He knew the routine, having had it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis forward that caused his heels to rise up off the floor.

She called this Homeostasis. Patrick called it torture.
 
HOMEOPATHIC THERAPY
Part 1, Chapters 1 & 2
By Josie

 
Author's Note: If asked, I’d have to say my life is an enactment of just about every story I’ve ever read, or so it would seem to me. Sort of like life imitating fiction rather than the other way around. I know the inverted logic sounds kind of screwy, but that’s how I feel whenever I pick up a book to read. I see all too much of my own life in the plot and as I follow the protagonist’s trials and tribulations I think to myself, “Hey, that’s me.” Sound familiar? If so, then you know there is a good side to thinking as I do, as well as a bad.

It’s good because as I read along I can experience the mistakes of others before those mistakes befall me. The bad is that unless some miraculous intervention is forthcoming, there doesn’t seem to be a darn thing I can do about it. Whether true of not, my life often seems to me an endless script leading toward one inevitable tragedy or another. Well, think what you will, but at least my knowing what’s coming affords me the comfort of wallowing in my angst until, as expected, my world comes tumbling down around my ears.

It may sound like a rather glum existence, but I assure you it’s not. Because while I do despair, I know that it isn’t written that I’m destined to fall victim to my frailties, or equally tragic, having my weaknesses exploited by others. Many of the characters that fill the books I read are testament to that fact. Proof that some do find a way to dig deep and summon the courage to redeem themselves before their inevitable fall from grace. To me, that’s the gist of a well told tale. The message of hope delivered by the hero, or heroine, is one well worth remembering as we go about our busy lives. For those not having the good fortune of a good story to read, I feel it imperative to impart that message to anyone who might care to listen as I go about each and every day.

So on that note, I offer this story as a reminder. That no matter what misfortune lay in wait for you, there is always the hope that you too might find the courage to free yourself from the bondage and find your redemption. Leastwise that’s what I, josie, hope you’ll get from this story. (*_*)
 
 
Part I Frantic Morning
 
Chapter I
 
 
“. . . Times are dark. But every shadow no matter how deep is threatened by morning light.” D. Aronofsky
 
 
I’d like you to meet Barbara Stanton. The charismatic, forty-something, and still dazzling beauty dressed in nurse’s whites. Sitting behind the desk in her home office she looks like the archetype health professional - concerned, dedicated and with her good looks, quite an easy pill to swallow. But don’t let her good looks get the better of you. Should you suddenly find yourself stranded on an African savanna alone with a Cheetah looking to feed her pups, you’d stand a better chance of surviving the night than you would with this cold-blooded hunter on the prowl. So be warned and be thankful you’re not the prospective client sitting across from her. Like the unsuspecting Mrs. Whipple, the elderly, though dignified woman she is studying with the steely-eyed determination of an opportunist sizing up her mark.

More precisely her interest isn’t in Mrs. Whipple as such, but her young nephew, Patrick, the young man standing alongside her. At the moment the skittish lad looks rather put upon having to stand up straight and tall on behest of his aunt in only his cotton briefs. Not that he looks like the prized trophy a skilled hunter like our attractive, steely-eye opportunist would want to snare in her trap. Comely to be certain, but topping in at a whopping 52 kg and thin as a wafer, he isn’t much to bring home for dinner, unless she has a hankering for skin n’ bone.

Mrs. Whipple, Edith to her friends, has just brought young Patrick in to see Ms. Stanton, a Homeopathic practitioner located not far from her home. Edith is an honest woman, forthright to a fault, and is currently describing the symptoms her poor nephew suffers while Ms. Stanton encourages her to continue to confide. However, even though she is signaling her ‘trust me Edith, I can help’ message, she knew there is nothing wrong with Patrick. At least nothing sufficient time and a little patience won’t fix.

The doctor’s findings and her assessment confirm it. Patrick is completely normal and healthy. Even though a boy of his age still wetting the bed can be a sign of more serious problems this is not always the case. Other factors must be considered as the probable cause. Like the trauma resulting from the recent death of his mother or his having to start a new life with a new care provider are just some of the possible factors to consider in determining the source of this kind of problem. The doctor has stated as much in his medical report if only Edith was of a mind to listen.

So while Mrs. Whipple is a lady of good character and honest intentions, she does have a slight flaw. Her pride often gets in the way, causing her to make decisions that do not seem to be in either her, or her nephew’s best interests. In this instance, she believes he suffers from some sort of “lingering malaise,” as she calls it, and his bedwetting is a symptom of his condition. A contrary opinion to that held by the doctor, but one to which she is stubbornly holding fast. That’s why she feels prompted to seek out this time honored and noble profession of Homeopathy as an alternative solution. A decision guided more by pride than sound reason, and this weakness in her character is about to be exploited by a charlatan.

Ms. Stanton, Barbara to her friends, wouldn’t describe herself in quite those same terms of course. In her way of thinking she’s just an enterprising woman looking to capitalize on a market and position herself to take advantage of all the lucrative opportunities. It is a free and open marketplace after all. She had learned as much at the top-notch university she’d attended. Then put into practice producing a one-of-a-kind quality product and reaping her justly earned profits in the marketplace. Or more specifically, in the gambling Mecca of Las Oasis.

Yet business degrees and the like do not in themselves breed success. That takes salesmanship, and that’s what our buxom and beautiful blond bombshell with a ton of grit has in abundance. She’s suave down to her hair follicles and knows how to target and then pull the trigger on her unsuspecting clientele. Yes, she is in fact quite formidable in that regard. Hardly a match for the unsuspecting Mrs. Whipple. The proud, though lonely woman sitting across from her who still longs for things too shameful to own and too prideful to admit even if she’s of a mind to do so.

“Mrs. Whipple . . .,” she feigned her affection, leaning in to take her hand like some starry-eyed Don Juan. “Edith, if you’ll allow me to be so forward. I can see that you’re a very lovely, conscientious woman, and you’re right to have come to me. What does a doctor know other than measurements of dots on a chart when the living, breathing proof stands beneath his nose? His bedwetting, frail stature and languid state are all signs of malaise you so aptly describe.”

“Yes, you are right to have come to me because unlike providing dots on a chart, homeopathy provides a time-tested and proven strategy to remediate the causes. But I must warn you, if you’re looking for immediate results you’ve come to the wrong place. A return to good health is often a long and difficult course. It requires a commitment that carries well beyond the ordinary to establish good health habits, and it certainly can’t be done without your full, unremitting support,” she concluded, and then waited expectantly for her response.

Unfortunately, the dear woman couldn’t find the words. She was so drawn by the allure and determination of this resolute woman that all she could manage was a faint nod. She seemed to her a world onto her own, a woman in full charge with a pair of cool blue eyes that cut through the veneer and surveyed the landscape down to her very core. She found the look disarming and feeling exposed she defensively lowered her eyes as if to ward her off. While at the same time her deepening flush continued to telegraph a homing signal that invited the intruder in.
 
 
Three years later . . .
 
Inside the barbershop Patrick sat feeling a tinge of anticipation as Mr. Milford diligently clipped away. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time and it was important that his new haircut look just right. High and tight on the sides, short and flat on top was the style he wanted. Just as Sgt. Web was fond of saying; “Make it smart and clean, with a touch of Vitalis to enhance the sheen.”

It wasn’t the common fashion of the day. The 60’s was the age of long hair after all, and not a style you were likely to see worn on the street, nor on the gentlemen in his aunt’s variety magazines. It was however the fashion of choice in the ranks of the Corps, where to strike a sharp pose meant more than a starched collar and a red neck. One had to measure-up, wear the flag and a flattop in honor of apple pie and motherhood, country and corps.

Looking in the mirror he saw Mr. Milford all hands and scissors standing over him. His aunt also stood close by, holding his hand as she admonished him like she would a much younger boy. “Sit up straight;” “chin square;” “no slouching” was her way of making it clear that even in this male sanctuary she remained in full charge. He didn’t like being dismissed so easily, but that was her way. She was a very direct woman.

There was however some comfort in knowing she was equally succinct with Mr. Milford. He’d trim here, cut off there, always with a prompt “yes ma’am” in his proper way. Always respectful, he’d extend every curtsey to her and did exactly as he was told. Then to keep himself in her good graces, he was quick to suit his treatment of young Patrick to her liking.

Of course, Mr. Milford was a fair man and a good barber too. As old Sgt. Web would say, “. . . A man got his 2-bucks worth before he was through. He charges a fair price for the hack and some chat, all in 10 minutes you can’t beat that. With the talc and Vitalis tossed in for free, a damn fair deal, if you ask me.” That is, unless payment was extracted in blood.

Certainly having Mr. Milford chose to call him “Patty” in lieu of his name made it seem like an old fashion bloodletting. Indeed, with the men sitting round listening as they waited their turn, it was a barbarous affair on par with a medieval phlebotomy. One moment he’d be made to sit up tall, stiff and erect at the behest of his aunt. Then the next moment he’d soften and recede into a nub as Mr. Milford directed the angle of his chin and added “chin up Sweetie.” Intended or not, he felt 5 centimeters shorter than his already diminutive size, and five years younger than his seventeen years when he finally rose up out of that chair.

Patrick looked at himself in the mirror as his aunt whisked away debris that still clung to his tank top and shorts. From the sound of the snickering heard from those waiting their turn it was obvious the improvement he had hoped for had missed the mark. Losing his long hair and his dignity too was more than he had bargained for. It was a one-two combination of blows to his already frail adolescent confidence and the knock-out blow, the snide murmurings behind his back. All this and all he had wanted was to measure-up to the other boys at school, and in the process, hopefully, reinvent himself to help bolster his esteem. Instead he ended up having made matters worse. Now, the best he could do was hope his disappointment didn’t show.

Perhaps he should have listened to his aunt. If he had taken her advice and not cut his long hair the disastrous consequences wouldn’t be staring back at him in the mirror, nor would Mr. Milford. The good and honest man now standing behind him was trying in earnest to keep the smirk off his face. Beside him was his aunt wearing her smile like a Kabuki mask while he, dressed in a tank-top and shorts looked a pittance.

That’s not to speak badly of him and his clothes were not all that surprising given the hot Arizona climate. Perhaps the fashion was a bit juvenile given his age, but functional and decent nonetheless. Still, there was something about the composition that made it a very contrary picture. Like the white cotton tank-top that clung so snugly to his willowy frame he could see his pec’s jutting out like pebbles in the snow. Likewise, his knee socks and the jersey shorts gathered high around the midriff exaggerated his natural boyish pigeon-toe and showcased his gangly legs; garishly long and lean and epicene. Now, to add further insult to injury, his closely cropped flattop was as smooth as the end table that held his auntie’s tea.

