, "Yeah?"
"Ballard, are you going to the mall?"
More awake sounding, "Yeah. C'mon in."
He did not want to go in. He did not want to encourage that much closeness. But he turned the knob, pushed the door open, "Let's go, Ballard. Jayne's waiting and so am I."
Ballard rolled off his bed, "Yeah," then lay propped against it, blinking, "Give me a couple minutes."
"You got five, Ballard, then we're going." Shea left the door open a crack and started back to the bulletin board. Jayne might know whether Natalie was married. He knew they were friends. Wouldn't be many private moments to ask.
But two more bodies now hovered around her.
"Ives wants to go to the library, Shea." Jayne's brow was raised, as if expecting protest, "And Galloway wants to go along for the ride. Is that OK?"
"Of course." He lifted both hands about shoulder high and grinned,
though he didn't totally feel like grinning, "The more the merrier." So
much for privacy.
At last they were ready. "Everybody got their essentials?" Jayne's way of saying bags and bottles for their excretions, should anyone ever need to release in public. Only Ives ever did. "Well, get them, boys." She clapped her hands, "Hurry."
****
A dark purple three-quarter-ton 2007 Chevrolet van provided the ride. Shea sat high in shotgun, the lusted-for position that finally required taking turns. That meant more work for Jayne and the other chaperones, as they had to keep a record of who had sat where last. And each volunteer had to sign his name by the time and date.
More juvenile treatment but he didn't mind. Was worth it to ride in front occasionally and see the world, the traffic, the city, and the sun-tanning girls.
About a mile distant jutted the city water tower, white with red top
and a smiling face meeting incoming traffic from the east, frown on the opposite side meeting outgoing traffic.
"Heyyyy," Galloway announced, "Eyes right, guys."
Shea jerked right as they passed a sorority house front lawn, where about a dozen young ladies lay surrendered to the sun with little as possible covering them.
"Honk the horn, Jayne!" Ballard exclaimed.
While turning, to be able to appreciate the young ladies longer, Shea's gaze swept past Jayne. She grinned but did not honk. Then he glanced at Galloway and gave a salute.
"Not bad, huh, Shea?" Galloway was grinning broadly, "We won't be seeing much more of that up here in Dakota."
"I imagine we won't." Ives, next to Galloway, gave his rendition, "If
a normal year their little tootsies would be freezing off about now."
"Gets cold in Montana too, sir," Ballard commented from the rear.
Shea looked back. Ballard still gawked in the direction of the girls.
"Hey, Ballard. Ya think those chickies wouldn't do it every hour?" Galloway evidently had discovered a weakness in his antagonist, and would capitalize on it, "For the advancement of science, and enough money, you
damn right they would."
"Shut up!" Ballard yelled, but did not turn around.
Shea again glanced at Jayne taking everything in stride. He felt glad
she would not know what they were referring to, but wondered about Ballard.
The boy's anger seemed a little more personal than just trying to protect all college girls. But he did not plan to broach any personal subjects with him.
Jayne threw a glance back, smiled, then kept her eyes on the road. Shea thought about slipping a note with his question about Natalie, but decided it would be better to ask in person. He considered asking her thoughts about Fenton too. If anyone would have an opinion, Jayne the psychology student would.
Geometric Mall appeared from the clutter on the city horizon. Even
with Ives' errand to the library they would still make a good day of it.
****
The first thing to hit Shea's consciousness as they entered the wonder world
of Geometric Mall was the aroma of chocolate, Chocolate, CHOCOLATE!
At times it threatened to make him crazy. Worse than the essence of cigarette smoke that sometimes managed to drift from the smoking sections of
the very few areas that still allowed smoking, if any, maybe just the clothes from passing smokers. But chocolate was indubitably everywhere.
"Ahhhhhhà ," Galloway took deep drafts of the stuff, "We're in heaven."
"The Carousel!" Ballard gave his warning shout, then disappeared into
a darkened area emanating with colored lights, beeps, electronic explosions.
"Looks like we wait for awhile, Shea." Jayne looked concerned, "Hope you're not in a hurry."
"Nope. Let'im have his fun." He didn't have any major errand to perform, just needed film.
The four of them moved to the center of the wide aisle. Jayne, Galloway and Ives moved on to one of the scattered plastic hexagon seating areas. Galloway, he noticed, sat next to Jayne, as usual. He suspected the man liked the young lady, and likely there wasn't more than seven or eight years difference in their ages. Other than that they didn't seem to have a lot in common. But Jayne didn't seem to mind, and often appeared to talk really openly with Galloway.
Shea slipped his Fujica ST605 onto his neck. Not wanting an automatic
he had found the quite old model at a used shop. He checked the settings, then sighted with the 240mm Revuenon, equipment added since arriving at MEAL. The lens was way too big for most purposes but the Fujica had been difficult finding accessories for. Photography had captured his interest in high school. He had planned a career, had even begun one as a studio helper in a big city far from Iowa. But then the party began. But even with his alcohol-saturated past he had learned a few basics about cameras.
Brunette hair appeared in the viewfinder. He looked up. The woman's back was turned but she looked like Natalie. "I'm going a ways further, Jayne." He held up the camera, "Won't be long."
Jayne's blue eyes twinkled a smile, "Go ahead, Shea. I trust you."
He nodded, then slipped around the hexagon area and moved toward the woman. She kept her back turned and moved slowly along the windows of a uniform shop. About twenty feet away he stopped behind a large wooden pentagon container filled with green foliage plants and again looked through the viewfinder, turning the focus until she came clear.
Not Natalie. Nonetheless a real looker. He snapped on the strobe to charge the batteries, continued focusing as she moved along, hoping she would show a clear view of her face. Finally she turned, her face lit in recognition. He snapped the picture.
She saw him immediately and her lit face faded. He waved, advanced the film, then started to approach to say he had thought she was somebody else. A partly true story.
"Why'd you take a picture of my girl?" An unfriendly sounding voice from behind demanded an answer.
Face burning embarrassment Shea spun, then swallowed and blinked. About four feet away stood Attila the Hun himself, "If you don't have a decent answer I'll wrap that camera around your scrawny neck!"
Of course Shea didn't have a decent answer, and the guy, more than six
and a half feet with bulging chest, was big enough to do as threatened.
"What's the trouble here?"
Both Shea and Attila faced Jayne.
"This guy sneaked a picture of my girl!"
"He didn't mean any harm, sir." Jayne's face was totally sober for once, her eyes steady and professional, "He takes lots of pictures of girls, and they never mind."
"Well, I mind." Attila’s chest swelled as he glowered down at tiny Jayne, "And who are you, anyway?"
"I'm his chaperone."
"Chaperone?" A look of astonishment swept Attila's face, "You mean he's not right? He’s…weird?"
"Not exactly weird."
"But, retarded…, though?"
"Somewhat." Jayne's face remained absolutely serious.
Attila looked again at Shea, who felt he maybe should drool or something, and the way he felt it wouldn't be that difficult.
"I guess it's OK then." Attila appeared unconvinced, yet started away, dragging his girlfriend with him, and growled back, "He's lucky you were with him."
****
"You not only got yourself in trouble, Shea, you could have gotten MEAL in trouble. We don't need bad press."
"I'm sorry."
"You should be. Had Ballard done such a thing I wouldn't have been so surprised, but, you, Shea."
"All right. OK." He clicked the lens cover on and turned away, "I
said I'm sorry—maybe I'm a little horny. Ever think of that?" Absolutely unnecessary to say.
Jayne folded her arms, "That's not my concern and that's no excuse."
He glanced at her. She dropped her arms and started toward where Ives
and Galloway were watching but still seated. But it was the moment of privacy he had hoped for to ask about Natalie's marital status, "Jayne, can I ask you a question?"
"What?" She stopped, barely turned, and did not smile.
"It's kind of a private question. Could you come back over here, please?" He felt stupid standing there with his camera, like as if somebody had just pulled down his pants.
"I don't know if I want to share any secrets with you right now." She refused to smile. He didn't know how such a smiley person could take on such
a straight face. "What's it about?"
"Can't you come here? It's important." He felt as if he were fighting with a girlfriend. People were even stopping to watch.
Finally she did come, though it appeared to be very difficult for her,
"OK, what is it?"
"Somewhat retarded, huh?" He hoped that would make her smile.
It didn't, "Somewhat, yes. Now, what is it?"
