Charlotte Had A Boyfriend : 15

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

Mason said, "I thought you should have an opportunity to rehearse your story."
"What story?"
"The story you're going to have to tell police and newspaper reporters later on.
You can try it out on me and I can question you and point out any contradictions."

— Erle Stanley Gardner, The Case of the Glamorous Ghost

---

 

Holding my breath, I ducked around the closest corner in a tight right turn, then scurried to the next street up, where I hung a quick left. Judith hadn't seen or heard me go; I left her in the dust with no way to follow.

After two deep breaths of free, fresh air, I dug out my phone so I could get my bearings.

The little dots on the screen directed me straight to Cymbeline Circle, a cute pedestrian zone, landscaped with grass, hedges, and small trees — a neighborhood park in the midst of downtown. The only human being in sight at that hour was a young man in a green apron, at medium distance from me. He was already working in a leisurely way, setting up tables outside his cafe. At that exact moment he was turning a wobbly table this way and that, a few degrees at a time, searching for the spot where the table stood level. I wished I could tiptoe past without his noticing me, but no. He stopped fiddling with the table so he could look up, wave, and smile. Nervously, and for some reason absurdly conscious of my breasts bobbing as I walked, I returned his greeting, my shoes dangling like silly ornaments from my hand as I waved. He beckoned, inviting me to come, sit (he gestured first at the wobbly table, then the others), but I couldn't. We were still in the quiet of the morning, too early for loud voices, so I made a series of weird gestures that were *meant* to convey that I couldn't stop. Instead, I think I mimed that I was trying to catch a cascade of falling packages and push them up the street. He smiled as if he understood.

Of course I felt foolish and awkward, but it was far from the dumbest thing I'd done today. And it was still early!

I took the second right, away from Cymbeline Circle, away from the river. My phone informed me that Hermie and Lucy's house was precisely a 27-minute walk. It neglected to tell me that I'd be climbing a hill, almost to the top.

Fine. Not a problem. Can't expect a little phone to know everything.

Yes, I could have called an Uber, but that would mean another close interaction with a stranger — a potentially talkative, inquisitive stranger. I was nowhere near ready for that. Too much going on in my head!

First and foremost, the part of my brain that loves to scold repeatedly pointed out something painfully obvious (after the fact): That I needed to find a way to hobble my tongue! At least until I could speak with an attorney. My admissions to Judith were a terrible, incautious mistake. Certainly she provoked me with her insistent claim — as though it were REMOTELY possible that she found herself, once upon a time, exactly where I am now. As if! The colossal nerve of that busybody!

I'm fully aware that she had no way of guessing the crazy chain of events that led to me sitting on the ground by the river this morning. But even so!

Idiot me — I'd gone and told her right out that I know things. Things the police want to know. AND I'd told her that Charlotte is my cousin.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Either of those statements on their own was a damning admission. For one thing, they showed that I no longer suffered from amnesia. Until this morning, the "things the police want to know" were hidden in the cloud of my forgotten past.

Without considering the effects of shooting off my mouth, I'd gone and made it clear that the clouds had disappeared, and my forgotten past had risen from beneath the waves, so to speak.

If the police happened, for some ungodly reason, to talk with Judith, or if Judith took it upon *herself* to go talk with the police, well... my goose would be cooked.

Judith might do it, too! Yes, she helped me — she helped me clean my face and hands, anyway — but she was also a demonstrably legalistic busybody. She could easily deceive herself into thinking that she'd be HELPING me by making a statement to the police; giving me a nudge along the path of righteousness, a holy intervention, a re-enactment of Pilgrim's Progress.

Thoughts such as those hung and circled round inside my head, pestering me like a swarm of mosquitos as I trudged along.

The hill seemed like an endless staircase, but at least I walked alone. The walk saved me from babbling my secrets to another random person. If I babbled, I babbled only to myself.

Also, the physical activity was a great help. It siphoned off some of the energy I would otherwise have spent in worry. If I'd stayed by the river, sitting on my butt, I could have easily slid into a black hole of anxiety.