Now, why would anyone wonder what the grinning and the whisperings were all about! Looking as he did, he didn’t make the bold statement of a fearless warrior. He looked an exhibition of a pitiable wimp to all but his dear aunt, who could only see the disappointment written on his drawn face. A thoughtful and caring woman by a factor of two, she quickly stepped in to bolster his lost esteem. Without fear of looking too patronizing she held him close, pressing his face to her bosom and told her “dear Patty” how grown-up and manly he looked.

You’d expect nothing less of her of course. After all, her only interest was for his health and welfare and, least we forget, he was a sickly boy. A boy in therapy to cure his “malaise,” she scarcely had enough of herself to give. That’s a lot to put on the plate of a woman with no experience raising children of her own. Especially at this stage in life, when most would prefer to spend their leisurely years raising prized tulips and not worrying about clean clothes for school or seeing to a child’s proper bath.

Nevertheless that didn’t deterred her from the job she had to do. Which she did fueled by her pride and, let’s not forget, the examples set by those pictured in the pages of her variety magazines. Not the finest example for childrearing, but then again, the well-groomed young men pictured in her magazines certainly could teach the uncouth mongrels sitting around the barber shop a thing or two. With their made-for-the-camera smiles and gay attire they put the gentle in gentlemanly. Each pictured as if resigned to their vulnerabilities, with intransigent mothers or wives standing close by to handle the challenges. Just the way it should be, that is, if we want fewer problems in the world.

So with her chin firmed up she stood by equally intransigent prepared to meet the challenge. Wanting nothing more than to demand Mr. Milford repair the damages that very instant. But she knew there was no way to bring back to life those beautiful long locks she so enjoyed brushing after Patrick’s bath. The best she could do was to show these ignorant men, indeed, all men that she didn’t give a hoot for their chauvinist, brutish male opinion - least of all those concerning her “beautiful” nephew, and so she did.

“Thank you, Sir,” she spoke up for all to hear, then extended the courtesy of her most tempered veneer.

“Well, there you are then, my good boy,” Mr. Milford flippantly replied, with a crooked smile that looked rather snide. With his mutton jowls creased from his ears to his chin, he looked rather daft with that foolhardy grin. Something that hadn’t gone unnoticed!

Not that it mattered one-iota to this proud woman. Neither did the mumblings going round as she reached into her purse for a tissue to hand to Mr. Milford, and along with it, his dish of comeuppance. “Mr. Milford, I would suggest you wipe that smug off your face before someone mistakes you for a clever man. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve an appointment. Come along, Patty. You know Ms. Stanton will not forgive tardiness.”

Mr. Milford stood dumbfounded, the room grew quiet and Edith relished her moment. As for Patrick, he knew she was right in addressing Mr. Milford, just as she was right about Ms. Stanton. They would have to hurry, and thankfully so. In truth, he wanted out from under the scrutiny and the embarrassment as quickly as his “corrective” heels could carry him.

Not so his aunt. She might have been elderly, but not senile nor simple-minded as some might have mistaken her to be. After all, she had been a head librarian for 37 years, and a stickler for proper etiquette her library had been a very well-mannered place. So it fit that she would have as high a regard for herself as she did for the civility of a bygone era. Much like the common courtesy extended to a lady as she walked into a room and simply by virtue of her presence seized the moment, with never a need to hurry.

A courtesy you’re not likely to see extended nowadays, but one she expected nonetheless. Especially from the men in the shop, and particularly now, as she took her nephew in hand, encouraged him to stand tall and slowly paraded past the seated gentlemen on their way out the door. Then asking him to hold her purse so she could open the door for him to pass, they departed as they had entered. Only this time as they passed through the door, it was with an accompanying chorus of laughter.
 
 
Chapter II
 
 
 Edith had always found Sunday afternoons the best time to travel the distance down Bancroft Lane. This was especially true in the spring, when the weather afforded families an opportunity to be out and about to see and be seen after morning church. She was of course a most thorough driver. Cautious? You bet, but not like the hurried gentleman angrily tooting the horn behind her might indicate. Not that it mattered to her. She wasn’t about to make way for the gentleman when he could just as well wait for her to ready herself before she drove on.

It might have taken her longer than most to travel the short distance to Barbara’s home, but at least she and her nephew would be seen and have time to smile at the gawkers as she puttered along on her way to their appointment. Edith wanted everyone to know she was rightfully proud of her nephew. She just wished she had a better stage to make the presentation other than her rickety old Renault.

Just as the car might suggest, Edith Whipple was not a wealthy lady. An unmarried woman advanced in years she had worked a lifetime to afford her small two bedroom cottage. Other than an old Renault on its last legs, and her meager savings she had little else other than a monthly stipend the government afforded her. Still, it was enough for her to provide for the needs of her late sister’s son. She even managed to have enough to cover the services of Ms. Stanton. An extraordinary expense, but well worth the money as we shall soon see.

Barbara Stanton’s two-story, thatched roof cottage was situated nicely amidst the Ash and Oak with a beautifully landscaped yard. The gated white lattice fence, large portico and the business sign hanging over the entrance set it apart from others along the older middle class neighborhood. Around the back of the house was a very busy place. There was a greenhouse, herb garden and a playground with a sand box and other typical fare you would expect to find at a facility catering to the needs of children. Nevertheless, everything was orderly and well presented. No less so than the inside of her beautiful ornate house, and in a like manner, Barbara herself.

In many ways, Barbara Stanton had much in common with Edith. Middle-aged and unmarried, she too was very direct and succinct in her temperament and it served her well. Her no nonsense manner was a much sought after quality in her line of work and mothers paid well for her help. Probably a bit more than Edith was able to afford, but for the exceptional help, a sacrifice she was willing to make.

As a student of this wondrous alchemy of science and philosophy, Ms. Stanton used every element of the human condition to help transform the ailing to the fit. Edith hadn’t a doubt that she understood what ails children, and felt she could do no better. Of course, it helped that they got along so very well, seeing things eye to eye as it were. From the austere way she dealt with dawdling children to her perceptible “purrrr” when she put her Patty through his paces. The fact that she found such pleasure in helping him was just icing on the (patty) cake as far as she was concerned. It didn’t matter that he was every bit a healthy boy. She agreed with Barbara without demur and followed her prescribed cures to the letter.

Edith and her nephew arrived not a moment too soon for their afternoon appointment. They entered the back gate and down the stone path that led directly to Barbara’s office. Edith wore a full-length floral print dress fashionably hemmed at the ankles, with a rash of short, tightly woven curls in her newly permed gray hair.

In all manner of ways she looked quite fashionable. Exactly the way she always wanted to appear, especially when coming to see Ms. Stanton. Stylist though unassuming, while beneath mingled the flowery scent of Civet, Rosewood and Neroli. Though faint, she had been careful to place the inviting fragrance quite strategically. Adding a bouquet to the air that was decidedly more compelling than the honeysuckle that blossomed along the path that led up to Barbara’s door.

Although only as a formality, Edith rang the bell and then entered finding Ms. Stanton on the phone just concluding her conversation with a Mrs. Bottomly. Behind her was the book case brimming with leather bound journals and a work area where scattered about were all the tools of an alchemist trade. On the walls hung framed portraits of delicate young faces, presumably of previous clients. All were young with beautifully painted faces, long curly hair, pouting red lips and a small pearl earring in just one ear.

Edith waited while young Patrick perused the assortment of magazines, picking up an older issue of Muscle & Fitness, a picture of his hero, Sgt. Rock, on the cover. A few moments later Ms. Stanton turned to greet them dressed in her customary nursing whites and 5 inch pumps that showcased her voluptuous figure. A tall, full figured woman she looked quite imposing in that snugly fit uniform. Perched high upon her platform heels she looked awe-inspiring to the boy. To his aunt she looked stunningly beautiful. To the public safety inspector she looked a menace to airborne traffic, and with her extraordinarily preponderate bust, she looked a threat to shoot down anything in range with exploding buttons from her bodice.

The sight of her always weakened the knees of young Patrick Whipple, and although not for the same reasons, his aunt’s as well. He looked down, while she eagerly embraced Barbara’s penetrating smile. In an unexpected way she found a lot to like in this attractive woman who inspired such awe in her nephew and reverence from her. Nor could she help but blush just a little when she took her hand in greeting at her office door.

“Edith, so nice to see you,” she fawned. “You’re looking simply divine as usual, and isn’t that Chanel in the air? My, my, how luscious.”

Keep in mind, Barbara Stanton was a very assertive and straight forward person, and she handled herself with a style and sense of savoir faire that could convince a pauper to give up a winning lottery ticket. She certainly had no problem tickling Edith’s fancy. Indeed, anymore would have had Edith swooning at her feet. “. . . Out for a bit of mischief I see . . . you naughty girl!”

Then with an exaggerated batting of the lashes she swooped in and wrapped her arms around her as if to mug her of her jewels. “And Patty, you look particularly dashing and debonair with your new haircut I must say.”

“Oh, isn’t he though?”

“Definitely,” Barbara added, making reference to the magazine he still held in his hand. “And Sgt. Rock thought he had cornered the market on machismo.”

“Yes, so grown-up and manly.” Edith followed, still showing concern for her nephew’s sensitivity on the matter. “A soldier’s soldier, he’s sure to be a hit at the academy.”

“Yes, I think he now measures up quite well. I can scarcely imagine a boy could look more charming.”

“Charming . . !” Patrick slowly started to wilt just from the sound of it. His smart posture and the lines on his face drew down to form a more sullen symmetry as he slumped forward. This is not at all what he wanted. He just wanted to measure up, for everyone to stop calling him “String-Bean,” “Beanstalk,” “twig” and yes, “Sissy.” But he wasn’t a sissy. He was just a misfit kid and, unfortunately, his new haircut hadn’t changed that. If the other cadets at the academy were unmercifully cruel toward him before, what were they going to think of him now?

“But Ms. Stanton, Dobb’s is a Military Academy,” he sounded ever so inconsolable, slumping even lower.

“Patty, don’t slouch, you know it’s so unhealthy.” She had gone from merry-andrew to harpy in an instant. Once buoyant, she was now gnashing her teeth showing impatience with him. Even though he had been lax but a moment it was something she wasn’t going to tolerate even for a second. “Chin up, shoulders back, thrust forward; good heavens you’d think I wouldn’t have to correct you by now.”

He knew the routine having it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis slightly forward, caused his heels to rise up off the floor.

She called this Homeostasis. Patrick called it torture. However, she insisted standing flat-footed put inordinate pressure on the spine causing unneeded stress. Thus corrective measures were needed to allow the legs to absorb more of the load. Which in practical terms meant flat sole sneakers and sandals were out, while corrective heels were in. Just an added 2” in height to correct the imbalance, and nylon socks, light-weight and airy for the sake of good hygiene in the hot desert climate.

