Charlotte Had A Boyfriend : 9

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

Between the two of us a great chasm has been fixed,
so that you cannot come to where I am,
nor can I come to you.

— Luke 16:25

---

 

I stopped at an ATM and used my card to check my balance.

That act in itself is pretty extraordinary, when you consider that only a day ago I had no idea who I was or where to find my home.

Yet, here I was, inserting a card in my name — a name that's still foreign to me — and typing in my PIN. Looking at my balance. *My* balance. With no idea where the money came from.

You're probably wondering how I knew the PIN for my account. The answer is that one of the items Sheba brought me was my wallet, and one of the items contained in that wallet was a laminated 3x5 card with all my usernames, passwords, and PIN numbers written on it, covering both sides.

I have to say: the handwriting was very neat, and the lamination impressed me. It was a lot of trouble to go for a 3x5 card.

At the same time, it was a little troubling to find all that information so easily accessible.

I think at this point, I need to split myself in two, and talk about myself BEFORE amnesia as "Deeny" and myself AFTER amnesia as "Perry." The more I learn about Deeny, the more she seems a whole 'nother person.

As a case in point, let's talk about this 3x5 card: it's efficient, and even (in a certain sense) elegant, in the way that it provides all the keys to my financial life: my bank account, my credit cards, my Amazon password, and the passwords to other online accounts. If anybody else found it, any literate person on earth, they'd have complete access to all my assets. They could empty my bank account, order whatever they liked from Amazon, and so on.

They could steal my IDENTITY! Think about that: too bad they couldn't steal my amnesia! In fact, the past few days would have been a perfect time to steal my identity: exactly when I not only wasn't using it but also had no idea where to look for it.

One again, the stupidity of this syndrome, or whatever you want to call amnesia: I'm the same person that I was. So how could I see the same thing so differently? So fundamentally differently?

If Perry, the "me" I am now, sees this card as a dangerous vulnerability, why didn't Deeny, the "me" I was before, see it in the same way?

Then again, who knows? Maybe I *did* see it that way, but figured the convenience outweighed the danger.

Still, this, the question, the resulting inner dialog, all makes me feel more and more as though amnesia has turned me into a different person. Cameron said so as well. Where did this other me come from? Maybe all of my personality, my behavior, my way of living and talking and carrying on with life — maybe all of that was simply an overlay; a reaction to Mariola and my family. (Apparently my parents were forceful personalities.)

One actual memory that backed up my theory was the emphatic way the old Deeny-me declared that I'd never return to Mariola.

It was beginning to look as though my amnesia allowed me to drop the "self" I developed as Deeny Lisente. Now, as Perry, I was a tabula rasa, a clean sheet.

In any case, according to the ATM, I had just under $13,000 in checking and $900 in savings. Surprise, surprise! I wonder what it is I do for a living? Was anyone missing me at my job? If they were, I suppose Sheba or Cameron would have said something about it. I withdrew $100, and used my credit card at the hardware store to pay for a new deadbolt for the back door and a chain and padlock for the bulkhead. I hurried back home and a half hour later the work was done. It was simplicity itself. Seemed as though I'd done it before.

So many questions!

Lucy was already at work, so I offered to either take Hermie out to lunch, or order something in. He chose a third option: calling in an order to a Mexican place nearby, and walking over to pick it up. A nice compromise.

It was great to be out in the open air, walking, moving, listening to the wind rustling the trees, without anyone taking my blood pressure or asking whether I'd remembered anything.

"I feel like I've spent half my life in the hospital," I told Hermie.

"I guess you would feel that way," he replied, scratching his head.

We sat on the porch, sharing our lunch. We finished off the meal with some churros, which — like all the rest of the meal —were new to me.

Hermie was quiet. It seems to be his natural state. I wanted some conversation, but didn't want to talk about myself, so I asked, "Hey, Hermie — if you don't mind my asking — what do you do?"