"Hey, guys! Jayne!" That quickly Ballard appeared, gathered Ives and Galloway and joined Shea and Jayne. "I killed the missiles. They were coming as fast as I could squeeze the trigger, but I got'em all!"
"That's great, Ballard." Jayne patted his shoulder.
Ives shook his hand and congratulated him. Even Galloway said something nice. Shea barely heard. He had been interrupted again.
"Shea, isn't it great what Ballard did?" Jayne's eyes were shining, glinting, even.
He gawked at her. She was really on him to want him to praise Ballard. He guessed it would not hurt him, "Yeah, that's wonderful, Ballard." He shook the boy's hand, felt Ballard's excitement in the grip, "I know you’ve worked hard on that game. What is it again, anyway? Battlefield?"
"ArmageddonBattlefield."
"Oh, right, right."
"Hey, guy, get any pictures while I was gone?" Ballard just had to
bring it up, "Any girlies?"
"You mean you've done this before, Shea?" Jayne's sober look turned
to unfettered contempt.
"Yeah, once, I guess."
"You should see some of the pictures he's got." Ballard had to keep
right on, "And not all of'em from your own camera. Am I right there, guy?"
Shea cursed that first day when everybody was new and choosing sides. Galloway had seemed too quiet, then. Ives too old. Christ, what was he? Five or six years older? So he had sat with adolescently outgoing Ballard at that first meal. Had even allowed the boy into his room where small pinups resided on the inside of his closet door. Scraps he had found during his destitute travels. Then his camera arrived, and he and Ballard went to the mall together and shot a whole roll of film just of girls strolling. "Yeah, right," he whispered harshly, "Now get over it, will you?"
"Why?" Ballard whispered back, "What's wrong?"
"Anybody else have errands?" Thank God for Jayne and her common sense. Whenever events threatened to get out of hand she managed to smoothly change the subject.
"Yes." Ives started toward the center of the mall, where aisles went in all directions like the spokes of a giant wagon wheel, "Let's just take a turn through the maze."
****
So, for the next hour they walked the indoor streets of Geometric Mall, smelling chocolate, cigarette smoke, popcorn, maple syrup. Shea swore he could even smell Coca Cola. But none could they have. For even a drop of food or drink alien to the research would be enough to get them dismissed from the study.
And women. All sizes and shapes. Redheads, blondes, brunettes, a hundred shades in between. The mall seemed alive with them, gushing with them. They could not have the women either. No sex. Shea carefully kept his camera under wraps. No more shooting pictures of girls when Jayne was around.
Each volunteer in turn drew the others into a shop of his choosing while he made a purchase. A toothbrush, magazine, paperback novel. Usually nothing big, but a reason to go someplace different, experience the real world for awhile.
Thanks to Galloway they walked through Victoria’s Secret, where lived the livest- looking manikins on earth. Shea especially liked one that stood at the entrance. Dark brunette hair, like Natalie's, even the facial features were similar, and she always wore a different, clingy dress. As they passed he stared long and hard, for a manikin did not care if she got gawked at.
Finally each volunteer carried a package. At the wheel's hub, even though they had not walked every spoke, Ives asked, "Is anyone not finished?"
No one spoke.
Without another word they filed down the spoke that would take them to the lane in the parking lot where the purple van waited to return them to MEAL.
Shea still did not have his answer. Natalie could be the mother of twelve
children for all he knew. But it wasn't the time to ask Jayne anyway. A couple days should probably pass before he broached such a personal subject again.
THE NIGHT
5
THE NIGHT
The volunteers arrived back at the lab about an hour before the evening meal, which passed without conflict. Then Shea shot three games of pool with Ballard, making sure he lost one of the first two so that they would have to play the rubber, which he didn't feel guilty winning more often than not.
After the third game he retired to his room while Galloway and Ballard went to a movie, chaperoned by Jayne. He doubted Galloway appreciated Ballard going along but little anyone could do about that. Galloway would have to sort out the problems of his own love life.
Shea's own room held books, which he read vehemently. Mostly fantasy and spy thrillers. He referred constantly to his ragged paperback dictionary, which had ridden in his backpack forever. He had bought a few novels and the university library was full.
Nine-forty-five and snack time came soon enough, but not for Shea. He wanted the day's responsibilities to end. By the time he reached the dining area the trays were already set out and the others eating.
"Should have come, Shea." Ballard was licking out the last smudges from
a juice glass, "Really a dumb movie about a bunch of dwarfs and a fireman and a stupid little kid, and they were up in the black sky with nothing to hold onto."
"Time bandits," Galloway interjected, "And you didn't have to go, dumb head."
"Yeah, right. Galloway's idea of a sophisticated movie."
"I told you it was above your intellect."
"It was a stupid movie, Galloway."
"So, Shea, are you sorry you didn't go?" If lucky, Ives' question would smooth things over, so they could eat in peace, "Time bandits does have its following, you know."
"Cult thing?"
"Cult. Classic. Whatever."
"Ah, too tired." Shea sat by his snack. Pineapple juice, wedge of cheese, dish of pears, sugar cookie, milk. Not much, but more than the other two nights in the cycle. He dug in.
Jayne was gone. Just as well. He had waited in his room until the
last minute to be sure, and hoped she would have forgiven him by her next duty. Twice more that week, he thought, plus the weekend. One of those times he would get his chance to ask about Natalie.
Natalie. Gone only twelve hours and already she seemed like just a dream. He tried to picture her and could not. Same as his recurring morning erection dreams, he just couldn't make out her face, could not really see who she was.
He finished the last of his snack and licked out all traces of nutrition. Spiffy clean. Now if the evening nurse would just quickly pass him so he could get the hell out of there. He wanted to get going with eight to ten hours of privacy and sleep without anyone bothering him. Ballard had mentioned pool again though, which he had ignored.
The evening nurse came right over to inspect. He watched but wasn't interested, guessed he couldn't like them all. Even her red hair did not turn him on. Too fiery. Her age too, about twenty-eight or nine he thought. Too close to his own. Course, Natalie was about that age too, but then that didn't matter, for Natalie was Natalie.
This gal did have nice curves though, but maybe a little over abundant. Yes, they were. In fact, she was somebody one would not fall in love with, but rather would pick on. Not that he wanted to pick on her but felt sure she did get picked on.
"Looks fine, Shea."
"Thanks, Elbertine."
"Makes you hungry just lookin', don't it, Elbertine?"
Ballard's comment brought everyone to attention.
"I don't get hungry that often." The veiled critical remark caused Elbertine to flush, her eyes to sadden for a quick second, but then she brightened, "I've even quit the chocolate."
"Well, your rump don't show it."
"All right, Ballard." Shea shot the ex-sailor a glare, then jumped up. He did not want any further involvement supporting Elbertine. He started for his room, "Good night, everybody."
"How about partners, Shea? You and me against Luther and Galloway."
Damn, would the guy never stop? He wanted to get out of there. He
just wanted to get alone.
"Come on, Shea." Galloway had a look on his face that said something
like 'Humor him so we can all have some peace,' "One game won't hurt."
Shea huffed to himself, "OK. One game."
****
But one game became three. Try as he might, Shea got all the bad shots and could not stretch a win. The rubber had to be played. It was the unwritten rule.
"Your break, Luther." Ballard tapped his cue stick on Luther's shoulder, then stiffened his head back, looked down his nose, "Me'n Shea're gonna wipe you guys."
Shea shook his head and looked away. Ballard could not be nice, continuously, to even his supposedly best friend at MEAL. He wondered if Ballard had any real friends anywhere, and for a few seconds felt sorry for him.
Luther, well-built with light brown hair and brown eyes, a bit taller than Shea, chalked, positioned his cue, bent over the table, sighted, drew back, blasted.
A great break. But no balls fell.
Shea had hoped the game might finish quickly. His shot. The one ball
sat dead, but he should be able to drop others first. The three was a long
one. He sighted.
"Lots'a green there, Shea. I'd go for the one first."
He let Ballard's comment settle and shot. The three sank.
"Hey, great shot, there, guy."
But the cue ball buried itself. He shot and missed.
"Your shot, Galloway."
Galloway, as always, shot to finish the game and usually missed. This time he sank the fourteen, then missed.
Ballard up, sank the one, missed. On the game went, one ball at a time. Pressure began to build. Everybody took more time aiming. Nothing changed. Even Elbertine began watching, smiling when Shea sunk one, standing way too close sometimes.