“That’s why I’m never without my heels . . . the higher the better, Sweetie!” she would oft declare. The healthy life was not an easy one, nothing really worthwhile ever is. “No pain, no gain,” was Barbara’s motto, and young Patrick couldn’t have agreed more.

Actually it took more stamina then he could mister for the longest while. Although like everything else required of him it eventually became second nature, exactly as Ms. Stanton prescribed. All reinforced by her unrelenting chant now firmly etched between his ears. “Your carriage and stride managed in just the right way, effortless and fluent with just a touch of sashay.”

That was the problem at school. The repetitions and the dogma had somehow reconfigured his internal wiring to maintain the posture whether dressed in his elevated shoes or not. All becoming so automatic it seemed almost natural. An especially difficult problem when dressed down for phys-ed. No matter how often his instructor yelled at him he’d more oft than not forget, finding himself running the obstacle course or marching around the parade field on his toes.

With rangy neck and limbs of a gazelle in mid flight, it was not a pretty picture. The ridicule was merciless, and as you might suspect, his platoon wasn’t too happy about having to run the extra laps just because he forgot. All the way around the parade field it was to the platoon leader’s quick-time cadence, “I’m no genius, but I know, Private Whipple has got’ta go. Sound off . . .”

“Got’ta go!” Well, you can see where he fell in the collegial ranks. Ms. Stanton of course thought of it in better regarded terms. She wanted to impress upon him that there was no shame in being different, no matter how complimentary or rude was the thought or expression.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve said it a hundred times,” Ms. Stanton curtly followed. “You needn’t feel ashamed because the boys notice you at school. I mean Sergeant Rock isn’t ashamed because boys notice him,” she said, making a pointed reference to the magazine he still held.

“He’s even answered your fan club mail and told you how appreciative he is for you’re having noticed him. Remember what he said? He called you the next great Super-Trooper and was pleased as punch that all his little Musclemaniac’s the world over admired his beautiful muscles.”

“What’s more, he said that it isn’t how big your muscles are that that makes one a beautiful person. It’s living healthy and remaining true to the cause regardless of the outcome that makes a person worth remembering.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“No buts,” she interrupted. “He’s proud of the way he looks. Just as he’s proud of his outlook on life and the way he lives. He wants to share it with everyone. That’s why he poses. So you can see his beauty and want to be like him. And, I dare say, find him attractive if you are so inclined. To feel so flattered by the attention is a health outlook. One that gorgeous hunk Mr. Rock proudly embraces and so such you.”

“But the boys a school, they . . .”

“. . . What? Call you Sissy, Beanstalk? Nonsense! That shouldn’t bother you any more than they should be bothered when you call them Bobble Heads or Red Neck’s or whatever. Besides, between you and me, they’re just jealous,” she said with a lofty smile that had ‘Got yah!’ written all over it. “That’s nothing to hang your head about. You should feel proud and want to show everyone what a special young man you are.”

“Now enough of this!” she sounded off quite adamantly, leaving little room to negotiate. “I think you might feel a lot better about yourself if you were to run along and change into your trunks, then go through your floor exercises for your aunt and me. I’ll put on a record and you can give us a show.”

Barbara Stanton certainly had a way about her when it came to managing children, and Edith couldn’t help but marvel at her tact. No less impressive was her ability to drum into their heads the importance of healthy habits, a healthy body and a healthy outlook. That’s why she brought Patrick every week to see her, because she believed in the gospel of good health Barbara preached. Always insisting upon perfection regardless, offering little wiggle room for her petitioning dear to haggle.

Edith sat on a chair next to the phonograph while Ms. Stanton stood alongside waiting Patrick’s return. “I’m sorry I have to be so direct with your nephew, Edith.” She offered in feigned contrition. Then feeling the moment right for a more personal exchange, she walked behind where Edith sat and began to gently massage the aged woman’s neck and shoulders.

It was an assertive gesture that caught the startled Mrs. Whipple completely off her guard. Exactly as Barbara had planned, and carefully calculated down to Edith’s responding shutter and uncomfortable wince. Obviously Barbara understood the thoughts and emotional underpinnings of Patrick’s proud and wistful aunt quite well. In fact, she found her such an easy read that there was a notable air of brashness about her as she began to execute her wily plan. Just have a listen.

“Oh my, but you’re tense. Let me help you relax. Remember, I’m an expert on what ails the body you know.”

Edith looked up not knowing how she should respond. This was certainly out of the ordinary to be given this kind of attention, especially from a woman so deferential to proper decorum. It was also an intrusion into her privacy. Something she was very protective of and kept closely guarded from the outside world. “Have confidence darling, my magic fingers know how to bring relief to a woman’s body.”

Her touch was indeed very firm and encompassing. And as her fingers kneaded here, lingered there her touch grew warm and sensual. “I know he’s a sensitive boy and offends so easily. Yet he can’t go about feeling sorry for himself simply because he made a mistake in cutting off his beautiful hair.”

“O-o-ooh, no apology is necessary. Everything was appropriately in line with his treatment program.” Edith followed, now feeling somewhat aroused by the touch, and ashamed she felt that way. Feelings that a guarded woman with secrets would want to keep hidden from prying eyes. “Like cures like, right Ms. Stanton?”

“Yes Mrs. Whipple, like cures like. As I’ve explained, to cure his condition we endeavor to stimulate the body’s natural responses by administering a measured dose of what is causing the affliction. We also want to free up the body from wasted expenditure of resources and energy needed to restore him to good health. Just imagine the resources wasted worrying about what others may think, or how he sees himself. If we can harness all that energy, recovery will follow.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Edith quickly replied. “He should know it’s unhealthy to waste his energy sulking about his new haircut. After all, it’s such a silly thing. Still . . .” she hedged, “perhaps I should have tried harder to convince him not to cut his hair. Truthful, I do so miss it.”

“I know you do, Edith,” she answered while continuing to rub slowly along the length of her shoulders and as far down as her long red nails dare reach. “I miss it too. It’s so sad you won’t have it to care for any longer. And poor me, I just bought a lovely brush set as a gift for his birthday. It would have been an ideal gift, don’t you agree? No matter, it can be exchanged. A pearl earring would probably have been a better choice anyway.”

Startled by the remark Edith tugged with a flinch causing the top buttons of her blouse to come undone, exposing an immodest portion of her brassiere. She looked up at Barbara, her brows crossed, but unable to utter the words “pearl earring” that refused to let go of her tongue.

“Oh dear,” Ms. Stanton sought to ameliorate Edith’s concerns. “I’m sorry. Allow me to button that for you.”

Now Edith Whipple was a pragmatic woman. She certainly understood it was far easier from Barbara’s vantage point to redo what she had undone. Still, as open-minded as she felt herself to be, it was hard to believe this was an entirely appropriate thing to do. It was also an unwarranted intrusion on her privacy. Not that she had a choice in the matter. Barbara had already draped her head alongside hers, and wrapped both her arms across her heaving bosom.

Her fingers knew exactly where to touch Edith’s deeply heaving flesh. A well placed pressing of the palm here, a swirling of the finger tip there, all decidedly accidental of course, and in line with her work. Then leaning in still further, she pressed her nose in the deep V’ed canvass of her brassiere and released a pent-up sigh, “ummm, it is Chanel, how lovely.”

Edith, fully aware of the circumstance knew well how she should respond. However, at the moment all discretion and diplomacy seemed lost to her. Her defensive wall had been breached and now exposed like a raw nerve she could scarcely move nor breathe.

Remember, our good Mrs. Whipple as dear as she could be, was not a person without her flaws. Her stubborn pride often got in the way, sometimes between her good common sense and doing the right thing, as in now! Since her privacy was so important to her, she should have told the lady to back off and give her space. But she didn’t, because behind that great walled fortress, the wall of pride that was Mrs. Whipple, there was another who fell in a swoon as Barbara’s lips lingered so dangerously close. It was the part of her who suffered those feelings too shameful to own and too prideful to admit that she carefully kept hidden from the light of day. Hidden, but felt nonetheless in that wicked, guilty flutter deep in her gut.

In a sense we could say she was a woman of two minds. Much like us all I suppose. One mind suffered those shameful longings, the other a fortress that kept others from seeing what she was too ashamed to own. Mrs. Pride and Mrs. Longing, the two minds of one woman, and at the moment, a woman in turmoil.

So you see, nothing is quite as simple and straightforward as it may seem. It’s a complex world out there, and in here too. Not so black and white, and in Mrs. Whipple’s case the grays were driving her to the brink of collapse as Barbara toyed with her prey as a cat might a mouse.

A game she played expertly, knowing full well what she was doing. A baiting game that was driving the conflicted Mrs. Whipple to distraction, neither hearing Patrick quietly tip-toe back into the room. It was only a last second creak of a floorboard that drew Barbara’s attention, causing her jump with a start. “. . . There now, the sales tag is no longer visible,” she hurriedly responded, scrambling to regain her composure.

Of course at the moment Patrick looked as if he were having a bit of a battle of his own and wasn’t paying attention to anything else. Dressed or undressed as he was, he carried in the neatly folded stack of his clothes with his heeled loafers on top and set them on Barbara’s desk. Then with a faint display of courage, he readied himself and took up a classic Front Double Bicep Pose, on his toes!

Barbara hurriedly started the phonograph then took up a chair close beside Mrs. Whipple. Situating herself comfortably with the hem of her short dress rising disreputably high up her thigh, she clutched the lady’s hand and positioned it upon her lap, between her parted thighs!

Poor Mrs. Whipple, her Mrs. Longing was a flutter over those wondrous feeling that percolated like boiling water through her veins. While on the inside, her Mrs. Pride was affright. Of course it happens on occasion that one woman would hold the hand of another on her lap. That was not unusual, but between her parted thighs?

The disgrace of it! She was appalled and thought to remove her hand that very instant, and would’ve done so had her hand not been held so tightly. To pull away would certainly have caused a scene - or worse, pulled her out of her chair. There was nothing for her to do but hold her breath and give in. Which she did, and all the while Barbara beamed a smile that stretched the length of a Buick, while she fidgeted and squirmed like a pre-teen sitting in the front row of a pop concert. Then as Patrick began to run through his paces, she pressed down firmly on Edith’s hand.

I was quite a “cata-gasmic” moment for poor Mrs. Whipple. She was so consumed by the radiant warmth felt against the back of her hand she could focus on little else, including Patrick. Dressed in his posing trunks he made quite a heated impression, but nothing compared to the blaze that radiated up her arm, and oddly, down to her loins! Yip, below the billowy froth and right to the bottom of the deep blue sea. Leaving her breathless and transfixed, with only the hope that the agitate sea didn’t seep out and soil her new dress.