"Do you mean, what do I do for a living? I used to do computer repairs, phone repairs. Sometimes I help out a friend who has a storefront in town. When he gets busy, he calls. I jump in and help him clear the case load."

I nodded.

"Lately, though, I took some time off because I want to fix up the house. I know it needs it. It's embarrassing. The thing is, I have no idea what to do, how to start. I don't even know how to make a plan, or how to make good decisions. I feel like I'm supposed to be breaking down walls, but then what?"

"Really?" I asked. "Do you want some help? I mean, I'd say, first of all, don't break any walls just yet. Don't start something you don't know how to finish. There's a lot you can do before you start busting stuff and leaving holes in the walls. Why not start with what's most obvious?"

"And what would that be?"

"The porch. Fix the handrail. Replace the broken boards. Scrape the flaking paint. Re-paint it."

"And then?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself. First the handrail. Then the porch. Finish the porch and then think about what's next. What's the next thing you'll be able to start and finish." I emphasized the last two words.

He nodded.

In spite of my advice to him, of not skipping ahead, I found myself thinking You could fix your bedroom... turn it into... well, a into a bedroom! "I can help," I repeated.

"But what about what *you* do?" he asked. "I mean, for work. At some point you have to make money, right? I can't pay you for what you do here. I don't have that kind of money. Besides, I want to do it myself, as much as I can."

"Right," I agreed. "But I owe you for letting me stay here. As far as what I do... I'm going to call my mother tonight and see whether she knows what I do for a living."

Hermie found that last statement so nonsensical, so silly, that he started laughing and couldn't stop for several minutes.

It was good to see him smile.

 

---

 

After we ate, I borrowed the vacuum cleaner and went to work on the basement. Luckily the vacuum was one of the bagless variety, because the recepticle filled up quickly, over and over; there was so much dirt and dust. Every few minutes I had to stop, dump the load of dust in a garbage bag, and rub the dust out of the filters with my fingers. I probably should have rented a more industrial-strength machine.

It soon became clear that it was the wrong tool for the job. After cleaning the vacuum cleaner, I switched to trying to wash the floor. I say "I tried" because the dirt was so ingrained, I had to keep changing the water. It turned black so quickly! It also took forever to dry, so Hermie suggested I sleep in the box room upstairs the first night.

By then, it was 8:30. It seemed a good time to call "Mamma." She was much calmer this time, though still chock full of judgment.

I wasn't sure how I could ask what I did for a living. It was a pretty strange thing to ask of someone who doesn't believe in your amnesia. I figured I'd have to watch for an opportunity if she didn't let it slip herself. So, I listened as she vented and preached at me. Mostly she dwelt on what an embarrassment I'd become, what an embarrassment I'd always been, and how difficult I made it for her (Mamma) to "raise her head" among her friends, and what on earth she could say if the pastor "asked after me" at church.

"Without lying, of course," she said, adding some precision to her critique. "You know that lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, and Satan is the father of lies."

I wasn't sure whether I could throw in an "Amen" or a "Hallelujah," but when I told her that I was trying my best not to lie any more, she seemed pleased.

I figured that the "any more" was a safe addition, based on my conversation with Cameron.

Honestly, though, I had to literally bite my tongue several times to keep from laughing. I tried my best to sound respectful and contrite. All the church talk, and Mamma's way of bringing Jesus into everything seemed comical to me, but I absolutely did not want to offend her by letting on.

After we'd spoken for a while, she asked if she could pray with me. I squeezed the laughter out of my face and managed a sincere-sounding, "Yes, Mamma, I'd like that."

Mamma's prayer was a conversation with God that involved a brief inventory of my many faults, and a request to open my heart and shine his light and so on and so forth. Amen.

"Amen," I echoed.

"Well, bless you, Deeny," she told me, "Bless you! That's the first time you've ever let me pray over you on the telephone. Ever. Did you know that?"

"No, ma'am," I said. It seemed like the right thing to say.

"Well, listen, you're not a bad child. You're a wild seed, blown and tossed by the wind, but deep in your heart you have the word of the Lord and the love of Jesus."