I missed the empty-headed days I spent at the hospital! When I stared at the river for hours, thinking nothing, my brain on test-pattern. Now, my internal world was infested by a thicket of bramble-bushes: thorns and chokepoints of fears and consequences. I'd wend my way through one, and fall into the next. Or maybe mentally I ran in circles? I could analyze one anxiety, take apart one fear, and in that way neutralize it, but didn't eradicate the damn thing! None of that crap stayed in the trash, where it belonged. They kept coming back. Each worry, every problem, all my guilty fears — stood in a long line of complex feelings, all of them dancing with impatience, each waiting their turn to be parsed and listened to. Sometimes several would run at me at once, trying to overwhelm my defenses. I'd deal with one, settle it in my mind, only to see it scurry back to find a spot in the queue, fretting as if it in desperate need of a bathroom.

The most difficult knot to deal with was the sex: I could still feel Barney inside of me, on top of me, beside me, kissing me. Barney touching me, me touching Barney. At times I'd get so lost in recollection, I'd find myself caught up, staring into space, standing stock still on the sidewalk, holding my breath in remembered astonishment. It was so fresh, so tactile. Worst of all, they were among the best sensations I've ever experienced. In my life! In either life.

Guess which experience came in second?

Sex with Wade. Wade's exertions were still alive and quivering in my memory, as well: rolling around in that feverish, hot pile of pillows and cushions! There was plenty of material for riveting, immersive flashbacks. (Much to my shame and chagrin, both experiences happened only yesterday!)

Apart from those exquisite pleasures that were so hard to set aside, I had the visceral, bodily sense that I'd been literally invaded. What I mean is that each of them — Wade, then Barney — had been *inside* of me. Deep inside of me.

Not a sensation I'd ever associated with sex before.

Not a sensation I'd ever be able to forget.

Difficult to assimilate, mind-bending, baffling, paradoxical... it was all those things and more. I couldn't pretend that I didn't like it, or that didn't want it. The problem was that it was too different, too new an experience. I needed to grapple with it, to come to terms with this huge, fundamental physiological alteration.

Men. Sex with men.

In my defense, there was no way I could have know at the time that I wasn't really a woman. I mean, in my head. There was nothing to tell me to stop. I believed I simply didn't remember doing it before.

And for me to say that I... wasn't really a woman? Physically, now and forever, I *am*, I actually am, was, and ever will be a woman.

The weirdness I experience about it is all in my head. I did nothing wrong — at least sexually. It wasn't like riding a bike, but—

Honestly, as I walked, I sifted mentally through the things I'd done, and it was very clear to me: Soon I'd get used to having sex this way. And other ways. Not the old way; not any more. Frankly, I'd had quite an initiation: first with Wade, then with Barney. I was one lucky girl. If I had to be truthful with myself, Wade and Barney, as sexual partners, were miles ahead of what I was able to do, or ever did, back when I was fully Mason, in body and soul.

Midway through my climb, the sun emerged, lighting the world. At first gradually, then fully. I pulled the sunglasses out of my bag. Not only for the sun, but also for a soupçon of anonymity. Didn't want any casual passerby to read my thoughts as they raced across my face.

I didn't put my shoes on, though, the entire way. It felt like penance, not that I *need* to do any penance... I was only walking barefoot. It wasn't hard to watch my step, and the few tiny pebbles I did step on were no big deal.

 

---

 

By the time I arrived at Lucy and Hermie's house, I managed to achieve a general sense of calm, and gained at least the appearance of having a grip on myself. I kept the queue of fears and doubts quiet, for the moment, anyway, though I was acutely aware of them, standing in the wings, waiting for my attention to turn in their direction.

Up the stone steps, up the wooden porch steps. I noted in passing that Hermie had done a nice job of repairing the left stair rail.

The front door was open, to let in the morning air. Lucy sat in her habitual place, in the same pose as I'd seen her yesterday: curled up in an armchair, watching through the front window, her fingers knitted like a nest around a big cup of coffee, as if it were a warm little kitten.