Wholly consumed by his own kind of tumultuous sea, Patrick chose not to look the way of his approving audience. Instead his thoughts were on the satin sheen of his tight red trunks that left so little to the imagination. Not that he had much to hide. That part of him neither time nor circumstance had ever caused much to grow. Much like his scrawny, muscle-less body there wasn’t a rip, ripple or bulge anywhere to be seen other than pelvic, rib and clavicle bone. Despite his efforts or his want to look like the other boys at school, or his hero Sgt. Rock, his muscles never swelled nor did his cup ever runneth over.

Still he tried his best to emulate his hero just like the special boy Ms. Stanton said he was. As he ran through his routines to the rhythm of the song and Barbara’s ooooh and aaaah’s, he stressed and strained through each repetition to get some muscle, any muscle to cause a ripple. The only thing he got for his efforts was the nuance of a bulge beneath his puffy nipples while executing a splendid rendition of a Front Lad Spread. All very disheartening to be sure, but still he held his head up, and when he was done he took a bow worthy any pigeon-toed, Muscle & Fitness cover boy with a flattop worth his salt.

“Bravo - bravo,” Barbara stood up to clap giving Edith a moment to breathe coming not a moment to soon. As she started off to give the dear boy a hug, she caught a glimpse of Edith out of the corner of her eye pretending to wipe her nose with the back of her scented hand. She crooked a smile then wanting to sweeten her plate of cheek and grit she sought to add a pinch of wickedness and turned to the boy. “Well, you were right Patty. The long hair was a bit suspect, whereas this manly flattop makes a commanding statement.” Then leaning in, she firmly pinched his rump then quickly saved and filed his startled look to memory. “At school, all those little Bobble Heads are going to be bobbing and throbbing with envy.”

She gave Patrick the stiff salute as was the fashion at the academy and he returned her smile. Apparently he had missed some of what she had said and all of what had been implied had bounced off that table top head of his. She also felt fortunate that Edith had been temporary distracted as well. She had been facing away and was too busy removing the evidence of her distress off her dress to hear. With her passions momentarily quelled she now felt a tinge of guilt, realizing she had probably been a little too brash. Her only hope was that she would be more circumspect in the future as she still had a long day to go.

After having had time to compose herself, Edith came over to congratulate her nephew for his fine performance before offering a warm smile to Mrs. Stanton. “Well then, enough dally.” Barbara commanded with a decidedly change in tenor in her voice. “Let’s get started.”

As was expected of her, Edith promptly went to retrieve the Program log she had brought with her and handed it to the suddenly terse Ms. Stanton. “First off, I’m afraid I had to reschedule Nicholas Bottomly because he was unable to attend his usual Saturday appointment. So as I expect him at three, I suppose we might be a bit pressed for time. Let’s you and I have a look at Patty’s Program Log and Patty, you can wait in the Treatment Room while your aunt and I discuss the findings.”

Patrick picked up his pile of clothes, his shoes with the magazine on top and left Ms. Stanton’s office. The Treatment Room located across the hall had become like a second home to him. Originally the Family Room, it was a spacious and accommodating, but the ambient rose-pink tone suggested a tranquility not often found in this place where Ms. Stanton applied her mysterious homeopathic craft.

Medicine is what she called it, even though it was a business degree and not a medical certification that hung on her wall. Nor did she use the usually medicines and tools of the medical trade. Excluding the nurse’s uniform, all the curative tools she needed to contrive her sorcerer’s brew could be found in the treatment room gadgetry and apparatus, the greenhouse and herb garden around back. Add in a touch of her persuasive persona and a wad of bubble gum and she had all the ingredients she needed to build the Taj Mahal. Certainly more than was needed to reconstitute an ailing boy in any fashion she wished. Of course no one understood that better than poor Patrick Whipple as he walked in yet again.

He stopped next to a table just outside the door to look over the assortment of magazines Ms. Stanton provided for her young client’s enjoyment. The magazines were the one thing he liked about coming to see her. Pulp fiction and muscle magazines with pictorials, photo exposés and action stories disguised as patriotic fanfare, they were written to appear to men with a decidedly different bent. Sometimes savage, sometimes heroic, but always spotlighting a ton of scantily clad beefcake. Not the usual fare one would find in a homeopathic clinic, but Patrick found them fascinating and couldn’t wait to get his hands on the newest issues.

Looking over the copies of “Muscle & Fitness,” “Musclemania,” “Kombat,” “Kommando,” and his favorite “Modern Gladiator,” Patrick spotted the newest cover with Sgt. Rock posed in a jungle river setting. A red bandana was tied around his forehead and his face scrubbed with lines of black camouflage. Standing in a shallow pool of muddy river water, he was still soaked from the swim. He had a Glock hunting knife clenched in his teeth, a 6 barrel revolving Mini-Cannon in his hands and a bullet bandoleer across his shoulder. Other than a skimpy pair of red French-cut trunks and his menacing snarl he wore nothing else. And the only thing bigger than that beefy cannon of his was his 60” chest and 22” round biceps that were roughly proportionate a tree trunk in the near foreground.

Patrick quickly thumbed through the pages, all 8x10 glosses along with a loose story line of sorts beneath. Stopping momentarily on the one that showed Sgt. Rock wrapped around a crocodile like a boa in a fight to the finish with its prey, he knew he’d not be leaving today without this must-have issue. Setting down the copy of Muscle & Fitness he had picked up in the foyer, he exchanged it for the new edition of Modern Gladiator. Tucking it under his arm he entered the treatment room and set it alongside his pile of clothes.

He felt a bit restless when he entered the room. Mostly from the memories that stained him as rose-pink as the walls. Just seeing it all again rest heavily upon him and feeling a tightening in his stomach he sought a place to sit. Sitting down on an infants stool he slumped over to rest his weary head in the palm of his hands to think. In the background he could hear Ms. Stanton and his aunt across the hall talking . . .
----

“I see you’ve been quite precise with the schedule . . . no significant temperature variations . . . and Patty has been responding well to the new mitigation schedule . . . though you’ve experienced a bit of a problem with frequent torosity I see.”

“Torosity?” echoed Edith, seemingly confused by the term.

Barbara was sitting behind her desk quickly scanning the Program Log Edith maintained as a matter of practice. “Yes Edith,” Barbara bluntly followed without bothering to look up, “‘torose’ is a medical term referring to the alternate swelling and contracting of a knobbed protuberance. Much like a . . . Well, like the problem Patrick has been experiencing I would suspect.”

Across from her sat Edith, still carrying her musky scent on the back of her hand. She sat with her hands folded modestly on her lap looking on impassively though relieved that a sense of orderliness had finally returned to the proceedings. “Oh, well, yes! I suppose I did make a notation to that effect. He did seem a bit more . . . um, animated than usual,” Edith replied, her cheeks flush by a factor of two. “But it wasn’t really a problem as such. Just something I had to contend with. As you recall, you did ask that I record everything, correct Ms. Stanton?”

“Yes, thank you,” Barbara replied, wondering if the woman could be anymore daft. “And you’ve using the new appliance for the mitigation procedure as I recommended?”

“Oh yes, I assure you, twice daily just as you’ve prescribed. Before his morning bath and again before I give him his bedtime bath promptly at eight.”

Barbara peered in and listened intently, appearing as if she were taking the whole matter quite seriously. She wasn’t, of course. The process she had set in motion was already too well established and the outcome already known. Still, the “purge and herbal replenishment” therapy was supposedly a vital part of the boy’s recovery program, and for Edith’s benefit it was important to show the unsuspecting woman she was giving it her fullest attention. Part of the game she played to placate the old woman. To reassure her that the scheme was working exactly as intended, and like always, her cool, calculated manner had put Edith at ease and in a very pleasant state of mind.

Not that Edith had as yet forgiven Barbara for her shocking display of libido that had just played out during her nephew’s performance. In fact, the incident was still very much on her mind. Having one’s hand clasp between the thighs of another was not the sort of thing a lady of her persuasion was likely to forget too quickly. Least not with Barbara’s pungent scent still tattooed on the back of her hand.

Of course she wanted to believe the incident had been accidental. If not, then perhaps it could be blamed on a form of battle fatigue that had suddenly overtaken Barbara Stanton, the consummate commander-in-chief. That was something she could understand, having felt similar uncontrollable impulses herself every now and again, more often than not when feeling a bit of frustration. Once the itch was scratched sort of speak, she quickly returned to her usual self.

She supposed it was something in a woman’s nature to need to relieve the tension and the stress. That is, without having to resort to pulling out your hair. Now that she gave it a second thought, perhaps she had been too quick in passing her initial judgment. She had to admit now that her tensions had also been spent, she found it a lot easier to forgive the misdemeanor — somehow!

So Mrs. Whipple beamed a satisfied smile and quickly gave up the worry about the little dalliance. She was no less from the wear. Besides, there wasn’t but a couple of decades difference in their age and . . . well, she did have her pride and rather liked to fancy herself not altogether undesirable.

Edith was also pleased to see Ms. Stanton back in good form. She found her to be a strikingly beautiful woman with a firm, commanding hand. Like a thoroughbred in full stride, she was a pleasure to behold when on top of her game. She reminded her of her dearly departed mother, a strict, iron-fisted woman who ran the household, her and her father like a Parris Island drill instructor.

Her mother had been a force like none other in her life until she had met Barbara Stanton. Perhaps we can speculate as to whether that was the reason she found her so appealing. The possibility certain gives one food for thought. Although for a lady of advanced years, set in her ways and who has managed well on her own terms, there really isn’t much of a need to examine why she is this way or that. We need only consider that she was mindful of just one thing other than her own self-interest, and that was Ms. Stanton.

Surely this divine creature was worthy of her reverence, and like her mother, the stern look in her eyes always stirred the smoldering embers deep in her loins when she spoke.

“. . . But I see the week wasn’t entirely without problems. You’ve mention here in your log that Patrick has some complaints about the mitigation procedure. Perhaps you’d care to be more specific, Mrs. Whipple!”

“Ah, well, um . . .”

“Please try to be more direct, Mrs. Whipple. We need not waste more time than is necessary. I assume you explained why this kind of behavior is unsuitable and dealt with appropriately?”

“Aaah, yes, well of course. You know I tolerate nothing of the sort. Still . . . ,” she paused looking as if to resolve a tinge of guilt. “He does fiddle terribly when I use the new . . . um . . . appliance. I know you explained to him he should have no difficulties in making the accommodation, and he is so willing to please, and all. It’s just that, well, sometimes the poor dear tries too hard. He tenses up so, and complaints when more . . . aaah, pressure must be applied. It does seem the smaller appliance caused him much less distress.”