"Uh, thanks," I told her.

"And the Lord will watch over you. He'll protect and guide you — if only you'll let Him. He will hold you in his everlasting arms."

"I'm glad."

"Now what about your laptop?" she asked, out of the blue.

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? Deeny! How can you do your work without your precious laptop? Your researchin' and your stock-tradin' and all your fiddlin' and diddlin'. Do you want me to send it on to you? Out there in the wilderness?" She chuckled at her own joke.

"Yes, thanks," I told her. "Let me give you the address."

"Oh, I've got that," she responded. "Sheba sent it round to all of us. I'll get Cameron to send that laptop on to you tomorrow. She's better with that sort of thing, knowing how to pack it up safe and all."

"Thanks, I appreciate that, Momma."

 

---

 

So... researchin' and stock-tradin'... What could that mean?

"Sounds like you're a day-trader," Hermie concluded. He explained the concept to me.

"Wow," I said. "How on earth do I do that?"

"Uh... like your mother said: researchin'. You study, then you make decisions," he said. "Stock-tradin'. What do you think it means? You buy low, and sell high."

"I don't know," I told him. "What if my mother had told me I was a brain surgeon? I wouldn't run to the hospital and pick up a — whatchacallit — a spatula."

"A scalpel," he corrected, laughing. "I guess I see your point. I don't know. Maybe you have notes on your computer, or some kind of plan, that could guide you until your memories come back."

"And if not, I dunno..."

"If you learned how to do it once, you can learn it again," he asserted. Then he said, "Let me see that card with your accounts and passwords."

I handed it over. "See these lines here? This chunk of accounts are stock market news sites, and this one here is probably the account you deal from." He handed the card back to me.

"At least I know I don't have a boss who's looking for me."

 

---

 

That night I had trouble sleeping. A number of things kept me awake. One was the house, the room, the bed. Not that I would know, but I don't think I've ever been sensitive toward... toward what? Places? I had a feeling that I could sleep pretty much anywhere. But here...

It's not that the house was creepy. It wasn't creepy at all. It was musty, yes. And dusty. I wanted to say "and rusty" just to keep up the -usty thing, but rusty, at least, was one thing it was not.

There was an air of sadness over it all. If I had my facts straight, Lucy and Hermie's parents died when Lucy was 16 or so, which would have made Hermie 20? Then the two of them moved here, to live with their grandmother, who must have died some time in the past two years. Two years in which the ground was torn from beneath their feet, twice in a row.

The house would have felt quite different while their grandmother was alive, but... that dining room... certainly she'd been sick; sick enough to set up the dining room as a surrogate hospital room or hospice. That couldn't have been too pleasant for the kids. Did that leave Hermie to deal with everything? Caring for an elderly relative... and then the funeral, the house, probate...

Probate? How did I even know that word? If I still had that stupid notebook Thistlewaite had given me, I'd write it down there.

Despite my wakefulness, at some point I fell asleep, and didn't wake until a bird began to chirp loudly right outside my window. I sat up and saw it, a little ball of feathers, sitting directly on the sill. Cheep! Cheep! Not an unpleasant sound; no, not at all. It was nice, in fact, and cheery. But goddamn it was loud. Piercing. All that volume from such a tiny body!

Now I was awake. Irreversibly awake. I pulled on some underwear and a sundress. It seemed the easiest thing. I slipped my feet into a pair of sandals.

For a moment, I recalled my fear in the hospital that I once had a penis, and had somehow lost it. I laughed to myself. How different getting dressed would be, if I were a man! I imagined sliding on a pair of underpants with all that gear and tackle in the way. Funny.

I tried to be quiet, descending the stairs, but Lucy was already awake and nursing a mug of coffee. She greeted me with a shy smile, told me she hoped I liked it here and had slept well... AND

"You've got amazing timing! A lady just got out of a cab outside with two little girls," she said, gesturing toward the front window with her mug. "She looks a lot like you, except she's blonde. You can invite her in if you want." Lucy's casual hospitality made me realize she hadn't encountered my sister Sheba.