He didn't notice right away, but during a particularly long period of waiting he began sensing her presence.
She stood with arms folded, elbow all but touching him. The discovery brought a sensation to his groin and red hot heat to his face. He jerked back to the game. Luther had just sank two in a row. Miss, Luther, so I can shoot!
He wanted to move but not purposely. He didn't want to embarrass her.
He also didn't want to encourage her. Miss!
Luther accommodated. Shea stepped up and shot and missed.
"Come on, Shea." Ballard sounded disappointed, "The seven was dead.
You didn't even look at it."
"Sorry." Ballard was right. The game had swung their way and he had screwed up. But he had put distance between himself and Elbertine, who now was on the opposite side of the table. She wasn't that bad, really. Hair full and rich. Not really that fiery. Not so much he couldn't stand it. And she had nice dimples. Dimples? Was she smiling?
Slowly he lined his eyes with hers. Yes. Smiling. She had caught him looking her over and evidently had drawn a wrong conclusion. Again his face burned. Again he made a stupid move, about the umpteenth for that day. He felt his face break into a stupid grin, one where he knew his mouth was crooked and his eyes felt immovable.
Will this day never end?
"Your shot, Shea."
He jerked to the table. Only the eight ball remained. Where the hell
was the cue ball?
Luther held out his hand, "I scratched. Sorry."
The cue ball had the weight of a bowling ball, for the eight sat inside the kitchen. He had made that shot only once before at a bar in Omaha, Nebraska. He had been snockered and got the shit kicked out of him immediately afterward. That time he lost everything but the clothes he wore, and he felt the experience produced an inherent fear of making that shot. But tonight he wanted the game to end.
"You can do it, guy." Ballard appeared really tense, must really want to win, and of course Shea didn't want to lose.
The eight sat near the edge of the left corner pocket. Wouldn't take much to knock it in, except a helluva lot'a green both ways. He placed the cue ball slightly to the right of the spot, then looked down the stick to the far end of the table. Fuzzy. Too many things to look at.
He blinked several times. Most important where the stick would hit the cue ball. He aimed left of center, placed his body so the stick was aiming right of center on the other end of the table, again lined his eyes, blinked, drew back, blinked again, shot, forced himself to follow through with the stick.
The cue ball seemed to take forever.
Clunk
It bounced off the far end and began the long journey back, but rolling straight and true. He stood up, watched wide-eyed, following its progress, closer, closer—
Clack
It knocked the eight ball in and followed. But just enough spin. The cue ball hit the edge of the corner and bounced harmlessly to rest about a half-inch from the pocket.
"EeeeeeeeIiiiiii!" Ballard pounded the butt of his stick on the carpeted floor, then came racing around the table, "You did it, guy!" The boy would have gripped Shea chest-to-chest, but Shea turned just in time. "We won! We won!" Ballard slapped his back.
Shea didn't feel too bad about the win himself, and accepted congratulations from all around. Even Ives, who had sat quietly in the
dining area, stepped up and stuck out his hand, "Good show, Mr. McTory."
Then his eyes picked out the white smock still across the table, and moved up to her face. Her mouth was open and showing teeth in a wide smile. Her eyes were beaming, her whole face was beaming. Without meaning to he had advanced his standing with Elbertine, and a new reason emerged not to make that shot.
"Bedtime, guys." He returned Ballard's hug as much as he thought acceptable, with one arm and hand, then pulled out of it, "Good night." But even as he headed down the short hall leading to the main hall, peripheral vision showed her smile staying with him, increasing if anything. And when she smiled like that she wasn't that bad. She just was not that bad.
"See you in the morning, Shea."
He stopped and stared at her, "Morning?"
"Yep. I'm changing to the day shift for awhile, and tomorrow I'll be taking Ballard, Galloway, and you—Did her smile increase?—to underwater weighing."
"Oh." Maybe she was that bad. A lot of nonthoughts went through his head. He knew being just half nice to her was worse than hurting her directly. At least his intentions would be known, "Well, see you then."
At the bulletin board he stopped. The weekend sheet remained empty. He grabbed the hanging pen and wrote his name under Sunday, then added Otter Creek. Natalie would be back Monday, and thoughts of the mystery-filled park, the somber trees, the bird calls, the hidden trails, would sustain him until then.
"Otter Creek, huh, guy?" Ballard's hand squeezed his shoulder, "Hey,
put my name down too."
Well, Ballard usually found things to occupy himself, so likely wouldn't interfere with his privacy too much. So he wrote Ballard's name under his.
****
At last in his room Shea soon curled up with The Valley of Horses, by Jean M. Auel, a novel about early humans and a tall, blonde, gorgeous chick named Ayla. He had read Clan of the Cave Bear years earlier, and he knew there were other volumes in the series, but had yet not bought them.
The writing, content, time-period, all fascinated him. Earth with very few humans living in a milk and honey land of big trees, green valleys, rolling hills, uncountable animals. A place slightly similar to his Otter Creek.
Life probably was hard and dangerous, but also those people didn't know any different. During his many free hours he had studied archeology and cave paintings at the library. He knew early people didn’t just hang around surviving and killing mammoths. They had art, designed clothes and weapons, tamed fire and horses.
That's where he was in the book. Ayla was learning to ride the colt she had rescued from starvation after killing its mother for food. Ayla was fictional, but he chose to believe she had really existed, had really been first to use the horse for riding and other work.
What a woman.
No comparison to Natalie, of course. Natalie didn't have to do the things Ayla did but that didn't mean she couldn't. So he chose to believe Natalie would be just as capable.
Writing itself fascinated him too, the idea of putting thousands of words on paper. He had toyed with the idea, and not only had five small notebooks of journal but a bursting memory of experience. But writing for purpose, for money, continued to elude him. He had no idea how to start. Thoughts for the journal came easy, but thoughts for profit he had no idea even what word to put first.
The book lay on the sheet beside him. The cover showed Ayla walking with her back turned, rock in sling, twirling. What a woman. He opened and began reading.
Forty-five minutes passed. Eyes heavy. No trouble sleeping at MEAL.
Had to be the food, the controlled atmosphere, the complete feeling of security. Nobody could threaten them there. Locked doors, doctors, nurses, chaperones, technicians, nutritionists, all guaranteed it. But what of the night before? What of Fenton's disappearance?
He felt sure Fenton had not quit in the middle of the night. Had he done that, Natalie most certainly would have known. There would have been paperwork. She would have known. So, she did not know. She had come on duty after everybody was in bed, including Fenton, then Fenton was kidnapped during her shift. But what about wakeup? Last duty of night nurse was to wake all the volunteers and weigh them. But since Shea's wakeup was always first, she would not yet have known when she woke Shea. Made sense. So, sometime after his weighing did she find a locked door? Then what?
Maybe one of the day staff, who knew of the kidnapping of course, had arrived early, offered to wake Fenton, and, of course, Natalie, ready to go home after a long night, would have accepted, left, and probably still didn't know of Fenton's disappearance. So, who did know?
And who came in early and offered to wake Fenton? Or even just offered to take over, without even mentioning Fenton's name? The face of another nurse slipped through his mind, but he could not think of who.
Wow. The way his mind worked at times. If his suspicions were true, any of them could be kidnapped any night, whether the doors were locked or not, because, of course, staff had keys.
He scrambled out of bed, grabbed his chair, jammed it under the doorknob. Now the door was locked.
He returned to bed, then lay staring at the jammed door, for a long time. Now the night nurse couldn't get in to wake him in the morning. And he couldn't jump out of bed to let her in because he was supposed to be at complete rest before vitals at wakeup.
No rule existed against locking one's door at night, and he had never before felt a need to. Now he did. But his imagination was probably, hopefully, working overtime. But if his idea was even close to correct, something mysterious was definitely going on.
Yes, mysterious. Probably not dangerous.
He chuckled, even felt his face break into a grin for a few seconds. He took a longer than normal breath, got up and unjammed the door, then thought about just locking it. But the door being locked would not stop the kidnappers. And if he started locking his door staff likely would take note of it, and even ask questions, like What's wrong? or Has something changed? Yes. Something had. But he didn't know what.
Forcing his mind to other things he returned to bed.
He snapped off the light, then got out of bed and opened the curtains. Not much to see from the second floor. Sometimes a few stars, occasionally the moon, and the huge cottonwood across the alley. Once he had watched a crow dive-bombing a great horned owl roosting high in the grand tree's branches.