“I see, and you think we should moderate this essential and vital part of his treatment?” The question posed rhetorically. “Simply give in and allow him to slide back into his poor health habits that caused all this to be necessary. See him again habituating the old patterns which have caused his vitals to degenerate. You would have me do this just so I may show sympathy? I can’t! Nor should you, but I would gladly pass on his records if you wish to seek the help of another clinician.”

“Oh my, heavens no, Ms. Stanton,” she shudder over the veiled threat. “I have every confidence you’ll restore my nephew to good health.”

“I believe you do, but certainly no less than I do. It’s imperative we realign, re-nourish and re-educate your nephew back to good health. To see him grow up healthy and live happy ever after in the arms of the right . . . well, person. We do want to be socially correct with the times do we not Mrs. Whipple?”

“Why certainly, I am thoroughly modern in most all regards . . . I suppose,” Edith followed, hoping the keen eyed Ms. Stanton couldn’t detect her flush. “His happiness is paramount.”

Of course, Barbara didn’t have to be all that keen eyes. A crayfish with one leg already in the boil couldn’t have been more on edge. All quite predictable, if not counted upon whenever she ratcheted up her resolve and consumed all the oxygen Edith needed to breathe. Being firm and unyielding with her was always like adding fuel to a famished fire, especially when hinted at things forbidden, like those dare-not-be-spoken thoughts about her nephew.

“I agree,” Barbara followed. “We must be open-minded to all the possibilities. One can never tell what boys will take a fancy to these days. It’s all rather natural. Not all boys have the same appetite for this and that, but it’s important to keep abreast of it. That’s why I feel it’s important we go over this in fine detail. I want to be certain all facets of the program are achieving their intended goal. It all works for the betterment of the program. There’s no harm in that. Just like there’s no harm in his fascination with those wondrous musclemen.”

“Well, its far better I suppose than other pleasures boys tend to enjoy. Comic books, sports collectables, cowboys and Indians, bah, they all perpetuate slothfulness and hooliganism which has no place in my home.” Mrs. Whipple spoke firmly. “That’s why I insist his attending Dobb’s Military Academy. They hold to basics and traditions with far more substance and don’t permit such things.”

“Yes, well, it is unfortunate for our little ‘Modern Gladiator’ enthusiast. He has nobody to share his muscle man collectables with.”

“I suppose,” Edith mumbled then glanced away as if undecided whether to go on. “He does love those he-men so, especially that Sgt. Rock.”

“It is a wonder,” Barbara mocked her verbal point, “a mega-muscle Adonis posing as a combat commando in those skimpy trunks and combat boots. Not to mention that huge gun he carries around, as if that could possibly provide some legitimacy. Imagine his cadre of little Musclemaniac’s the world wide believing him a real combat hero.”

“Yes well, I suppose it’s the gun that draws his interest. It is a rather big one!

“Yes I’ve noticed.” Ms. Stanton followed in a quirky, amused tone.

“Well,” Edith shrugged, “I guess you do what you must to hold a boy’s interest.”

“Why not, he has a lot to offer. That beefy weapon he flaunts certain has my eyes riveted to the page.” Barbara Stanton suddenly burst out laughing, and though his aunt tried to refrain, she soon followed suit.

-----

The laughter was reality tapping Patrick on the shoulder. It swept in like a cruel, gut wrenching arctic chill that made him shiver. Bad enough that he was the subject of distain at school, but to hear the same in Ms. Stanton’s voice only help to solidify how he felt about himself. He didn’t want to stand out, be different from the others. He only wanted to measure-up and, like a good soldier, come by a little pride in himself. Instead he ended up having made matters worse.

It was his decision to cut his hair of course, against the wishes of his aunt and one of the few not made by someone else. In truth he had no real voice to call his own. From a small boy living with his mother in Maine to life with his aunt in Arizona, all the decisions had been made for him. Sadly, seemingly everyone had a hand in shaping his life but him.

But how else could it be? His aunt ran her household and raised him as she saw fit. As his only living relative he had little choice but do as she asked, and after Ms. Stanton came into the picture, his treatment of his supposed ailment robbed him of the choice on how he was to live. The whole of it prescribed for him by his treatment program. From the corrective heels and support corsetry, to the time he spent outside exposed to the hot afternoon sun.

Of course he couldn’t blame his aunt anymore than he could his dearly departed mother for his wafer-thin draft. She was just doing what she thought right. It wasn’t her fault he still wet the bed. The facts were what they were. He was a sickly “string-bean” of a kid, just as weak and frail now as when he began his treatment. His aunt’s laughter bore that out. No, he knew his failings where his own, and he didn’t like himself very much for it.

Carrying around those kinds of feelings can be a crushing weight to bear for a young boy, but no different from you or I when suffering the pangs of our inadequacies. It’s something that tugs at us all and affect us in some known, and some unknown ways. There are some who might choose to spend time commiserating with a bottle of bourbon, and those like Patrick who don’t like themselves all that much and shed a tear or two. Something he was doing a lot more often these days, his emotions waxing wildly sometimes without reason.

He didn’t know why it was becoming harder to control his emotions. Not anymore than he understood the recently acquired habit of rapping an extended index finger against his temple as one might tap a windowpane. Call it a nervous tick if you like, something he did when overcome with emotion. Much like the sound of a metronome marking time, so too did the gentle rhythmic thumping of his finger help to give him a sense of bearing above the chaos of emotions. Just as he did as he sat listening to the laughter with his head cradled in his palms and a glint of moisture on his lashes, his finger nervously rapping . . .

----

. . . thumpity-thump, thumpity-thump, Barbara Stanton gently rolled her fingers against the desk top waiting for Mrs. Whipple to pour herself a cup of tea. Barbara always kept the kettle hot knowing how much Edith liked to linger over a warm cup while they conversed. She claimed to particularity favor the special blend of herbs and spices. However, Barbara thought it more likely that she used the time to mull over her thoughts before deciding how best to proceed.

She returned to her seat at the desk, sipped her tea, and then looked up at the portrait hanging on the wall behind Ms. Stanton. She was enthralled by what she believed to be an extraordinary young lady, with her long curly hair, pouting red painted lips and peculiarly, only one pearl earring. Barbara watched as she crooked her head in study of the portrait, looking as if caught up by the mystery behind Jordan’s radiant blue eyes and angelic smile. “So have you made any decisions about what you’re going to do once he graduates from the academy next month?”

“No,” Edith sullenly replied. “I suppose if he gets his wish he’ll enlist in the army. But as you’ve said, without a clean bill of health he’s not likely to pass the physical. In which case, I simply do not know. Perhaps attend a college to learn a trade . . .”

“You still haven’t discussed it with him?”

“No, I know how disappointed he’s going to be. You know how he romanticizes about the army, not to mention that Sgt. Rock.”

“Nothing wrong with that, Edith,” Barbara said emphatically. “It just goes to show what a special boy he is. There’s nothing wrong with a boy idolizing his heroes. Besides, to want to imitate is the purest expression of love. We can’t place blame on him for that. Mr. Rock is quite a gorgeous thing, don’t you agree?”

“Well . . . yes, of course, but I’ve never quite thought of it like that. I mean, I never imagined . . .”

“Mrs. Whipple, you have a lovely young willow in your back yard. You’ve told me countless times about the pleasure the tree gives to you. Now tell me, does it matter how your willow chooses to look? Whether spread out like a full skirt or droopy as trousers on a clothesline, whatever fashion Mr. Willow chooses doesn’t matter as long as it gives you pleasure, right Edith?”

Poor Mrs. Whipple, her hard-edged common sense seemed to desert her whenever she was in need. She still hadn’t been able to see though her concerns about her nephew’s future, and now Barbara expected her to see through the inference about her androgynous tree? The perplexities were staggering, but that was the enigma Barbara Stanton posed. She spoke as though privileged to insights she alone understood. With presumed authority in a firm, confident way that left Edith struggling with the mystery, yet taken by her intoxicating presence.

“Your ‘Mr. Willow’ is very special,” Barbara continued to play on the misdirection, a tact solely intended to punch a hole in that great wall of pride she aimed to obliterate. Step one in the battle plan she had concocted to bring that meddlesome, steadfast wall down. “. . . and it would seem to me he requires not only your nurturing but acceptance as well, no matter his bent. Don’t you agree, Edith?”

“Oh my, I, I suppose. . .” Edith stammered, now realizing this was not about uprooting her tree simply because she might not like the way it looked. Edith wasn’t the brightest firefly in the jar, but she didn’t have to be. The suggestion that there might be something more to Patty’s fascination with that majestic Sgt. Rock had been made quite clear.

Of course, she had never thought of it in those terms before, and in truth, would have preferred not to. These were not the kind of things decent women discussed in public, least not without causing some bloodletting. Yes, to her it was a shameful thought, but she also loved her nephew unconditionally.”

Nevertheless, as far as she could see it had nothing to do with his therapy and she wondered why Barbara would bother to bring it up. Those things were the product of poor upbringing and parenting, broken homes and delinquency. Not the product of a good home like her own. Besides, her Patty was a good boy, not a delinquent choosing a deviant homosexual lifestyle. Or so she was of the opinion.

“I knew you would agree,” Barbara followed, no longer trying to disguise her intent. “You’re a very conscientious woman. I also know you’re not averse to providing whatever is needed. Especially when it comes to establishing the kind of intimacy you need to share his interests and explore his needs. Right, Edith?”

“Yes, I agree,” she replied as she selected a pleasant smile, carefully attached it to her face then continued to sip her tea. Her thoughts however were elsewhere. She was wondering if Barbara felt the need to bring the matter up. Surely she must know by now that her nephew’s happiness was all that mattered, and even if she were to recommend she garter his long stockings she would follow her advice as if the letter of law.

Still she had put the question out there, and rightfully so. After all, much about herself she kept closely guarded, hidden away and not worn on her sleeve. Just as you might expect of a woman, old and alone, who had only herself to defend her dignity. That’s all she had left after all is said and done. And should it be found out she secretly harbored passions for things more stirring than a garden of prize tulips, the shame would be the death of her. Or worse, she’d be left to suffer a torment far greater than the one that already ravaged her soul whenever Barbara’s lips lingered so close.

“All well and good,” Barbara concluded, pleased to see from Edith’s distant look that the first salvo she aimed at that wall of pride had hit the target square. “Rest assured I’m not likely to let you forget. Now, we should be getting on with the examination.”

As she gave Edith a moment to finish her tea she reached down under her desk to retrieve a package. “Before we go however, I’ve something here that I want to give to Patty. It was sent to me from a colleague in France who is also a bodybuilding enthusiast.”

“Another magazine to satisfy his interests, I hope. He really does love all those lovely pictures.”

“Yes, of course. Another of those titillating glamour magazines he enjoys,” she telegraphed a grin.