"How long has she been there?" I asked, stupidly, sleep still clouding my brain. I ventured a peek outside. The moment I moved the curtain to looked out the window, the woman saw me. She waved. I waved back.

"I told you," Lucy said. "She only just now stepped out of a cab. Do you know her?"

"I don't really *know* her," I replied. "I don't *remember* her, but she's my sister, Cameron, with her two little girls. I recognize them from a picture."

I went out the front door and trotted down the stairs. "Hi, Cameron!" I called "Hello, girls!"

While the girls chorused, "Deeny! Deeny!" Cameron said, with a smirk, "See? I knew this amnesia stuff was all bullshit. You know me."

"I recognized you from a picture Sheba showed me," I retorted. "How on earth did you get here? You couldn't have driven, not with the girls. Did you fly?"

I didn't mean it seriously, but one of the girls shouted, "We flewed! We flewed in an airplane!"

"Wow, that's special," I told her. The two little girls held hands and danced around each other for a moment, then stopped and examined some flowers.

Cameron handed me a bag. "Here. Why don't you go put this inside the house? It's more clothes and other stuff."

"Is my laptop in here?"

"Yes, your precious laptop is in there. With its cord or whatever. And your phone. You ought to switch back to using your own phone, you know. You're paying for it."

"Do you want to come in?"

"No," Cameron said. "Just leave the bag inside. Then you can walk with me." She abruptly grabbed my hand, looked me earnestly in the eye, and said in a low tone, "The ring is in there, too. The ring. Got it?"

"Ring?" I asked, blanking out for a moment.

"Your engagement ring, you ninny!" she murmured, too low for the girls to hear.

I nodded, getting it.

She gestured to the front door. "So go. Drop the bag inside. Then get your skinny ass back down here. There's a cafe down the street. I promised the girls pastries."

 

---

 

We had to keep pausing as we walked because little girls get distracted by every little thing. Once it was a balloon, caught in a tree. Then there was a paint stain on the sidewalk. They stopped for what seemed an interminable amount of time to play with a puppy who couldn't stop licking their faces, much to the girls' shrieking amusement.

"Their names are Addison and Madison," Cameron told me while the girls were distracted.

"Could you tell that I didn't know?" I asked. "I'm sorry."

"Of course I could tell," she answered. "For one thing, I'm not an idiot, and for another, I'm their mother. I can always tell when someone doesn't know my children's names." She glanced at me before continuing: "It was especially noticeable coming from you, since the Addison/Madison thing was your idea."

My eyes popped wide open. "My idea?" I repeated. And here I was just thinking how dumb it is, to give twins rhyming names.

"My God," Cameron whispered, watching the thoughts play across my face. "You really *do* have amnesia, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I do!" I answered. I noticed, though, that I wasn't as irritated in saying it as I'd felt in past days. "I thought you understood. Why are you saying that now?"

"Deeny," she said, "The name thing. It wasn't your idea."

"What? What are you telling me? Now I'm confused."

"The names! The names were Andre's idea. When he first said it, you thought he was joking, and said some things..."

"Oh, God," I said. "Did I hurt his feelings?"

"Yes, of course you hurt his feelings. You blissfully ran roughshod over his happy little idea. You hurt his feelings badly! Like you always do. You're always hurting somebody's feelings."

"Really?" This was pretty disappointing news. "Am I such an awful person?"

"Not awful, really," Cameron said. "Incredibly self-centered, though. Fairly inconsiderate. Lacking tact and empathy..."

"Jeez," I exclaimed, and heaved a heavy sigh. "Why don't you give me the *bad* news?"

"DON'T BE SAD, AUNT DEENY!" one of the little girls shouted, smiling. The other twin repeated the phrase.

"Okay," I responded with a smile. "Which one are you? I can never tell!"

"Guess!" she challenged, then immediately declared, "I'm Addie!"

"Okay, Addie, thanks," I said.