Suspicions began to fade as he returned to bed and his eyes grew heavier. He closed them. As always the faceless woman with rosy cheeks and curly brunette hair appeared in his sleepy mind. Why oh why did she have no face? He knew it was Natalie so why couldn't they talk? His fantasy should have been his to direct as he wanted. But no. She had no face and he could not put one on her.
Sleep pushed on him. Gradually a stretcher-on-wheels invaded the image in his mind. It lasted long into sleep.
THE NIGHT
The volunteers arrived back at the lab about an hour before the evening meal, which passed without conflict. Then Shea shot three games of pool with Ballard, making sure he lost one of the first two so that they would have to play the rubber, which he didn't feel guilty winning more often than not.
After the third game he retired to his room while Galloway and Ballard went to a movie, chaperoned by Jayne. He doubted Galloway appreciated Ballard going along but little anyone could do about that. Galloway would have to sort out the problems of his own love life.
Shea's own room held books, which he read vehemently. Mostly fantasy and spy thrillers. He referred constantly to his ragged paperback dictionary, which had ridden in his backpack forever. He had bought a few novels and the university library was full.
Nine-forty-five and snack time came soon enough, but not for Shea. He wanted the day's responsibilities to end. By the time he reached the dining area the trays were already set out and the others eating.
"Should have come, Shea." Ballard was licking out the last smudges from
a juice glass, "Really a dumb movie about a bunch of dwarfs and a fireman and a stupid little kid, and they were up in the black sky with nothing to hold onto."
"Time bandits," Galloway interjected, "And you didn't have to go, dumb head."
"Yeah, right. Galloway's idea of a sophisticated movie."
"I told you it was above your intellect."
"It was a stupid movie, Galloway."
"So, Shea, are you sorry you didn't go?" If lucky, Ives' question would smooth things over, so they could eat in peace, "Time bandits does have its following, you know."
"Cult thing?"
"Cult. Classic. Whatever."
"Ah, too tired." Shea sat by his snack. Pineapple juice, wedge of cheese, dish of pears, sugar cookie, milk. Not much, but more than the other two nights in the cycle. He dug in.
Jayne was gone. Just as well. He had waited in his room until the
last minute to be sure, and hoped she would have forgiven him by her next duty. Twice more that week, he thought, plus the weekend. One of those times he would get his chance to ask about Natalie.
Natalie. Gone only twelve hours and already she seemed like just a dream. He tried to picture her and could not. Same as his recurring morning erection dreams, he just couldn't make out her face, could not really see who she was.
He finished the last of his snack and licked out all traces of nutrition. Spiffy clean. Now if the evening nurse would just quickly pass him so he could get the hell out of there. He wanted to get going with eight to ten hours of privacy and sleep without anyone bothering him. Ballard had mentioned pool again though, which he had ignored.
The evening nurse came right over to inspect. He watched but wasn't interested, guessed he couldn't like them all. Even her red hair did not turn him on. Too fiery. Her age too, about twenty-eight or nine he thought. Too close to his own. Course, Natalie was about that age too, but then that didn't matter, for Natalie was Natalie.
This gal did have nice curves though, but maybe a little over abundant. Yes, they were. In fact, she was somebody one would not fall in love with, but rather would pick on. Not that he wanted to pick on her but felt sure she did get picked on.
"Looks fine, Shea."
"Thanks, Elbertine."
"Makes you hungry just lookin', don't it, Elbertine?"
Ballard's comment brought everyone to attention.
"I don't get hungry that often." The veiled critical remark caused Elbertine to flush, her eyes to sadden for a quick second, but then she brightened, "I've even quit the chocolate."
"Well, your rump don't show it."
"All right, Ballard." Shea shot the ex-sailor a glare, then jumped up. He did not want any further involvement supporting Elbertine. He started for his room, "Good night, everybody."
"How about partners, Shea? You and me against Luther and Galloway."
Damn, would the guy never stop? He wanted to get out of there. He
just wanted to get alone.
"Come on, Shea." Galloway had a look on his face that said something
like 'Humor him so we can all have some peace,' "One game won't hurt."
Shea huffed to himself, "OK. One game."
****
But one game became three. Try as he might, Shea got all the bad shots and could not stretch a win. The rubber had to be played. It was the unwritten rule.
"Your break, Luther." Ballard tapped his cue stick on Luther's shoulder, then stiffened his head back, looked down his nose, "Me'n Shea're gonna wipe you guys."
Shea shook his head and looked away. Ballard could not be nice, continuously, to even his supposedly best friend at MEAL. He wondered if Ballard had any real friends anywhere, and for a few seconds felt sorry for him.
Luther, well-built with light brown hair and brown eyes, a bit taller than Shea, chalked, positioned his cue, bent over the table, sighted, drew back, blasted.
A great break. But no balls fell.
Shea had hoped the game might finish quickly. His shot. The one ball
sat dead, but he should be able to drop others first. The three was a long
one. He sighted.
"Lots'a green there, Shea. I'd go for the one first."
He let Ballard's comment settle and shot. The three sank.
"Hey, great shot, there, guy."
But the cue ball buried itself. He shot and missed.
"Your shot, Galloway."
Galloway, as always, shot to finish the game and usually missed. This time he sank the fourteen, then missed.
Ballard up, sank the one, missed. On the game went, one ball at a time. Pressure began to build. Everybody took more time aiming. Nothing changed. Even Elbertine began watching, smiling when Shea sunk one, standing way too close sometimes.
He didn't notice right away, but during a particularly long period of waiting he began sensing her presence.
She stood with arms folded, elbow all but touching him. The discovery brought a sensation to his groin and red hot heat to his face. He jerked back to the game. Luther had just sank two in a row. Miss, Luther, so I can shoot!
He wanted to move but not purposely. He didn't want to embarrass her.
He also didn't want to encourage her. Miss!
Luther accommodated. Shea stepped up and shot and missed.
"Come on, Shea." Ballard sounded disappointed, "The seven was dead.
You didn't even look at it."
"Sorry." Ballard was right. The game had swung their way and he had screwed up. But he had put distance between himself and Elbertine, who now was on the opposite side of the table. She wasn't that bad, really. Hair full and rich. Not really that fiery. Not so much he couldn't stand it. And she had nice dimples. Dimples? Was she smiling?
Slowly he lined his eyes with hers. Yes. Smiling. She had caught him looking her over and evidently had drawn a wrong conclusion. Again his face burned. Again he made a stupid move, about the umpteenth for that day. He felt his face break into a stupid grin, one where he knew his mouth was crooked and his eyes felt immovable.
Will this day never end?
"Your shot, Shea."
He jerked to the table. Only the eight ball remained. Where the hell
was the cue ball?
Luther held out his hand, "I scratched. Sorry."
The cue ball had the weight of a bowling ball, for the eight sat inside the kitchen. He had made that shot only once before at a bar in Omaha, Nebraska. He had been snockered and got the shit kicked out of him immediately afterward. That time he lost everything but the clothes he wore, and he felt the experience produced an inherent fear of making that shot. But tonight he wanted the game to end.
"You can do it, guy." Ballard appeared really tense, must really want to win, and of course Shea didn't want to lose.
The eight sat near the edge of the left corner pocket. Wouldn't take much to knock it in, except a helluva lot'a green both ways. He placed the cue ball slightly to the right of the spot, then looked down the stick to the far end of the table. Fuzzy. Too many things to look at.
He blinked several times. Most important where the stick would hit the cue ball. He aimed left of center, placed his body so the stick was aiming right of center on the other end of the table, again lined his eyes, blinked, drew back, blinked again, shot, forced himself to follow through with the stick.
The cue ball seemed to take forever.
Clunk
It bounced off the far end and began the long journey back, but rolling straight and true. He stood up, watched wide-eyed, following its progress, closer, closer—
Clack
It knocked the eight ball in and followed. But just enough spin. The cue ball hit the edge of the corner and bounced harmlessly to rest about a half-inch from the pocket.
"EeeeeeeeIiiiiii!" Ballard pounded the butt of his stick on the carpeted floor, then came racing around the table, "You did it, guy!" The boy would have gripped Shea chest-to-chest, but Shea turned just in time. "We won! We won!" Ballard slapped his back.
Shea didn't feel too bad about the win himself, and accepted congratulations from all around. Even Ives, who had sat quietly in the
dining area, stepped up and stuck out his hand, "Good show, Mr. McTory."