She smiled when I came in.

"Oh, girl!" she called out to me, "The walk of shame? Seriously?" She shook her head, smiling in mock disapproval.

"I guess."

"Look at you! Did anybody say anything to you on the way home? It looks like you walked a long way." She took a second look at me and asked, "Barefoot?"

I held up my shoes and gave them a shake. "It seemed like the thing to do."

"Why didn't you take a cab?"

I shrugged. "I ran into a Bible thumper down by the river. She wanted to pray over me. After that I wanted to be by myself."

"A Bible what? How did you get away from her? Or did you let her pray?"

"When she closed her eyes I tiptoed out of there."

Lucy burst out laughing.

"So— the river?" She gestured vaguely down the hill. "Doesn't your lawyer live over *that* way?" With tongue in cheek, she turned her hand ninety degrees and waved in the general direction of Wade's house. Solon Boulevard.

"Wade is *a* lawyer, but he's not *my* lawyer. Anyway, yes, he does live that way, but I wasn't with him. I was—"

"Oh my God, girl!"

"I was with my fiance," I told her, defensively.

"Your fiance," she repeated, taking it in. "Does that mean you're cheating on the lawyer with your fiance? Or are you cheating on your fiance with the lawyer?"

"Uh—"

"Or—" she straightened up her chair, eyes lighting up, "Or, do you have some third man who puts the first two men to shame?"

"No," I said. "No. There's no third man. Absolutely not. Anyway, I broke off the engagement."

"Oh!" Lucy grew more serious. "I'm sorry to hear that. Unless... unless it's a good thing?"

"Well, yeah. It is good. I mean, I don't remember him. I can't commit to someone I don't know."

"Did he take it hard?"

I bit my lower lip and shrugged. "I guess, yeah. He will, yeah, I think. I pretty much ran out on him this morning."

"Oh!" Lucy frowned with concern.

"But— as it turns out, one of the last things I did while I still had my memories, apparently, was to break up with him. We had a massive fight. So I have a whatchacall — a precedent."

"Oh," Lucy said. Each oh of hers had a different character. This one sounded like she had a grip on what happened.

"So, last night, with your fiance, or ex-fiance, it was make-up sex."

"Maybe in his mind."

"And in yours?"

"It was an experiment," I replied, surprising myself by my admission.

Lucy took that in, silent for a brief moment. Then, "But now you're done with him?"

"Yes."

"Because you're taking up with the lawyer."

"No."

"No?" Lucy rubbed her eyes and forehead with one hand. After a big sip of coffee, she asked.

"If this usual for you? I mean, sex, lots of sex, with different men, falling in and out of bed? The walk of shame?"

"No," I replied decisively.

"How do you know, if you don't remember?"

My mouth started moving as if I was going to speak, but I didn't have an answer.

Lucy continued: "You know, I'll admit that I'm more than a little jealous. I'd love to have interesting men interested in me. But I gotta say that it worries me a little, too." She paused. "Because if you're going to carry on like this with all kinds of men, at some point they're going to come here, looking for you."

I wasn't sure what to say.

She went on, "Remember how you said that if your living here became a problem for Hermie and me, you'd move? Well, if *this* is going to be your life, it's going to be a problem. Hermie and I need stability. Tranquility. After what we've been through, we need a home that's home. Do you know what I mean?"

"A hundred percent," I said. "Yes."

She took another sip of coffee. "Do you think this is you, how you are, how you used to be, or is it, like, the amnesia drawing guys to you, like moths to a flame?"

"It's only two guys," I said. "One will probably never speak to me again, and the other, I'm done with."

"The ex-fiance is the one who won't speak to you, and the one you're done with is the lawyer?"

"Right."

Lucy didn't speak for a few seconds, so I told her, "Lucy, I'm done with sex. I'm through. So don't worry about all this, okay? It was just an experiment — because I didn't remember — but now it's over."

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "For real?" she asked. "Are you sure? No more rolling in the hay? Ever?"