"Don't feel too bad," Cameron said. "Feel bad, yeah, but not too bad. The good news is, I like you a lot better this way. A *lot* better. In fact, you should seriously consider never getting your memories back."

"I don't think that's an option," I said, "Although I feel more and more that they never will come back."

"I think we'd all be better off!"

 

---

 

We talked about one thing and another. She answered some of my questions. She reassured me that the family was no threat to Hermie and Lucy. She found hilarious the idea that Hermie was afraid of Sheba.

The conversation came in bits and pieces. The little girls demanded a lot of attention. They interrupted constantly.

Still, Cameron confirmed one fun fact: as it turned out, I actually was a day-trader. Hermie was right.

"Do I making a good living at it?"

"Yeah, you do make money. I don't know how much, but as far as I know, you do alright. If you want an exact figure, you could look at your bank statements and your tax returns — if you really can't remember."

"I made enough to pay my rent and expenses, right?"

Cameron gave an amused snort. "Rent? You live at home, you goof, with our parents, in the room above the garage. So, let's say, yes, you're covering your expenses." She laughed lightly, then said, "Seriously, though, you seem to be good at it."

Eventually we arrived at the cafe. The girls ate pastries. I had two croissants and two cappuccinos. One just wasn't enough. Cameron picked up the tab.

Not that it was a big bill, but I began to wonder what Cameron — and/or her husband Andre — did for a living. Her clothes and her daughters' clothes were pretty nice — not that I knew anything about clothes or fashion, but they seemed new, neat, and much nicer than what anyone else was wearing. And her hair, her nails, her shoes, her bag — *everything* about her was perfect, flawless. Plus, she'd flown here, on the spur of the moment, for no other reason than to see me.

As if reading my thoughts, Cameron informed me, "Obviously I came here to check up on you — to see if this amnesia stuff was for real — but one of my college friends lives in Duxbridge, which is the next town over."

"Okay," I acknowledged.

"I'm not inviting you to come along, because you'd be bored silly and in the way. She's got children, and she and I have a lot of catching up to do."

"How long are you staying?"

"We're flying back tomorrow morning. You can come with, if you like."

"Back to Mariola?" I hesitated a moment, then shook my head.

"Fine," she said, dismissing the topic with a wave of her hand. "Tonight me and the girls are staying in a hotel by the river," She smiled. "You should come. The girls would love to have a sleepover with you."

"Sounds great," I said, sincerely appreciating the invitation.

"I'll text you the address."

"I'll be there."

She paused for a few moments, a smile playing across her lips. "Listen," she said in a conspiratorial voice, "Don't get your memories back. Please don't. Let 'em go. Just let 'em go. You're better off without them. You're a much nicer person without them. I mean this with all my heart." Then she hugged me, tight, and the two little girls ran up and wrapped their arms around both our legs.

 

---

 

As I was walking away, before I was out of earshot, Cameron stopped me. "Hey," she called loudly. "Did you really think your name is Perry Mason?"

"Yeah, I did. Why?"

"You are such a goof!" she cried with laughter.

"It sounded right to me!"

"Do you still think that's your name?" An old woman stopped to listen to our exchange. She wanted to hear the conclusion.

"No," I said, turning slightly red, embarrassed by the stranger. "I'm pretty much used to this Deeny thing."

Cameron nodded, smiled, and turned back to her girls. I waved to the old woman, who was embarrassed in her turn.

 

---

 

Feeling self-consciously awkward, I took a step in the direction opposite to Cameron's, then stopped, not knowing where exactly I meant to go. After a quick glance at Cameron's retreating back, I ran to the next intersection and took the cross street at random, just to get out of Cameron's line of sight more quickly.

The sun was bright, and very hot on my bare arms, face, and neck. I could feel the rays of hot sunlight through the light cotton of my sundress. All of which reminded me that I was in need of aloe vera, and that I had to use it before I started peeling. I felt sure I'd be peeling like mad, all over, once it started. Luckily, I spotted a pharmacy in the middle of the next block, so I trotted over to the shady side of the street and entered the store.