“It’s a souvenir of sorts she picked up at a show in Paris and I’d like to pass it on to you so you can share it with Patty at your leisure. Something to juice up the bone,” she stated quickly frankly, but careful to keep the smirk off her face.

“Juice up the bone?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Edith. It’s just an expression of my mother’s when preparing dinner for her starving kids. Whenever I asked what she was making she would say, ‘Lions and Tigers and something special to juice up the bone.’ That always meant something special was coming that was sure to be pure ecstasy.”

“Oh, I see. Well, thank you, I’m sure Patty will be grateful.”

“Well, I had planned on giving it as a gift myself for his coming birthday, but decided it might be better if the two of you were to cozy up and explore this little treasure together.”

“That is very kind of you, but are you sure? You know how he is looking forward to his birthday and a present from you.”

“I’ll get him another.” Barbara replied. Yet her thoughts were elsewhere. She was thinking about Patrick’s coming birthday. Something she had been looking forward to for a very long time — young Mr. Whipple turning eighteen at last!

“I’ll get him something more fitting a boy soon to be looking to find his rightful place in the world.” She added, thinking about how much she had left to do in so little time. She would have to step things up as it was now or never.

“And I want to give him the perfect gift that will help him find it.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Edith replied. “I can’t wait to see the surprise on his face.”

“Neither can I,” Barbara followed with a wayward glance. The last thing she wanted was to unwittingly tip her hand and allow her good work to come undone. “Now, I’ll just leave this package beside your purse so you won’t forget when you leave this afternoon.”

“That done, I think it time we go see Patty. Come along, Edith,” she concluded, then rose up to leave with Edith shadowing those skyscraper heels, homing in on the rhythm of the stilettos like a dog on the hunt . . .

----

The prey they stalked heard the sound of the advancing stilettos as well. Though, unlike a rabbit fleeing the evening stew, he had nowhere to run, or hide or worry about other than whether they would enjoy the meal.

Of course, it wouldn’t surprise him if she were to complain about that too — his being nothing but skin and bone, and all. Just like her comment about wanting to help him “find his rightful place in the world.” Coming from her, it didn’t surprise him in the least. It apparently didn’t surprise his aunt either. So why should anyone wonder why she would even have a say in the matter. She did what she wanted and said as she pleased without reflection. She pulled all the strings, and there was nothing he could say that would change that.

Like his Geppetto, it was a bit hard to escape the tie, and like a boy on a string, he was never far from her reach. Just as it had been since she began managing his care, his life and everything about him. She had him tied so close he could scarcely breathe on his own, molding and shaping his world with determination. All accomplished with the blessings of his dear aunt under the banner of a treatment program.

From the beginning it had been the gospel of Stanton. Her first infallible truth was the importance of good health habits. “Your poor health is a symptom of a body out of harmony, struggling to overthrow the disease.” She would say. “To cure what ails you we must re-establish your natural poise and balance through a gradual process of re-vitalization and re-education designed to eradicate harmful habits and affect change. As the mind and the body are one, we must work with the totality of the person to change this vital force. And that begins with self-awareness.”

The upshot of all this was that the ailment would have to be dealt with in its “totality,” requiring a complete change in lifestyle. Realign, re-nourish and re-educate. Realign the posture to free up wasted resources caused by undue stress. Re-nourishing the “vital force” through “purge and herbal replenishment,” and re-educate to unlearn harmful habits, affecting change in how he thought about himself. In accordance with her “like cures like” principle, he’d learn about the healthy male physique with the use of the muscle magazines that exemplified the fitness. For her it was a convenient way to integrate his fascination with bodybuilding with his recovery program. For Patrick, it was a bit of genius that suited him just fine.

Although she never offered to explain exactly how the substance of all this would miraculously affect the change she sought, she insisted it was all essential to his recovery plan. Then when he was healthy enough the actual muscle training would follow. It all sounded convincing enough. Thinking of this as just a prelude of what was to come he engaged it all enthusiastically.

Why not, a boy needs hope and heroes too. Much like those he found in his muscle magazines. There’s nothing wrong in that. It was something he enjoyed, not unlike others might enjoy modeling or sports collectibles. In many ways they were like his aunt’s variety magazines, only for boys. Instead of “titillation” and “glamour,” as Ms. Stanton would have us believe, they providing the action and adventure and the masculine models for him to aspire and fashion his character; Sort of a “Boy’s Life” for the underachiever if you will. In much the same way his aunt admired those gentleman in the variety magazines for a certain fashion sense, he readily admitted to a certain admiration of those men in the muscle magazines for their physical prowess.

The reasons seemed obvious enough. They were everything he was not but wished to be - vital and heroic. As he lived a cloistered life with no friends at home or school, with only the opinion of his aunt and Ms. Stanton to consider, those magazines were very important to him. The hero’s were bigger than life, and yes, he rather fancied them in ways he didn’t altogether understand.

So late at night it was not uncommon to see young Patrick Whipple beneath the covers of his bed with his authentic Musclemania flashlight and his magazine in hand. There he’d read and reread every caption, scan and re-scan every photographic detail, fascinated by what he saw. His imagination filled with the same wonder of a boy holding a complete set of the 1927 Yankee Bazooka trading cards. Afterward with the light off, his eyes closed, he’d mill over the images that filled him with wonder.

Then outing himself from beneath the covers he’d rise up firmly, and once again taking himself in hand he’d dream of the images that play back in to his mind. Like scenes in an old movie that pass in a jerking, flickering sequence and then repeat like a film looping round. Slowly at first, but as his pulse quickens and the intensity grows the scenes flick past faster and faster, round and around until the jerking, sputtering loop plays itself out to completion and he could again sleep.

----

Patrick sat waiting for Ms. Stanton and his Aunt in the treatment room, his head held up by his cradling palms. Slumped over it was obvious he felt a little melancholy. Not how we’d like to find the young man, leastwise not without good reason. Was it something about his present state of affairs, or was there something about this room that concerned him when Ms. Stanton entered the room?

“Patty! My word, what’s become of you? Straighten up properly this instant!” Barbara’s screech was like that of a predator swooping down on its prey. With all but her claws out there was nothing to be done except assume the perfect posture, then contritely allow himself to be taken in hand and hauled off to the hygiene corner that had been occupying his thoughts.

“And I thought you were a big enough boy to no longer require the aid of an alignment corset.” She pulled up a chair alongside the gurney, sat and positioned him between her knees to conduct her examination. “Quickly now we have no time to dawdle.”

Edith, a woman with ample experience in these matters looked on from the entrance so as not be in the way. The vantage point provided a good view as this beautiful, skilled practitioner taking charge of her nephew. In many ways it was quite reminiscent of those nightly experiences she had of her own, though when viewed from the outside, so much more emotive. With her eyes fixed to the scene with the same wonder of a child witnessing a birth of a hatching, she held her breathe and watched quietly from the distance.

His trunks, tight fit and torose came down. Then feeling for tension in the abs Ms. Stanton found good reason to lecture him. “My, but you’re . . . taut, tight and stiff as a board! No wonder I find you slouching. What have I to do? Movement without thought is misuse, you know that. It’s essential that you sustain the muscle tone and the posture needed to stimulate the body’s natural resources to combat your affliction. As well, it aligns the cramped byways to support proper respiration and digestion, not to mention helping to keep you alert and clear minded.”

“But this can’t happen if you can’t free up the resources you’re wasting on needless expenditures like this. Now, the treatment regiment can only do so much. The rest is up to you. So tell me Mister stiff-as-a-board, how do you expect to grow up big and strong with your body all tied up in knots like this, hum?”

“I-I dunno Ms. Stanton,” Patrick shook his head as if to negate the proof right in front of her eyes.

“Don’t know? Is that all you can say to explain yourself . . . or explain this? What in the world are you thinking?” She posed the question rhetorically. “Just have a look at yourself, slouched and taut and unapologetic. All this when you should be feeling ashamed of this display of yours, especially in front of your aunt and me who had been hoping you’d be displaying something a bit more substantial in the way of progress by now.”

Edith knew she was right, of course. It was a rather rude display, but nothing she hadn’t seen before. In truth, his lack of forethought was something she dealt with quite often, almost expectedly if you will. Young boys are prone to these things after all. Especially during intimate moments like this, when given their impetuous nature boys are more apt to respond instinctively, unable to exercise self-control.

Still, she couldn’t help but feel flushed as Barbara methodically went about the examination. As thorough as a fastidious schoolmistress, there wasn’t much in the way of detail that escaped her reach. Coupled with the strident voice, her passionate resolve and her firm, confident hand, and you have all the ingredients needed to move mountains. From Edith’s place at the door, enough to stir the kettle of simmering broth deep in her loins.

But don’t let your imaginings get the better of you. Everything Barbara did was quite clinical, although she wasn’t averse to adding a touch of choreography here and there while she went about her diagnostic prodding and probing and artful machinations. Perhaps for Edith’s benefit or perhaps the boy’s just to keep his toes curled or his mind from wandering. Of course, there was something in the game for her too. She was a businesswoman after all, and this was a business proposition.

Nevertheless, work is just work if some enjoyment isn’t had in the execution. The tedium can in itself become problematic. Although, thankfully, this wasn’t something Barbara had to contend with. There was something in the wickedness of the process she savored as she indulged her palate on his heightened discomfort. Still she was mindful of her role, and always careful, she made sure everything she did was completely in line with the work.

“Mrs. Whipple, I wonder if you won’t mind retrieving an alignment corset from the closet. I’ve simply reached my limit with this ungainly slouching.” That’s the sound of Barbara doing what she does best. Just like any highly motivated entrepreneur who owned the tactical skills of an Indi-car champion. She always kept a keen eye on the competition and her foot on the accelerator as she raced to success in the business world, and before that, to the top of her class in “Strategic Personnel Management 401.”

Now with Edith strategically out of the way she sought to direct her personnel management skills toward other, more personal matters. Not liberties per se, she didn’t have to take unfair advantage of Patrick. In truth she often frequented those special places when time was convenient. Not wanting to draw unneeded questions she often found it prudent to wait until his aunt first stepped out to powder her nose.

“Turn your head and cough, Pattie . . . another. That’s a good boy.” Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Checking for anything usual was quite expected, especially for a late bloomer like Patrick. Although invasive, it’s all quite clinical, even when his aunt was away. Though sometimes not. Oft neglected cavernous tissues had to also be deal with. If not already enliven, as now, it was within her prerogative to see that everything was still in the proper working order.

All part of the game she played to further heighten his discomfort out of view of his aunt. Not that Edith could stake claim to the moral high ground. She had her duties at home and didn’t hesitate to exercise her own prerogative while managing his nightly ablutions. Hardly the lofty platform one would use to launch a complaint, especially considering the passion she had for performing her “duties.” Barbara could see that in the attention to detail Edith gave to his shave and the sweet smell of hand lotion in the most unlikely places. Something Barbara understood and comfortably counted upon as her fingers prodded and her hands kneaded without fear of recrimination.