"For the foreseeable future, yes."

She smiled, thinking to herself, then asked, "Does the lawyer know he's been kicked to the curb?"

"No. I'm going to tell him today."

Her eyes widened again. "Tell him how? On the phone?"

"No, I have to go see him about some legal advice. I'll tell him then."

"Oh, man!" she exclaimed. "Legal advice? Are you kidding me? You're making my brain explode!" She set her coffee down so it wouldn't spill as she erupted in giggles.

When I saw she couldn't stop, I told her, "Listen, Lucy, I need to take a shower. I won't be long."

I saw her struggle to quit giggling. She held out her hand to stop me.

"Hey! Hey!" she gasped. "I have to ask you — when you're doing all this... experimenting... are you using protection? Are the men?"

My face when white.

"Oh, shit, girl! You gotta think about that! If you're going to be wild, be wild responsibly! You don't want a little Deeny or a little lawyer — or a little fiance — running around, do you?"

"No. I'm not ready for that. No."

"When was your last period?"

"I don't know." I searched my mind. Whenever it was, it happened before the body swap. "No idea," I confessed.

"Let's hope it's soon," she said earnestly.

 

---

 

I intended to take my time in the shower. It's great place for reflection, and symbolically perfect for washing away one's sins, bad feelings, or troublesome memories. Instead, I found myself thinking ahead to my meeting with Wade. I needed serious legal advice, but I wasn't sure how to ask for it. Inevitably I'd have to tell him my whole crazy story, but... Should I start with a condensed version, including my body-swap? or should I begin with the alien abduction and save the big surprise, the body-swap, for the end?

Of course, I couldn't decide. The inner conflict did speed up my shower, though, and by the time I got back downstairs in fresh clothes, clean feet and shoes, Hermie's face was buried in a bowl of meusli and yogurt, while Lucy added coffee to her mug.

She gave me a sly smirk and sidled up to me, holding her mug under her chin, bathing her face in its steam.

Touching an unexpected string that played on yet another of my fears, she took an unexpected conversational tack. "Hey — if... when... you get your memories back, you'll tell us, won't you?"

"Of course," I answered. I tried to sound normal, nonchalant, though she'd caught me so unprepared, it left me completely unnerved. Could she tell I was lying?

Lucy gave me a cute side-eye that seemed to mean I don't believe you, but it's fine: you do you.

Hermie lifted his face, blinking, his eyes going from Lucy to me and back again.

"Is everything okay?" he asked. "Did I miss something?"

"Everything's fine," Lucy and I answered in one voice. Hermie responded with a doubtful look, followed by an eyeroll.

"Do you want some breakfast?" he asked.

I *was* hungry, but I needed to go. "No, thanks," I told him. "I've gotta run. I have to see a lawyer."

Hermie waited a beat, and when my explanation went no further, he returned to his meusli.

Lucy chuckled. She had a wisecrack ready.

"You need to get into his legal briefs, don't you?" she asked, suggestively. Hermie raised one eyebrow.

"It isn't like that," I protested.

"It's the same lawyer, though, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"What makes today different from yesterday?"

"Because I say it is!" I declared, flustered, blushing.

Hermie, utterly at sea, set down his spoon and regarded the pair of us. "What are you two going on about?"

Lucy, pointed at me and explained in a saucy, teasing tone, "Last time she went for 'legal advice', she ended up fucking the guy."

Hermie frowned, and asked in all seriousness, "Does 'fuck' in this case mean 'had sex with'? or does 'fuck' mean 'she screwed him over'?"

Lucy screamed with laughter.

"Oh, my God, you two!" I groaned, exasperated. "Believe me, there will be no fucking — of any kind today!"

Lucy nodded. "Okay, okay. I believe you... SO much!" Then, after a moment, "NOT!"

I frowned, then grabbed her shoulders and pulled her into a big, smothering hug, until she tapped my shoulder and gave a muffled cry of "Uncle! Uncle!"