The pharmacy was quite empty. I wandered up and down the aisles. I found bottles of sun block — an enormous variety of sun creams and sprays — but not a single drop of aloe vera. And not a single employee that I could ask for help.

Except for the pharmacist, busy behind her counter. She was helping a middle-aged man, who appeared to have an endless supply of questions and follow-ups. I waited patiently — after all, there was nowhere I needed to be. When at last he made his purchase, the pharmacist asked his phone number, his birthdate, and his address. I didn't pay attention to his answers, until he gave his address: something-something Solon Boulevard.

Solon Boulevard. For some reason, that name rang a bell. A distant bell. Still, it was a chime with meaning. The meaning was barely out of reach, but there it was, tantalizing.

Anyone else would have let it go, let it roll into the heap of auditory spam we hear all day, but I, me — a person with precious little to remember — felt my ears perk up, actuated by the promise of significance. I repeated the name to myself, over and over. Solon Boulevard. Solon Boulevard.

Was it a name from my past? From life before the accident? Ruminating, rolling the name around and around in my head didn't seem to help pull any strings. Whatever was going to happen inside my head was exhausted by recognizing the bell.

So I took my telephone, stepped outside, and did an internet search.

First of all, yes, there was a Solon Boulevard in Robbins. Unfortunately, my search pulled up nothing but real-estate listings. I started thinking: if Solon Boulevard is in Robbins, then whatever I know about it must be post-accident. Did someone I'd met live on that street? It wouldn't take long to run through my list of acquaintances. First I searched for Amos Casshon. He didn't live in Robbins. Next came Wade Burdleton. Bingo! Wade Burdleton lived on Solon Boulevard at number 532. Wade Burdleton, one of the drivers in my accident, the car accident that was, for all intents and purposes, the beginning of my life. He was the lawyer, the frightened, drunken lawyer, who thought the accident spelled the end of everything for him.

I was a little disappointed, though, that this wasn't a memory from before my big bang. Instead, it was a simple, ordinary memory, picked up after the bump on my head.

Still, I had to wonder how poor Wade was doing. Was he still afraid? I could see him in my mind's eye, bent over, hands covering his face. And later, when he held out his wrists to the police, defeated, resigned to his fate, manacled, and led away. Was the aftermath of the accident as apocalyptic as he feared?

The map on my phone told me that 532 Solon Boulevard was a mere 25 minute walk, and the weather favored the effort. It took a minute to understand in which direction I was meant to begin, but soon I was heading at an easy pace to visit the unfortunate Wade.

As I walked, my mind was active. I had plenty of time to think. About Wade, about me... about my name.

I'd told Cameron that I was getting used to being called Deeny, but it was a lie. I hated the name. It sounded stupid. It sounded hokey. It was asinine, as far as nicknames go. To say nothing of Celandine! What sort of name was that to foist upon a child? It sounded like a chemical or some type of mineral. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got, and decided that I needed legal advice from Wade: I needed to know how to change my name.

Of course, being angry, I didn't notice how quickly I walked: the anger quickened my pace, so that by the time I stood on Wade's front porch, I felt warm. Not hot, not perspiring, but even though I'd kept to the shade the entire way, my skin radiated heat. I glowed. I was fairly incandescent. In a good way.

I knocked. Wade opened, wearing gray cargo shorts and a light blue t-shirt. His feet were large and bare. He had a day's stubble on his cheeks and neck, and his hair was damp as though he'd just emerged from the shower. He looked exactly as I remembered him: tall, lanky, with a big mop of straight, dark hair. He ran his hand through it, just as he had after the accident.

"Wade?" I said, though I knew quite well it was he. In that same moment, he pointed to the lump on my forehead, glanced at my firey-red legs, and exclaimed, "You!"

"Hi, Wade," I began, feeling foolish and awkward. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd see how you're doing."

"Oh, no, no, no!" he cautioned, holding out his palms to ward me off. "You should NOT be talking to me."