Besides, a conflicted woman harboring a passion for bathing a seventeen year old nightly while administering a colonic purge wasn’t likely to speak up, much less own up to whatever was on her mind. That might also go to explain why Edith didn’t say anything about other, equally pertinent matters. Like the recent changes in his physique, all quite unexpected in a boy. It would have been impossible for her not to have noticed, but if she had, nothing was said.

Of course it was a gradual process that accompanied other changes as he grew taller and more robust with age. The need to shave more often, especially those required areas like underarms, legs and other like places certainly was within the realm of what was to be expected. What about his chin, shouldn’t there have been evidence of some need by now? Even for a boy as tenuous, to see no evidence of hair growth on either his chin or his chest should have been the cause of some concern. Then again, if it had, no questions were asked.

Just as neither Patrick nor his aunt said anything about other, equally noticeable aberrations. Allowing her fingertips to gentle brush over the raised swellings on his chest, it was hard to imagine how the abnormally large, vaulted dark brown areoles had not caused some suspicion. If not, then what of his smooth, unblemished skin or the distinctive plump curvature of his bottom, all so undeniably feminine it couldn’t have been mistaken for anything other than it actually was.

Oh, to a degree he complained about her herbal remedies and exercises not doing their job. Especially those intended to build muscle and not the fat that seemed to be accumulating in certain localized places. He also complained of a bothersome itch around one such area on his chest. More so recently, so she thought it would be a nice gesture to gently soothe the area with a special balm, quietly and unannounced while his aunt was away.

There wasn’t all that much to it quite honestly. Just a light concentrate of certain oils, roots, herbs and the like she also used for his internal ablutions. Nothing meant to harm or cause permanent mischief. Only a subtle medicinal splicing to hybridize the yin with the yang while advancing the process from bud to blossom. A process she knew a lot about. The careful milling and tempering of her special brew; she knew how to exact all the right processes, incantations and phases of the moon.

Now with the buds ready to rise up in full blossom with the morning sun, Barbara was pleased to see it was doing its job well. The time-tested remedy had proven itself as a profitable tool over the years for both her special clients and herself. So she had no qualms about gently rubbing in the balm. Certainly Patrick didn’t mind. He wore a contented smile and sighed with some relief as his aunt returned to the room.

Edith was pleased as well. Having to find a suitable medical garment that would fit him had not been as simple a task as it would seem. Though the no-frills, white spandex garment was decidedly on the feminine side, it certainly was modest compared to most of the delicate finery she found there. A simple garment that extended from just under the arm to the lower reaches of the abdomen, it used medal clasps and elasticized Velcro instead of lacing which made it a simple matter to tighten and remove.

In all, the garment served its purpose well. It was not a shaping garment per se, the likes of which a woman might wear to help perfect her contour. Rather, with it’s sewn in steel battens it was primarily a support garment that forced the shoulders, back and hips into perfect alignment. Unfortunately, it also compressed those localized accumulations of fatty tissues into two conspicuous swellings. Fledgling to be sure, but even so little marked a salient distinction that was impossible to go unnoticed.

Breathless and pale, Patrick looked as if rigor mortis had already set in while Edith’s heart raced like a Maserati and gasped as if venting the exhaust. She didn’t say anything. As she stood there eye to eye and most assuredly, breast to breast, she acted as though there was nothing out of the ordinary at all. Even in view of his ambi-gender allure and comely form it was as if she thought of him simply as her sickly nephew in need of her sympathy, not her outrage.

Or so she would have it appear. As we all know, the face we put forward does not always tell the whole story. To know how she really felt you’d have to pierce through that defensive wall of pride. Something Barbara, with her uncanny capacity to see right through the conflicted Mrs. Whipple had no trouble doing. To her, Edith was an easier read then a dime store novelette, which might explain the wily smirk she now owned.

As for reading Patrick, well, the poor boy looked a beanstalk with three buds branching out from his skin and bone stalk — two buds up and one bud down. “Ah, well, there’s nothing like healthy bindings to eradicate unhealthy habits. With battens hard and erect, wouldn’t you agree Mrs. Whipple?”

“Ahmmm . . . of course,” Edith panted. Her Mrs. Pride was utterly aghast, but so overwhelmed by the pulsing, guilty-ridden flutter coursing through Mrs. Longing’s veins that doing the right thing was nowhere to be seen.

“All well and good. Now, young Mr. Rock, kneel up on the table, bottom up. Let’s have a look-see at what ails you.”

Energized by the sight of the compliant boy and his duty-bound aunt she helped him up on the gurney before suspending a 2 quart bag of her special herbal solution over his head. Then standing alongside a case that displayed in linear order the exclusively designed blue - as in boy - nozzles, she waved her fingers as if brandishing a wand over the top of the case. When she could tell from his tense, wide-eyed expression she had his full attention she slowly swept her fingers from the smallest down to one somewhat larger. Pausing over a replica of the model he currently used at home, she lingered a long moment and then shook her head as if to deplore, “It’s still a long road to recovery Patty. . .”

Then with a wry, amused grin, she continued on down the long row in her grandstanding manner until she reached the monstrosity at the end. Edith was on tenterhooks and he, mouth agape looked in awe as she picked it up and cradled it in her hands. “. . . But a fulfilling experience when you finally reach the end. Hopefully you’ll be feeling that fulfillment a little sooner than later . . . but unfortunately, not today.”

After taking hold of one similar to the one he now used at home, she secured it to the hosing then snapped-on a pair of latex gloves and lubricated the fingers. Edith stood by silently as Barbara readied her gloved fingers to plow a furrow good and deep. With Patrick kneeling bottom up and head resting on the table, she had already planted her trowel to the knuckles when, “. . . You-whooo!”

“. . . Anybody home?” That would be the bright and cheerful Mrs. Bottomly and her stepson walking in the door.

“Oh, good day to you Nicky and you, Mrs. Bottomly, is it 3 p.m. already?” Ms. Stanton feigned her surprise, peering over her shoulder, her fingers ensnared in a most inconvenient way. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’m afraid Patty has run a bit over his time.”

“That’s quite alright, Ms. Stanton.” Mrs. Bottomly replied. “Nicky and I have plenty of time. Please don’t hurry. I can see he is in need of your helping hand.”

“. . . and longer fingers than I have at my disposal I’m afraid.” She laughed along with the good Mrs. Bottomly as she withdrew her latex fingers. After removing her glove she walked over and took her hand in greeting.

Mrs. Bottomly was a heavy set woman in her fifties. She had a round face, a pleasing crescent smile and a pronounced nose loftily perched upon the mantle. Even with her hair tied up in a bun she was shorter than Edith, but with her pearls and expensive cashmere she looked decidedly more affluent. “Mrs. Bottomly, this is Mrs. Edith Whipple and her nephew Patty . . . that’s his bottom over there,” everyone chuckled. “And Mrs. Whipple, this is Jane and her delightful stepchild Nicky.”

Of course young Patrick was not given the pleasure of a formal introduction. As they stood behind him out of his range of view he couldn’t see them. “While I’m finishing up why don’t you two have some tea and Nicky can give me a hand to speed things up a bit. You’ll find a warm kettle brewing in my study.”

“What a splendid idea, don’t you agree Mrs. Whipple?” chirped the buoyant Jane Bottomly. “I’ve got these absolutely gorgeous Red Emperor Tulips I simply must tell you about.”

The pair departed arm in arm and laughing about this and that, already acting as if fast friends. Ms. Stanton took Nicky’s hand and he returned a knowing smile as together they stepped up where Patrick could see. “Patty, this is Nicky. Once sickly and frail like you, he’s now one of my great success stories.”

Young Patrick looked up and stared in awe at the vision quickly shedding his clothes. He came dressed in high-top sneakers, white with blue trim basketball shorts and a matching jersey adorned with the number 69. He stood as tall as Ms. Stanton standing in her platform heels and with his athletic, muscular physique he looked as if he could play the point for Duke. Given the cut of his masculine jaw, beautiful blue eyes and the chisel of his dimpled square chin, he would have made an exceedingly handsome point guard at that.

Nicky was everything but what he had expected. In quick order he had stripped down to his brazil-cut jockeys, both pink and very brrr-eef. From the size of the loll in the triangular pink pocket, he didn’t appear to be some hapless, ailing boy in need of Ms. Stanton’s care. He looked as healthy, as he looked handsome, as he looked everything Patrick was not but always dreamed to be.

Although paradoxically nothing else about him did. For all that was extraordinary about this 20 year old man-boy, nothing spoke more to the enigma he posed than the long cascading fall of tight amber curls that framed his strong, masculine face. With his eyes crowned with high, thinly arched brows penciled-in to match his bluish-gray eye shadow, he seemed as might an androgynous teen still in the midst of his transition. With his high cheek bones highlighted with a coral-rose blusher to match his lustrous red lipstick and long red nails he looked both aspiring he-man and beautiful debutante rolled into one statuesque figure.

“Isn’t he simply the most beautiful boy you have ever seen Patty?” Barbara swooned, “So delicate and pretty yet hard and salty as a mouthful of caviar. And you know what else? He’s a Musclemaniac just like you.”

Now, Nicholas Bottomly was a clever boy and had a lot more on the ball than the dimwitted grin on his face might indicate. Indeed, he even picked up Ms. Stanton’s verbal cue right off, and without having to be told he instantly leapt into a classic Front Double Bicep pose to flex his handsomely defined musculature. Nor was the clever boy shy about strutting his wares. A veteran of many a shower-room war he knew how to strike a pose. Pumping up to present his best features and, best of all, how to sweeten the mix was what he did best. Nothing too flamboyant, mind you, especially when something modestly titillating usually “turned the trick.” Like looking back over his shoulder from a Back Lat Spread then seductively batting his extended lashed and licking his painted red lips before blowing his admired a kiss.

Of course his greatest admirer other than himself was now trying to move things along. She still had much to do and needed to cut his performance short. Doing so was another matter however. The self-absorbed boy was far too enamored with his own splendid physique to pick-up on her ‘lets-get-a-move-on’ cue. So she gave up on the subtleties for a blunter tact, pinching his ear to pull him over to the gurney in front of Patrick. “Now Nicky, if you will kindly help it would greatly speed things along.”

Nicky was only to glad to lend a hand, or whatever. So he leaned in and spread the cheeks of young Patrick’s bottom. Then as if to lend comfort, he lowered his lips to his ear and whispered, “Love your hair, Peach’esth!”