Then his eyes picked out the white smock still across the table, and moved up to her face. Her mouth was open and showing teeth in a wide smile. Her eyes were beaming, her whole face was beaming. Without meaning to he had advanced his standing with Elbertine, and a new reason emerged not to make that shot.
"Bedtime, guys." He returned Ballard's hug as much as he thought acceptable, with one arm and hand, then pulled out of it, "Good night." But even as he headed down the short hall leading to the main hall, peripheral vision showed her smile staying with him, increasing if anything. And when she smiled like that she wasn't that bad. She just was not that bad.
"See you in the morning, Shea."
He stopped and stared at her, "Morning?"
"Yep. I'm changing to the day shift for awhile, and tomorrow I'll be taking Ballard, Galloway, and you—Did her smile increase?—to underwater weighing."
"Oh." Maybe she was that bad. A lot of nonthoughts went through his head. He knew being just half nice to her was worse than hurting her directly. At least his intentions would be known, "Well, see you then."
At the bulletin board he stopped. The weekend sheet remained empty. He grabbed the hanging pen and wrote his name under Sunday, then added Otter Creek. Natalie would be back Monday, and thoughts of the mystery-filled park, the somber trees, the bird calls, the hidden trails, would sustain him until then.
"Otter Creek, huh, guy?" Ballard's hand squeezed his shoulder, "Hey,
put my name down too."
Well, Ballard usually found things to occupy himself, so likely wouldn't interfere with his privacy too much. So he wrote Ballard's name under his.
****
At last in his room Shea soon curled up with The Valley of Horses, by Jean M. Auel, a novel about early humans and a tall, blonde, gorgeous chick named Ayla. He had read Clan of the Cave Bear years earlier, and he knew there were other volumes in the series, but had yet not bought them.
The writing, content, time-period, all fascinated him. Earth with very few humans living in a milk and honey land of big trees, green valleys, rolling hills, uncountable animals. A place slightly similar to his Otter Creek.
Life probably was hard and dangerous, but also those people didn't know any different. During his many free hours he had studied archeology and cave paintings at the library. He knew early people didn’t just hang around surviving and killing mammoths. They had art, designed clothes and weapons, tamed fire and horses.
That's where he was in the book. Ayla was learning to ride the colt she had rescued from starvation after killing its mother for food. Ayla was fictional, but he chose to believe she had really existed, had really been first to use the horse for riding and other work.
What a woman.
No comparison to Natalie, of course. Natalie didn't have to do the things Ayla did but that didn't mean she couldn't. So he chose to believe Natalie would be just as capable.
Writing itself fascinated him too, the idea of putting thousands of words on paper. He had toyed with the idea, and not only had five small notebooks of journal but a bursting memory of experience. But writing for purpose, for money, continued to elude him. He had no idea how to start. Thoughts for the journal came easy, but thoughts for profit he had no idea even what word to put first.
The book lay on the sheet beside him. The cover showed Ayla walking with her back turned, rock in sling, twirling. What a woman. He opened and began reading.
Forty-five minutes passed. Eyes heavy. No trouble sleeping at MEAL.
Had to be the food, the controlled atmosphere, the complete feeling of security. Nobody could threaten them there. Locked doors, doctors, nurses, chaperones, technicians, nutritionists, all guaranteed it. But what of the night before? What of Fenton's disappearance?
He felt sure Fenton had not quit in the middle of the night. Had he done that, Natalie most certainly would have known. There would have been paperwork. She would have known. So, she did not know. She had come on duty after everybody was in bed, including Fenton, then Fenton was kidnapped during her shift. But what about wakeup? Last duty of night nurse was to wake all the volunteers and weigh them. But since Shea's wakeup was always first, she would not yet have known when she woke Shea. Made sense. So, sometime after his weighing did she find a locked door? Then what?
Maybe one of the day staff, who knew of the kidnapping of course, had arrived early, offered to wake Fenton, and, of course, Natalie, ready to go home after a long night, would have accepted, left, and probably still didn't know of Fenton's disappearance. So, who did know?
And who came in early and offered to wake Fenton? Or even just offered to take over, without even mentioning Fenton's name? The face of another nurse slipped through his mind, but he could not think of who.
Wow. The way his mind worked at times. If his suspicions were true, any of them could be kidnapped any night, whether the doors were locked or not, because, of course, staff had keys.
He scrambled out of bed, grabbed his chair, jammed it under the doorknob. Now the door was locked.
He returned to bed, then lay staring at the jammed door, for a long time. Now the night nurse couldn't get in to wake him in the morning. And he couldn't jump out of bed to let her in because he was supposed to be at complete rest before vitals at wakeup.
No rule existed against locking one's door at night, and he had never before felt a need to. Now he did. But his imagination was probably, hopefully, working overtime. But if his idea was even close to correct, something mysterious was definitely going on.
Yes, mysterious. Probably not dangerous.
He chuckled, even felt his face break into a grin for a few seconds. He took a longer than normal breath, got up and unjammed the door, then thought about just locking it. But the door being locked would not stop the kidnappers. And if he started locking his door staff likely would take note of it, and even ask questions, like What's wrong? or Has something changed? Yes. Something had. But he didn't know what.
Forcing his mind to other things he returned to bed.
He snapped off the light, then got out of bed and opened the curtains. Not much to see from the second floor. Sometimes a few stars, occasionally the moon, and the huge cottonwood across the alley. Once he had watched a crow dive-bombing a great horned owl roosting high in the grand tree's branches.
Suspicions began to fade as he returned to bed and his eyes grew heavier. He closed them. As always the faceless woman with rosy cheeks and curly brunette hair appeared in his sleepy mind. Why oh why did she have no face? He knew it was Natalie so why couldn't they talk? His fantasy should have been his to direct as he wanted. But no. She had no face and he could not put one on her.
Sleep pushed on him. Gradually a stretcher-on-wheels invaded the image in his mind. It lasted long into sleep.
UNDERWATER IN SYMPHONY
6
UNDERWATER IN SYMPHONY
Early breakfast that morning. Shea didn't mind the underwater weighing but was in no hurry to endure two or more hours with two other people who did not get along well. So he took his time eating, licking up every last morsel twice.
While waiting for dish inspection Ballard joined him.
"How about taking my picture at weighing, Shea?"
He had not thought of recording the activities at MEAL, "Sure, you mean while you're being weighed?" It seemed a good idea. Action shots could be good practice, rather than what he had done during his short-lived stint at the studio.
"Yeah, then, and a couple with my snappers showing. I want something to give my girl when she comes."
"Your girl?" It was Ballard's first mention of anyone in his past life.
"Yep. Shelly's going along to Otter Creek this weekend."
"All right. Soon as I'm finished here I'll get my camera." He glanced
at technician Roxanna. She nodded.
Suddenly caring about scientific research, Shea hurried toward his room, and noticed Ballard closely following. But, what the hell? Because of Ballard he might just be onto something. People would pay money for pictures of these experiments. He didn't know who, but surely someone.
In the hall waited Galloway and Elbertine, "We should get going, you two." She appeared flustered, "It's getting late."
"Just want to get my camera. Won't take a minute."
"All right, but hurry."
"Keep your skivvies on, Elbertine," Ballard snarled.
Shea threw Ballard a glance but said nothing. He didn't want to stick up for Elbertine again. He didn't want to get involved in her probably unfulfilled life in any way.
"Guess I told her, huh, guy?"
Shea's answer was a glare as he entered his room, hoping the ex-sailor would not try to follow, “I'll be right back."
Camera, flash, extra film, notebook, pen. He gathered what he thought needed, hurried back, and almost ran into Ballard.
"Nice room, Shea." Ballard gestured over the bed to a painting. A side to rear view of a nude human figure bent over, one of a group of prints Doctor Delright had obtained, one for each of the volunteers' rooms plus a sampling for the living area. At least the man had good taste in art. Shea chose the nude and had lived to regret it. "I like that ass, man. Ever figure out if it's a man or a woman?"
"No, I never have, Ballard. Maybe that's one of the things in life we aren't supposed to figure out."
"Could be." Ballard shook his head, continued looking over Shea's room.
Shea grasped the doorknob, which blocked Ballard from coming any further in, then lifted his other arm with the camera and tried easing him out.
But Ballard did not move, "Still got those pinups in your closet, Shea?"
"Yes." But he wished he didn't.
"Can I see'em?"