"Why not?"

"Because we — you and I — are on opposite sides of an insurance claim, and possibly civil or criminal suits," he replied. "Any discussion without the presence of, uh, our respective lawyers could be compromising, and even be seen as witness tampering."

"Ah," I said, taken slightly aback. Then: "What if we don't talk about the accident?"

"Oh, Christ!" he exclaimed as his eyes roved over me, from the bump on my head to the sandals on my feet, and straight back up again.

"Besides, I want some legal advice," I threw in.

He let out a barking laugh. "Ha! Legal advice! At the moment," he said, "I'm forbidden to practice law. I can't give you any legal advice, other than to tell you to look for another lawyer."

"But— I don't want to ask about the accident, or anything complicated."

"Look," he said. "I'm in enough trouble already, what with the DUI and whatnot..."

"I only want to know how to change my name."

"Change your name?" he repeated, as if I'd spoken in a foreign language.

"Can we just talk about that? And you can tell me how you're doing?" He hesitated. I wondered whether he'd been drinking. He didn't seem drunk, but he wasn't exactly on the mark.

"And I can tell you how *I'm* doing," I added.

He puffed out his cheeks and blew out his breath. He glanced at my breasts, then jerked his eyes away. He shrugged. He turned so his body no longer blocked the doorway. He stepped back, and with a sweeping gesture, invited me in.

I walked past him, toward his dining room. It could easily have been my imagination, but I swear I could feel his eyes laser-focussed on my derriere. Which of course made me self-conscious as I walked. Did I sway? Did I not sway? Was I walking funny? He pulled out a chair for me, then sat himself at the head of the table. I lowered myself into the chair he set for me and crossed my legs. His eyes gravitated toward my knee and my thighs, then rode up to my eyes.

"So... you want to change your name," he said.

"Well, before that, tell me: how are you?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm peachy!" he responded, in a bitterly sarcastic tone. "I couldn't be better. My law license is suspended, pending review and a hearing. My drivers license is gone, I'm not sure whether I get it back in three years or five. I'm trying to cut down on my drinking, but it's difficult. Abstinence is impossible, but at least I haven't fallen into a full-blown bender. Not yet, anyway."

"Oh," I responded in a small voice.

"Something to look forward to," he muttered sardonically.

I bit my lower lip. Maybe this visit wasn't such a great idea after all.

"So that's me!" he exclaimed. "Now let's hear about you!" He tilted his head and looked me full in the face. I felt a large drop of perspiration run down the side of my face. Wade watched, opened mouthed, then exclaimed, "Where are my manners? I haven't offered you anything to drink!" He got back to his feet. "What would you like? Something cold, I'm sure! I have cold water, I have iced tea, I have some juices... well, really, mixers..."

"Iced tea would be great," I cut in.

He got up and went to the kitchen. I heard ice cubes falling into a glass, followed by the sound of a liquid being shaken in a bottle, and poured into a glass. Then a second glass.

Wade returned holding a tall glass in each hand. "Speciality of the house," he said, setting one in front of each of us, and sitting back down.

I raised my glass as if toasting him, then took a sip. Which made me sputter and choke.

"What the— oh!" he exclaimed. "Damn! I should have warned you. It's Long Island Iced Tea."

"Ow! Is there alcohol in it?"

"Well, yes," he confessed, "but — in my defense — far less than you'll find in the standard recipe. It's part of my effort, my strategy to cut down on my alcohol intake. I'm sure I can whip up some ordinary iced tea in a moment. Just give me a sec to boil some water."

"No, it's fine," I assured him. "Just... don't be offended if I can't drink it all... or much..."

He gave another of his barking laughs. "That's fine! I'll finish it for you." Then he gave a sly look and added, "It will be like getting a kiss by proxy."

I let that blow by without comment, and took a second, smaller sip. It had a kick, but the taste wasn't bad.

"So you want to change your name?" he asked. "What's wrong with Deeny Mason?"