"Okay," I declared, letting her go and mussing up her hair. "I love you both and thanks for everything. Now I seriously have to run."

Lucy put her hand on my shoulder. "Hey — just make sure you come back. You're turning into the big sister I never had."

"Awww," I purred. "You're a doll. And you, too, Hermie!"

Smiling, I dashed for the door.

Lucy called after me, a teasing sing-song, in as loud a voice as she could manage: "Remember to use protection!"

"Oh you little bitch!" I muttered (affectionately!) as I dashed down the concrete stairs to the street.

 

---

 

I took an Uber to Wade's house. Walking would have taken too long. I didn't need any more time to ruminate — I'd spent enough time doing that this morning. Also, I didn't want to arrived soaked in sweat.

Wade answered the door in bare feet, wearing a pair of jeans and a light-blue t-shirt. His clothes were clean, and he didn't need a shave. He also didn't smell of alcohol. All good signs, though he looked a little tired.

"Hello, Wade," I told him, jumping immediately to the point: "I'm in serious need of legal advice."

He blew a quiet raspberry in response. His gaze drifted down my body to my legs and feet, then back up to dwell on my breasts for a moment, before returning to my face.

"Oh, good," he said, ignoring what I'd said. "You know, our last session, in the pillows, helped me avoid alcohol today. Seriously!" He licked his lips, an involuntary movement. "From when you left, until now, I've been sober," he pronounced, pointing to his own chest. "And," he added grandly, "the love nest is still in place on my living room floor! All right! Come on now, in you get!"

He took my arm and drew me gently, but hastily, inside, and gave me a giddy-up smack on the butt.

"Wait, though, Wade, wait!" I called, resisting, stiffening, as he wrapped his arms around me from behind. I heard him kick the door closed behind us as he pressed his hips into my backside and rested his head against mine.

"No, Wade, no! Hold on, I said! No!" I reached down to push his hips away. "I need to talk! I need advice! For real! I'm in trouble and I need help!"

He cleared his throat and let go of me, passing his hand several times over his face.

Both of us did a half turn so we could face each other in his narrow entryway. He gave me a puzzled expression and made no effort to hide the erection standing out in his pants. He was obviously not wearing any underwear.

"I'm not kidding, Wade. I need legal advice. Literal legal advice. Not a roll in the hay."

"Hmm," he temporized, looking through a doorway to the mess of pillows strewn over his living room floor. "No hay? You've got hay fever, now, do you? Well, there's no hay in those pillows. Not even horsehair. It's all synthetic or something. So we're fine there. And I," he continued, taking a grandiose tone, "I have no legal advice to give! I am not allowed, at present, to practice law."

"Wade, I really am in the shit. Deep, deep shit. I need serious legal advice." How many times had I said it so far? I pulled a dollar out of my purse and held it out to him.

"Are you kidding me now?" he scoffed, "With that stupid television move?" He pushed my hand away, his face showing disappointment and even disgust. "If you were looking for a turnoff, girl, you found it. Put that fucking dollar away! That crap only works on TV. Try that with any real lawyer and they will throw you out of their office! Even if it *did* work, I told you: I am suspended. I am explicitly forbidden from practicing law. The only legal advice I can legitimately give you is to tell you to find another lawyer. In fact, I know some very good lawyers who would be more than happy to represent you."

"No," I insisted. "It has to be you." I pushed the dollar into his hand.

He slid the bill into my back pocket and left his hand there, resting on my behind. "I assume that — regardless of the specific type of shit in which you find yourself — that what you're really looking for is confidentiality. Am I right?"

"Yes," I answered, surprised that he'd gotten there so quickly.

"Well, that's a problem, see? Since I'm not currently allowed to practice law, you can have no reasonable expectation of confidentialty when you talk to me. Dollar or no dollar. If the police, for example, decided to question me about anything you say to me today, I'd have to truthfully answer whatever questions they ask of me. Or, if I was subpoenaed, I'd be obliged to tell it under oath."

My jaw dropped. "But what about attorney-client privilege?"