"No. I'm going to take them down." A damn good idea. Shea tried to
push through again, without actually pushing.
Ballard got like a brick wall, "Shelly's in college, Shea. I didn't like how Galloway was talking about college girls yesterday morning."
"All college girls aren't like that, Ballard." He tried again to go forward. Ballard did not budge, and not that Ballard had to try to be like a brick wall. When Ballard did not want to move that was just how it was. "I'm sure your Shelly isn't."
"You're damned right she's not." Ballard did not move. The close together eyes did not blink, "Do you think many college girls are like that?"
"I don't know." Shea tried not blinking too, "Not many, probably."
"Let's go, you two!" Elbertine sounded really flustered.
Ballard finally blinked, and his body sort of relaxed, and Shea was
able to get them going again.
"I like the picture of the ballerina on your wall too." Ballard kept
it up as they started for the elevator, “Did you really photocopy it out of
a magazine?"
"Yes. Now will you can it for awhile?"
"Don't want to talk, huh?"
"No. Not always do I want to talk." Shea felt his blood pressure rising. How this boy could bring it out of him, "You just talk too much sometimes, Ballard. People just don't always want to talk as much as you do."
Ballard went silent and stared straight ahead. Shea knew he had gone too far. He knew feelings were hurt, and knew Ballard's feelings got hurt way too easily. But the boy had to consider other people's feelings too. He patted the husky shoulder, "Don't worry about it." Just like an indulgent parent. Criticize'em and then tell'em it's all right. He slipped the camera strap over his shoulder, then his head, and adjusted it off to the side.
They reached the elevator. Elbertine used her key to gain access. The door opened and they crowded in. She then pushed the ground floor button and stepped back, somehow getting next to Shea and facing Ballard.
"Hey, baby." Ballard grinned. No response from Elbertine. Then Ballard's hand moved, not fast yet too fast for the human mind to do anything but watch as he laid it on Elbertine's breast, then cupped and squeezed.
If you did that to Natalie I would kill you! Shea moved before he could think. He grabbed Ballard's belt and throat and smashed him into the elevator wall. Galloway moved too, using his heavier body to part them and shove Shea
to the opposite corner, saying quietly but forcefully, "Cool it, Shea. You
know fighting could get you kicked out of here, fast."
"Sorry." Shea brushed at his hair, shook his head, straightened his camera, "I'm all right." He looked at Ballard, whose eyes appeared wild, like a cornered animal about to explode in a frenzy. And the way he had just been worrying about his Shelly, hell, all college girls on earth, how could he do that to Elbertine? Patience, "You OK, Ballard?"
The eyes lost some of their wildness, "Sorry, guy. I didn't know you liked Elbertine."
Nip it in the bud, "I don't." He did not look at her. "But you were acting like a royal ass." But from the corner of his eye he saw her, and she was beaming my hero at him. It seemed no matter what he did he kept getting in trouble, kept complicating his life. He did not like complications. But they just seemed to prey on him and then find him.
The elevator door opened. In moments they were riding the purple van in silence to the detached underwater weighing facility.
****
Strains of classical-sounding music greeted their arrival on the fourth floor of old St. Michelle's Hospital, now used only for research. Ballard had returned to his regular self, whatever that was. "I'll go first, Shea, so you can take my picture."
"All right." Shea looked at his unwelcome tagalong buddy. The boy was immature to say the least, but did need some guidance, and it seemed Shea had been picked to provide some. Maybe a little more patience would cause a positive response. It wouldn't hurt him to try, "I'll be last then."
"Don't mind, do you?" Ballard appeared sincere.
"No, I don't mind." Churchill and Roper waited ahead by an open doorway, where the music seemed louder. "You get your clothes changed and I'll get my camera ready."
Ballard scurried away. The rest approached the two waiting men. "OK
if I take some pictures, Churchill?"
"No problem, Shea. Nothing secret at MEAL." But did Churchill turn away when he answered? Did Roper glance at Churchill and then drop his gaze? Were both men lying? Were they actually covering something up? Something secret? Something maybe illegal, and maybe even dangerous?
As Shea entered the weighing room the music seemed louder still, pounding in sync with his wild suspicions. Neither men looked at him—Why? What were they hiding? They didn't appear to be forcibly avoiding looking at him but they were not looking at him. They had always made good eye contact before, or had they? Maybe he had just never noticed. Maybe he had always before just assumed everything to be on the up-and-up, and safe, and he had just never noticed, or cared, whether somebody made friendly eye contact.
Churchill was staring at him.
Shea stared back for a few seconds. But then shook his head, and his shoulders. Whatever his suspicions, at the moment he had a job: Picture-taking. He pushed his thoughts away and began looking at the room with a different eye. He had never really taken note of what was there. "How big's the water tank?"
"Four by seven feet," Churchill answered.
He scribbled the dimensions, mentally made a note of always carrying notebook and pen, then gazed about the room at the other unusual objects. Large and small closed aluminum tanks attached to each other by wires, pulleys, chains. Oxygen bottles. Gauges, graphs, digitals. Scales and balances. Wow. The things he had not noticed. He scribbled more notes.
"OK!" Ballard, now wearing swimming trunks, always announced his arrival, "Shea's going to take my picture today!"
"Good, Ballard." Churchill pointed, "Dry weight first."
Ballard stepped onto the scales. Shea snapped the shot, quickly advanced the film, dropped to his knees, shot again.
Click
"Good enough." Churchill made his entry. Ballard headed for the shower. No foreign matter, like dry skin scales, was allowed in the weighing tank, which held distilled water.
Shea moved to the opposite corner from the door, which put him closer to Roper on the sidetrack of the main tank, and the action. From there the music had almost perfect pitch. Definitely classical. "Roper, what's with the music?"
"The lab next door is working with chickens and white mice, experimenting with the effect of music on them, how different kinds of music, classical, rock, rap, affects their metabolism and performance. Guess we're going to be stuck with it for awhile."
"Oh, well, I certainly don't mind." Roper seemed back to his normal self. A moment earlier Shea had been certain both men were involved with, what? Something dangerous? Evil? Dangerous and evil? His suspicions wanted to keep escalating to worse and worse. Yet he had not a shred of evidence. Only a vision of a disappearing stretcher-on-wheels disappearing into darkness, and even that he no longer remained certain of actually seeing.
The only thing he had was the disappearance of Fenton and what's-his-name. Whether they actually had quit or were kidnapped he did not know, and wondered if he ever would.
He wished he could have talked with Natalie about it.
In minutes Ballard returned and climbed right into the waist-deep water, then rested against the far end. Shea aimed the camera. Click
“Shea, I'm taking a baseline reading of Ballard from the strip chart recorder." Churchill stood before a graph where zigzag lines were appearing, watching digitals on a nearby apparatus flashing on and off. "Onto the mesh, Ballard."
Shea finally realized Churchill had given him pertinent information, so grabbed his notebook, scribbled, glanced up. Ballard was balancing himself on his knees, reaching behind him, Shea knew from his own experience placing two sets of weighted canvas belts over the backs of his lower legs, which would later balance him while being weighed underwater.
Click
Roper handed Ballard the nose clamp and mouthpiece, which Ballard installed. Click Scribble
"Whenever you're ready, Ballard."
Breathing normally, Ballard leaned forward and began slipping under the water, revealing a tattooed bug about the size of a thumb appearing to crawl from his right armpit. Shea grinned to himself. Click "OK if I get up on the sidetrack too?" Churchill gestured positively. Shea quickly climbed to where he could see Ballard underwater. Click He knew from experience Ballard was readying himself, first for a deep breath, exhalation as fully as possible, then hold it long as possible and then stick out his index finger.
Leaving both eyes open so he could see Roper too, Shea aimed, would snap Ballard as he surfaced. The music next door switched to the spine-tingling soundtrack of The Victors, a really old movie he had seen and enjoyed on cable, especially that resounding overture. And his spine did tingle, for he had started something that morning. What, exactly, he did not yet know, but he had made a beginning. Maybe his picture-taking would eventually expose whatever secret, maybe illegal, experiment—he thought—was going on at MEAL.
Also watching for the index finger, Roper reached underwater and opened the valve on Ballard's breathing tube, which admitted pure oxygen, "Oxygen dilutes the nitrogen in the lungs," he said.
Click Scribble
Ballard's index finger shot out, signifying he had held his breath as long as he could.