With Nicky’s words echoing in his ear, his heart raced and the mechanism to run and hide were in high gear. Pinned down like a butterfly to a mat, the best he could do was turn his head away from the sight of Nicky’s distended pink loll looming just inches away. To Patrick, the whole experience was gut-wrenching and unsettling. To Barbara his unease was a delectable dish served head down, bottom up. Something she wanted to savor slowly, using just a feathery touch of a finger to toy with the quivering target he offered up. First, by marking the spot with an “X,” something she liked to do to heighten his discomfort when preparing to do her worse.

Careworn and crushed by the invasive hand, he gulped for air like a topminnow. Then when tired of the game and she began her work in earnest, his lips would attempt half-formed syllables and then go slack in a gasping, airy wordlessness. In all, the heavy-handed onslaught and Nick’s presence overwhelmed his senses. One part of him was stunned by the shock and awe, another part of him strangely aroused. Looking up at Nicky he’d find himself peculiarly captivated by the wonder of him, and then he’d feel the staving, seemingly to his tonsils, and feel nothing but the trauma of the moment. Together, the push and pull of his feelings left the poor boy in a quandary, not knowing what to make of any of this. Certainly this was not how he had envisioned the virtuous path to recovery and good health would be.

Perhaps he’d “get use to it” as Ms. Stanton was fond of saying. Perhaps this was just one step forward in a process, that one day she could help him become a man — like Nicky. Not the Nicky with the painted face, but the tall, handsome, muscular man-boy with a jock-loll to do a thoroughbred proud. That’s the man he wanted to be, but this process and his having to “get use to it” implied so much more that he wasn’t prepared to accept. In truth, it took all the grit he could muster to not run off and hide when Nicky again leaned in and purred in his ear, “I hope we can be friends.”

----

Over in the Study and seemingly a world away, Jane and Edith sat sipping another cup of herbal tea while chatting away as if old friends. Jane spoke at length about her stepson, and the informal nature of their chat had immediately put them on more intimate footing. In no time at all she was quite forthcoming about Nicky and their shared life after her late husband left her with a mortgage to pay and a floundering stepson for her to rear.

She compared him to Patrick, how sickly and frail he was when she first brought him to Ms. Stanton, and how proud she was of him now. She couldn’t say enough about her stepson, praising him for what a good boy he was. How with Ms. Stanton’s help and her nodding approval he had acquired a passion for the colorful and more fanciful things not commonly shared by other boys, and hadn’t the words to describe the joy that brought her.

Of course, if not for the good graces and guidance of Ms. Stanton she was sure none of this would have been. He probably would have fallen the way of his father, a brick mason who in his rough and tumble way killed himself when driving in a drunken stupor. With Ms. Stanton’s knowledge about what ailed the young boy he came out quite handsomely, and even had come upon a lucrative living as a dancer at the Puss n’ Poodle Lounge in nearby Las Oasis. She was not modest at all in saying that he was apparently so good at his job he had many admirers, and paid handsomely enough to afford the kind of lifestyle both she and her stepson could only dream about before.

On the other side of the table Edith smiled and listened intently, absorbed in her story. She found Jane sincere and genuine, and by the look of the expensive jewelry and posh cashmere, her story absolutely true. After all, tradesmen don’t usually earn that kind of money, at least not enough to explain the aura of affluence. She also found herself wishing she could be as open and honest. Those commodities are not always so easy to come by, especially if you’re as guard as the good Mrs. Whipple.

Still it gave her confidence and, to the degree she would allow spoke at some length about her nephew, opening up more as their little chat progressed. Always careful, she spoke little about herself other than what she unwittingly revealed now and then. Still, you don’t need to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. The same holds for the inflection and the nuance. Something a woman with secret passions can’t altogether hide, especially from a like minded woman.

Jane also found Edith an easy enough to like, and like Barbara, she knew how to win the heart of this proud and wistful woman. Holding her hand and extending her warmth and understanding she had Edith in a most pleasant state of mind. When she heard that Patrick’s eighteenth birthday was just two weeks away, she was only too quick to ask if she and Nicky could bring a present to help celebrate the momentous event.

Edith was delighted of course, and together they planned a delightful little party for Patrick. It would certainly be a happy event for her nephew. It would also be a marvelous opportunity for the two boys to get to better know one another. Something Mrs. Bottomly seemed anxious to do.

They were still making their plans for the big event when they again walked into the Treatment Room. Arm in arm and brimming with excitement, they found a quiet corner and continued to fraternize like two school girls anxious to share a bit of gossip. Patrick was just finishing his floor exercises on the balance beam with Nicky’s help. As the two seemed to be managing well enough on their own, Barbara decided to join the ladies before finishing up.

“Thank you’s” for the tea were bantered about and she was pleased to see they had gotten along so well. When she heard of their tentative plans for a birthday party she pounced on it like a cat and was eager to add to the mix. Or so she would have it appear. In truth, she and Mrs. Bottomly had scripted this whole scenario. Privately, because it was something they planned to keep between themselves. They had a big fish to catch after all, and it wouldn’t do to drop their oar in the water before they set the hook.

So with feigned surprise she enacted her role in the charade, telling them she planned on attending and of course, to bring a lovely gift. As ladies will do, they decided to coordinate their gift selection so as not to duplicate. The ladies were tickled pink as they shared ideas about decorations, cakes and candles and the like, planning as if to win the heart of a 5 year old. Then when Ms. Stanton suggested they might consider expanding the effort to include a sleep over, the room seemed too small to contain the merriment. “A pajama party for the boys, how marvelous,” an overly enthusiastic and joyous Jane Bottomly shrieked.

It had all been carefully choreographed and, but for one small detail, the script had played out just as the two conspirators had planned. It seemed Edith had one slight problem with the whole affair. As she had only a small two bedroom cottage she had some concerns about the arrangements. She supposed she could lay down bedding in the family room for the boys, and Mrs. Bottomly could sleep in Patty’s room. Then where would Barbara sleep?

However, Jane Bottomly didn’t allow her to linger in doubt for very long. “Nonsense, that’s not a problem whatsoever. Why my little Nicky has sleepovers all the time and doesn’t mind sharing the covers. He’s quite fond of it actually. Besides, you know with all the wigging and giggling and bouncy beds, boys do require their privacy. As for Barbara and me . . . Well, you’d be surprised how amenable two house puss’s can be.”

Patrick had concluded the session and went to put on his clothes while Nicky, wearing only his flimsy Brazilian cut briefs, sauntered over to make an entrance like the androgynous queen he was. With his sultry sway and the flow of each barefooted stride poised heel to toe he made quite an exotic eyeful. It was the distended loll of that tiny pink packet that truly sucked all the available oxygen out of the room.

Even if it were possible to look elsewhere, the bobbing bowsprit of Her Majesty’s Ship Titanic cut a very conspicuous wake through the sea of skirts before taking up beside the bug-eyed Edith. Of course she didn’t want to appear crass so she took up some small talk, as a way to make his acquaintance and thankfully to divert her attention to his eyes. “Your mother tells me you’ve a job at the Puss n’ Poodle Lounge, is that right? I’ve not heard of it. Is it across the river over in Las Oasis?”

“Yes Miss’esth Whipple,” Nicky, the man-boy, the social sophisticate replied with his pronounced, breathy lisp - his wayward tongue distorting his post-consonantal “es’s.” Facing toward his left to show his best profile, he dangled his limp wrist under his chin and exaggerated a bat of his lashes. “Just for three days a week, but Miss’esth Stanton says I can work more soon.”

Seeing the look on Mrs. Whipple’s face, Jane quickly chimed in, chiefly to clarify the matter of Ms. Stanton’s involvement that had been left hanging. “Of course Barbara has only a small interest in the lounge, mind you! Della owns the club, but Nicky has proven himself on his own. He’s compensated quite handsomely.”

“Plus tips!” Nicky proudly interjected.

“Yes, and you work so hard for it darling,” Barbara replied tongue in cheek, “. . . and my little star is worth every penny of it.”

Patrick returned again fully dressed and ready as ever to escape this whole uncomfortable circumstance. In reaching to take his aunt’s offered hand he had to maneuver carefully, glacially around the HMS Titanic’s bowsprit to avoid colliding into it. Along with the amused expressions that followed him, became the subject of Nicky’s attention once again. “Is Patty going to be a Poodle, or one of the pretty Puss’esth?”

Barbara wasn’t about to tip her hand. Neither Patrick nor Jane was quite ready for that. “But soon,” she mulled over the thought as she reached up to pinch the dear boy’s cheek, then took one last jab at Patrick’s flagging esteem before he and his aunt departed. “Nicky darling, be a dear and give Patty a nice big hug while I help Mrs. Whipple retrieve her belongings.”

Accompanying Edith to her office she took a moment to speak to her before helping her with her shawl. “You know, Nicky has been a big help to me today. I’m thinking about changing his weekly appointments to Sunday so he can help with Patty’s program. I’m sure having an older, more experienced boy around can’t help but speed up the process which has been lagging of late. Who knows, maybe something or another might rub-off on your nephew. To any extent I want you to know I plan on stepping up the pace of his program and I don’t want the progress interrupted by childish complaints. I have confidence you know how to deal with these matters in a firm and no nonsense manner. Correct, Mrs. Whipple?”

“Oh yes, I most certainly do. You know I’m not shy about a firm application of the law,” she firmly replied as she stooped to pick up her purse and the gift wrapped package.

“I do!” Barbara followed, knowing well what she meant. “As you know he is a fast friend of my hand as well.” Then she stared intently into her eyes and promptly added, “. . . and if need be, Nicky’s too.”

“Ms. Stanton! Why I . . .”

“No problem, Edith,” Barbara abruptly cut her off. “I know that the three most difficult words to swallow are ‘take your medicine.’ Whose responsibility do you think it is to make sure it goes down the pipe?” Barbara quickly followed then quickly subdued the woman with an unwavering, hardnosed glare. “Why, it’s the good shepherd, of course. And a loving shepherd can’t allow one to wander too far from her flock. It has to be either leave with my blessing or stay and learn to listen. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but that’s the order of things in a household. ‘A firm hand in expression of love,’ my mother often said, and compliance the gift of acceptance. Isn’t that right, Edith?”

Barbara had made the terms quite clear. While Mrs. Pride was floored, left gasping for breath by the prospects, Mrs. Longing shed a crimson red flush that swept over her like a hot desert wind. The two minds of Mrs. Whipple fighting it out, and lost in the tussle, her good sense. Something Barbara understood quite well, and played upon to her good advantage. As she watched the dear woman turn away to avoid her gaze she knew it was just a matter of time. Soon she would have the conflicted woman as finely tuned as her concert piano. The piano upon which she planned to play “The Procession March” at Patrick’s soon to be Coronation Ball.
 
 
To Be Continued...
 
 
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