"Oh! That's not my name, as it turns out. My actual name is Celandine Lisente."

"Whoa, that's a mouthful! Even so, it has its charm. Celandine. At the very least, it's unique. And — if I might venture to add — it suits you. Honestly. Well. That said, you want to be called— what?"

"Perry Mason," I said.

He bit his lower lip and regarded me intently for a moment before asking, "For real?"

"Yes! What is the problem with that name? Why does everyone give me shit about it?"

He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. "Because Perry Mason was a fictional character. He was a depression-era lawyer who incidentally solved crimes. It's a part of that whole noir ethos, expressed as a series of novels. It spawned a TV series with, uh, what's his name, Raymond Burr, as Perry Mason. He was a big guy. And recently they've done a new version with a different actor, who always seems to need a shave and a shower." He searched the air for the second actor's name, but not finding it, went on.

"So," he concluded, "everyone who hears that name will think of that guy, Raymond Burr, or the other guy. Or the depression-era novels. Look him up if you don't know what he looks like. Read one of the novels. That's why people give you shit. And why people will continue to give you shit in future."

"But when you say people — you mean people over a certain age."

''Touché," he breathed dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. Then he leaned forward and rested his hand on my thigh. "Look," he said. "You can change your name to anything you like. Anything at all, and no one can stop you. In fact, you don't even need to follow any legal process. You simply start using the name. It's perfectly legal as long as it's not for purposes of fraud."

His hand was heavy and refreshingly cold on my red, glowing thigh. It lay there, heavy and still. I didn't flinch. I didn't ask him to move his hand. I only bit my lower lip lightly, then I asked, "What about a bank account?"

"Simplicity itself! You go to a bank, any old bank, and tell them you want to open a DBA account — Doing Business As — and they will make the name of the account Celandine Lisente, doing business as Perry Mason. They'll use your normal social security number, so it's all on the up-and-up." He rubbed my thigh, slightly, lightly. I couldn't tell whether he did it unconsciously. The thing was, I didn't want him to stop. I didn't come here to be fondled, but now that it was happening... I wanted to go along with it. I took another sip of my iced tea and uncrossed my legs. I wet my lips with my tongue. He looked me full in the face and slid his hand around from the top of my thigh until his palm rested against my inner thigh. I grew very conscious of my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. He studied my face, waiting to see my reaction. For a few seconds he watched the movement of my breasts as I breathed. Time to be bold, I told myself: I took another sip of tea and spread my knees apart.

I never went there meaning to have sex with the man. I certainly never thought it would happen so quickly. The thought never occurred to me at all, not even as a remote possibility. I didn't enter his house with the idea that he'd be touching my most intimate anatomy. I have to say, though, for the record, while it was happening, I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew that each step I took would give him permission to go a little further with me. And I was fine with that. More than fine.

Once I opened my legs to him, and lifted the hem of my dress, things escalated quickly. Very quickly. In no time at all, his hand was welcome and at home in my crotch, gently caressing me while the two of us made out like a pair of teenagers.

I placed my hand on his chest and pulled my head away from his for a moment. I had to catch my breath. He misunderstood my signal, and began to remove his hand. I grabbed his wrist to keep him in the breach. "Wait," I said, "Don't stop. Please don't stop. I just have to tell you something first." With my free hand, I took a healthy swig of tea.

"Do you really need that?" he asked. "I mean, do you need that to do this?"

"No," I replied, "but it helps with my resolve, a little. See — as far as I know, I've never done this before."

"Oh, get off!" he scoffed. As he laughed, I felt the hand between my legs relax and rest against my curves down there.

"Look, I lost my memory! I can't remember anything before this bump," I explained, pointing to my forehead. "I mean, anything!"

"Okay," he replied, in a husky voice, heavy with desire, "Don't worry about it. It's like riding a bike. It'll come back to you, and if it doesn't, I'm sure you'll be a quick learner."

The two of us laughed for for two gasping seconds, then locked lips again and got to pulling each others' clothes off.