Roper taped the side of the tank with a wrench, signaling Ballard to stop holding his breath and surface.
Click
"Two big breaths and one little one, Ballard." Churchill remained staunch by his equipment, making entries as necessary.
Roper watched Ballard's breathing by vertical movement of, something or other, and adjusted the oxygen flow accordingly, "That's the demand spirometer" Roper pointed and smiled. Both men were obviously glad to share information, and both now were giving friendly eye contact. "Ballard's exhaled breath exits his breathing apparatus into the collection spirometer," Roper went on, pointing, "Which is calibrated to contain a certain volume of expired air."
"Two and a half kilos underwater that time, Ballard." Churchill sent the boy a stolid look, "Best you've ever done."
With big eyes Ballard glanced toward Shea, who knew Ballard was smiling at the praise but was unable to smile because of the ungainly mouthpiece. Shea lifted his camera again, shot him from level, then again from above, then gave him a thumbs-up.
"Just a short description of underwater weighing, Shea. That is, if you're interested." Churchill did not smile. Shea wished he would sometime.
"Yes, definitely." He opened his notebook.
"We determine underwater weight by applying Archimedes' principle of specific gravity. Are you familiar with that?"
"Specific gravity? Yes." Somewhat, but he could look it up later.
"An object in water is buoyed, and its volume is equal in magnitude to the volume of water displaced. Expiration of breath makes one weigh more and become less buoyant. Then the mass of water displaced by the body is found and the volume calculated." Churchill spoke easily about the scientific matter at hand, eyes, friendly, yes, but serious. But serious was not the same as suspicious. Everything pointed to Shea to drop his suspicions and just get on with his new career ambition. Whatever that was. He would have to do some serious thinking.
"Raw numbers obtained here at the weighing," Churchill was saying, "are later inserted into the computer at the lab, where a host of formulas finally calculate percentage of body fat. Fifteen percent is average for men your size and age, and three percent is necessary to maintain a healthy life."
"A possible application," Roper added, "could be the control of obesity. Victims tend to lose lean body weight and retain fat."
"Two more deep ones, Ballard." Churchill closely watched his monitors, "That's good. You can get off the mesh."
Ballard removed the mouthpiece and grinned. Click "Boy, I thought my breakfast was coming up that time."
Churchill almost chuckled, but his eyes remained serious, "That's how we want you to feel."
Ballard kept grinning, then removed the ballasts on his legs and pulled himself back to the end of the tank where he would wait for another baseline reading, and in a few minutes a repeat of the procedure.
Shea pocketed his notebook. His scribbling was atrocious, but he hesitated to bother Churchill with dumb questions.
"By the way, Shea." Churchill gave him a fairly reasonable grin, "I'll send a couple papers to your room about underwater weighing. You read'em over, and then if you have questions you can stop by my office."
Shea sent the man a two-fingered salute, then pushed the camera to his side, "Thanks, Churchill. I'll go get changed." The morning was going good. He looked forward to the experience of hearing a symphony underwater. He just wished he could get it out of his head that something wrong was happening at MEAL.
UNDERWATER IN SYMPHONY
Early breakfast that morning. Shea didn't mind the underwater weighing but was in no hurry to endure two or more hours with two other people who did not get along well. So he took his time eating, licking up every last morsel twice.
While waiting for dish inspection Ballard joined him.
"How about taking my picture at weighing, Shea?"
He had not thought of recording the activities at MEAL, "Sure, you mean while you're being weighed?" It seemed a good idea. Action shots could be good practice, rather than what he had done during his short-lived stint at the studio.
"Yeah, then, and a couple with my snappers showing. I want something to give my girl when she comes."
"Your girl?" It was Ballard's first mention of anyone in his past life.
"Yep. Shelly's going along to Otter Creek this weekend."
"All right. Soon as I'm finished here I'll get my camera." He glanced
at technician Roxanna. She nodded.
Suddenly caring about scientific research, Shea hurried toward his room, and noticed Ballard closely following. But, what the hell? Because of Ballard he might just be onto something. People would pay money for pictures of these experiments. He didn't know who, but surely someone.
In the hall waited Galloway and Elbertine, "We should get going, you two." She appeared flustered, "It's getting late."
"Just want to get my camera. Won't take a minute."
"All right, but hurry."
"Keep your skivvies on, Elbertine," Ballard snarled.
Shea threw Ballard a glance but said nothing. He didn't want to stick up for Elbertine again. He didn't want to get involved in her probably unfulfilled life in any way.
"Guess I told her, huh, guy?"
Shea's answer was a glare as he entered his room, hoping the ex-sailor would not try to follow, “I'll be right back."
Camera, flash, extra film, notebook, pen. He gathered what he thought needed, hurried back, and almost ran into Ballard.
"Nice room, Shea." Ballard gestured over the bed to a painting. A side to rear view of a nude human figure bent over, one of a group of prints Doctor Delright had obtained, one for each of the volunteers' rooms plus a sampling for the living area. At least the man had good taste in art. Shea chose the nude and had lived to regret it. "I like that ass, man. Ever figure out if it's a man or a woman?"
"No, I never have, Ballard. Maybe that's one of the things in life we aren't supposed to figure out."
"Could be." Ballard shook his head, continued looking over Shea's room.
Shea grasped the doorknob, which blocked Ballard from coming any further in, then lifted his other arm with the camera and tried easing him out.
But Ballard did not move, "Still got those pinups in your closet, Shea?"
"Yes." But he wished he didn't.
"Can I see'em?"
"No. I'm going to take them down." A damn good idea. Shea tried to
push through again, without actually pushing.
Ballard got like a brick wall, "Shelly's in college, Shea. I didn't like how Galloway was talking about college girls yesterday morning."
"All college girls aren't like that, Ballard." He tried again to go forward. Ballard did not budge, and not that Ballard had to try to be like a brick wall. When Ballard did not want to move that was just how it was. "I'm sure your Shelly isn't."
"You're damned right she's not." Ballard did not move. The close together eyes did not blink, "Do you think many college girls are like that?"
"I don't know." Shea tried not blinking too, "Not many, probably."
"Let's go, you two!" Elbertine sounded really flustered.
Ballard finally blinked, and his body sort of relaxed, and Shea was
able to get them going again.
"I like the picture of the ballerina on your wall too." Ballard kept
it up as they started for the elevator, “Did you really photocopy it out of
a magazine?"
"Yes. Now will you can it for awhile?"
"Don't want to talk, huh?"
"No. Not always do I want to talk." Shea felt his blood pressure rising. How this boy could bring it out of him, "You just talk too much sometimes, Ballard. People just don't always want to talk as much as you do."
Ballard went silent and stared straight ahead. Shea knew he had gone too far. He knew feelings were hurt, and knew Ballard's feelings got hurt way too easily. But the boy had to consider other people's feelings too. He patted the husky shoulder, "Don't worry about it." Just like an indulgent parent. Criticize'em and then tell'em it's all right. He slipped the camera strap over his shoulder, then his head, and adjusted it off to the side.
They reached the elevator. Elbertine used her key to gain access. The door opened and they crowded in. She then pushed the ground floor button and stepped back, somehow getting next to Shea and facing Ballard.
"Hey, baby." Ballard grinned. No response from Elbertine. Then Ballard's hand moved, not fast yet too fast for the human mind to do anything but watch as he laid it on Elbertine's breast, then cupped and squeezed.
If you did that to Natalie I would kill you! Shea moved before he could think. He grabbed Ballard's belt and throat and smashed him into the elevator wall. Galloway moved too, using his heavier body to part them and shove Shea
to the opposite corner, saying quietly but forcefully, "Cool it, Shea. You
know fighting could get you kicked out of here, fast."
"Sorry." Shea brushed at his hair, shook his head, straightened his camera, "I'm all right." He looked at Ballard, whose eyes appeared wild, like a cornered animal about to explode in a frenzy. And the way he had just been worrying about his Shelly, hell, all college girls on earth, how could he do that to Elbertine? Patience, "You OK, Ballard?"
The eyes lost some of their wildness, "Sorry, guy. I didn't know you liked Elbertine."
Nip it in the bud, "I don't." He did not look at her. "But you were acting like a royal ass." But from the corner of his eye he saw her, and she was beaming my hero at him. It seemed no matter what he did he kept getting in trouble, kept complicating his life. He did not like complications. But they just seemed to prey on him and then find him.
The elevator door opened. In moments they were riding the purple van in silence to the detached underwater weighing facility.
****
Strains of classical-sounding music greeted their arrival on the fourth floor of old St. Michelle's Hospital, now used only for research. Ballard had returned to his regular self, whatever that was. "I'll go first, Shea, so you can take my picture."
"All right." Shea looked at his unwelcome tagalong buddy. The boy was immature to say the least, but did need some guidance, and it seemed Shea had been picked to provide some. Maybe a little more patience would cause a positive response. It wouldn't hurt him to try, "I'll be last then."
"Don't mind, do you?" Ballard appeared sincere.
"No, I don't mind." Churchill and Roper waited ahead by an open doorway, where the music seemed louder. "You get your clothes changed and I'll get my camera ready."
Ballard scurried away. The rest approached the two waiting men. "OK
if I take some pictures, Churchill?"
"No problem, Shea. Nothing secret at MEAL." But did Churchill turn away when he answered? Did Roper glance at Churchill and then drop his gaze? Were both men lying? Were they actually covering something up? Something secret? Something maybe illegal, and maybe even dangerous?
As Shea entered the weighing room the music seemed louder still, pounding in sync with his wild suspicions. Neither men looked at him—Why? What were they hiding? They didn't appear to be forcibly avoiding looking at him but they were not looking at him. They had always made good eye contact before, or had they? Maybe he had just never noticed. Maybe he had always before just assumed everything to be on the up-and-up, and safe, and he had just never noticed, or cared, whether somebody made friendly eye contact.
Churchill was staring at him.
Shea stared back for a few seconds. But then shook his head, and his shoulders. Whatever his suspicions, at the moment he had a job: Picture-taking. He pushed his thoughts away and began looking at the room with a different eye. He had never really taken note of what was there. "How big's the water tank?"
"Four by seven feet," Churchill answered.
He scribbled the dimensions, mentally made a note of always carrying notebook and pen, then gazed about the room at the other unusual objects. Large and small closed aluminum tanks attached to each other by wires, pulleys, chains. Oxygen bottles. Gauges, graphs, digitals. Scales and balances. Wow. The things he had not noticed. He scribbled more notes.
"OK!" Ballard, now wearing swimming trunks, always announced his arrival, "Shea's going to take my picture today!"
"Good, Ballard." Churchill pointed, "Dry weight first."
Ballard stepped onto the scales. Shea snapped the shot, quickly advanced the film, dropped to his knees, shot again.
Click
"Good enough." Churchill made his entry. Ballard headed for the shower. No foreign matter, like dry skin scales, was allowed in the weighing tank, which held distilled water.
Shea moved to the opposite corner from the door, which put him closer to Roper on the sidetrack of the main tank, and the action. From there the music had almost perfect pitch. Definitely classical. "Roper, what's with the music?"
"The lab next door is working with chickens and white mice, experimenting with the effect of music on them, how different kinds of music, classical, rock, rap, affects their metabolism and performance. Guess we're going to be stuck with it for awhile."
"Oh, well, I certainly don't mind." Roper seemed back to his normal self. A moment earlier Shea had been certain both men were involved with, what? Something dangerous? Evil? Dangerous and evil? His suspicions wanted to keep escalating to worse and worse. Yet he had not a shred of evidence. Only a vision of a disappearing stretcher-on-wheels disappearing into darkness, and even that he no longer remained certain of actually seeing.
The only thing he had was the disappearance of Fenton and what's-his-name. Whether they actually had quit or were kidnapped he did not know, and wondered if he ever would.
He wished he could have talked with Natalie about it.
In minutes Ballard returned and climbed right into the waist-deep water, then rested against the far end. Shea aimed the camera. Click
“Shea, I'm taking a baseline reading of Ballard from the strip chart recorder." Churchill stood before a graph where zigzag lines were appearing, watching digitals on a nearby apparatus flashing on and off. "Onto the mesh, Ballard."
Shea finally realized Churchill had given him pertinent information, so grabbed his notebook, scribbled, glanced up. Ballard was balancing himself on his knees, reaching behind him, Shea knew from his own experience placing two sets of weighted canvas belts over the backs of his lower legs, which would later balance him while being weighed underwater.
Click
Roper handed Ballard the nose clamp and mouthpiece, which Ballard installed. Click Scribble
"Whenever you're ready, Ballard."
Breathing normally, Ballard leaned forward and began slipping under the water, revealing a tattooed bug about the size of a thumb appearing to crawl from his right armpit. Shea grinned to himself. Click "OK if I get up on the sidetrack too?" Churchill gestured positively. Shea quickly climbed to where he could see Ballard underwater. Click He knew from experience Ballard was readying himself, first for a deep breath, exhalation as fully as possible, then hold it long as possible and then stick out his index finger.
Leaving both eyes open so he could see Roper too, Shea aimed, would snap Ballard as he surfaced. The music next door switched to the spine-tingling soundtrack of The Victors, a really old movie he had seen and enjoyed on cable, especially that resounding overture. And his spine did tingle, for he had started something that morning. What, exactly, he did not yet know, but he had made a beginning. Maybe his picture-taking would eventually expose whatever secret, maybe illegal, experiment—he thought—was going on at MEAL.
Also watching for the index finger, Roper reached underwater and opened the valve on Ballard's breathing tube, which admitted pure oxygen, "Oxygen dilutes the nitrogen in the lungs," he said.
Click Scribble
Ballard's index finger shot out, signifying he had held his breath as long as he could.
Roper taped the side of the tank with a wrench, signaling Ballard to stop holding his breath and surface.
Click
"Two big breaths and one little one, Ballard." Churchill remained staunch by his equipment, making entries as necessary.
Roper watched Ballard's breathing by vertical movement of, something or other, and adjusted the oxygen flow accordingly, "That's the demand spirometer" Roper pointed and smiled. Both men were obviously glad to share information, and both now were giving friendly eye contact. "Ballard's exhaled breath exits his breathing apparatus into the collection spirometer," Roper went on, pointing, "Which is calibrated to contain a certain volume of expired air."
"Two and a half kilos underwater that time, Ballard." Churchill sent the boy a stolid look, "Best you've ever done."
With big eyes Ballard glanced toward Shea, who knew Ballard was smiling at the praise but was unable to smile because of the ungainly mouthpiece. Shea lifted his camera again, shot him from level, then again from above, then gave him a thumbs-up.
"Just a short description of underwater weighing, Shea. That is, if you're interested." Churchill did not smile. Shea wished he would sometime.
"Yes, definitely." He opened his notebook.
"We determine underwater weight by applying Archimedes' principle of specific gravity. Are you familiar with that?"
"Specific gravity? Yes." Somewhat, but he could look it up later.
"An object in water is buoyed, and its volume is equal in magnitude to the volume of water displaced. Expiration of breath makes one weigh more and become less buoyant. Then the mass of water displaced by the body is found and the volume calculated." Churchill spoke easily about the scientific matter at hand, eyes, friendly, yes, but serious. But serious was not the same as suspicious. Everything pointed to Shea to drop his suspicions and just get on with his new career ambition. Whatever that was. He would have to do some serious thinking.
"Raw numbers obtained here at the weighing," Churchill was saying, "are later inserted into the computer at the lab, where a host of formulas finally calculate percentage of body fat. Fifteen percent is average for men your size and age, and three percent is necessary to maintain a healthy life."
"A possible application," Roper added, "could be the control of obesity. Victims tend to lose lean body weight and retain fat."
"Two more deep ones, Ballard." Churchill closely watched his monitors, "That's good. You can get off the mesh."
Ballard removed the mouthpiece and grinned. Click "Boy, I thought my breakfast was coming up that time."
Churchill almost chuckled, but his eyes remained serious, "That's how we want you to feel."
Ballard kept grinning, then removed the ballasts on his legs and pulled himself back to the end of the tank where he would wait for another baseline reading, and in a few minutes a repeat of the procedure.
Shea pocketed his notebook. His scribbling was atrocious, but he hesitated to bother Churchill with dumb questions.
"By the way, Shea." Churchill gave him a fairly reasonable grin, "I'll send a couple papers to your room about underwater weighing. You read'em over, and then if you have questions you can stop by my office."
Shea sent the man a two-fingered salute, then pushed the camera to his side, "Thanks, Churchill. I'll go get changed." The morning was going good. He looked forward to the experience of hearing a symphony underwater. He just wished he could get it out of his head that something wrong was happening at MEAL.
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