"I just explained it to you. You only get attorney-client privilege when you hire an attorney. Since I am not, at the moment, a licensed attorney, you can't hire me. You are not a client and I am not an attorney. Ergo, there is no privilege." He slid his hand around in my pocket, carressing my ass, and gave it a squeeze.

"Shit!" I exclaimed.

He placed his right hand on my left buttock, so that he was cupping my derriere with both hands. He pulled me close to him.

He paused for a moment, gazing into my eyes, then offered, "I'd wager things will seem a lot less bleak after a session among the pillows, yon." He gestured with his head toward the living room.

"No," I said, sadly, and covered my face with one hand.

"Okay," he conceded, with obvious disappointment, and let go of me. "Why don't you come in?" He gestured toward his dining room table. "If you really want to unburden yourself, I'll be glad to listen. As long as you understand that it's just as a friend."

"Okay," I agreed. It wasn't what I wanted. It wasn't what I came for... but it might be enough.

I followed him to his dining room, where the two of sat in chairs at the corner of the table.

"I know some excellent lawyers," he reiterated. "I know one in particular who'd listen to you—" he chuckled "—he'd listen for a dollar, but he'd probably want a hundred bucks if you want his advice. If you need representation, that would be another discussion... more money... and a contract. I know a guy right down the street here—" he gestured toward the wall. "I can give him a call, see if he's free."

I thought hard, looking at the floor. "Okay," I said. "But first, explain to me the thing about the dollar. Why doesn't that work? I mean, is it because it's too small an amount?"

"No, that's not it at all. See, if you want to hire a lawyer, *first* you have to explain your problem. And *then* at that point the lawyer decides whether they'll represent you."

"So— I have to spill the beans, tell them everything, and then, after I said all the things I want to keep secret, they might tell me to take a hike?"

He gave a sideward nod. "Hopefully they'd phrase it more gracefully than that, but yeah."

"What about confidentiality?"

"There wouldn't be any. They aren't your attorney; you aren't their client."

"So if the police ask them—"

"They'd have to tell the police what you said. They'd also have to answer under oath if they're subpoenaed."

"Damn it! So they could go and blab my private business to anyone they please?"

"No. That would be unethical. You could make a complaint to the bar. That sort of thing is taken very seriously."

I heaved a deep, distressed sigh.

"What did you do?" he asked, scratching his head. "Are you guilty of a crime?"

"No!"

"Because that's another thing — if you are committing or concealing a crime, an attorney has to report it. Are you committing or concealing a crime?"

"No. At least I don't think I am." I hesitated. "Fuck! If I have information that the police want, and I tell an attorney that I don't want to tell the police, would they have to report me?"

Wade looked down at the floor. It was his turn to heave a big sigh. Then he cleared his throat. "Not exactly. If you commit a crime in order to impede an investigation or an ongoing prosecution, your attorney would be obliged to report it."

I looked down at the table. "It sounds like I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't."

"I can't tell you without knowing the facts," he said.

"Just to confirm that I understand this correctly: I could go, in complete good faith, to a lawyer, tell him or her my problem, and they could turn me over to the police?"

"If you've committed a crime, yes. Have you committed a crime?"

"I don't *think* so! I don't know!"

Wade debated with himself for a moment, then said, "Look, it's eleven o'clock in the morning. Here's what I propose: if you're not going to help treat my sobriety by rolling around in the pillows... what I propose is that we have some iced tea. You tell me your story, and I'll do my best to help you. Not as a lawyer of course! Just as a friend." With a sardonic smile he added, "If I drink enough, though, I might not remember what you said."

"That would be great," I replied. "Sort of. But I don't want you breaking your sobriety for my sake."

"If you really feel that way, you can take off your clothes and join me in there." He pointed toward his living room. "That would do me a lot more good than a drink could ever."

"I'm sorry, but I—"

He interrupted by holding up his hand, palm facing me. Then he went to the kitchen, from whence I heard the sound of ice cubes falling into glasses, liquids being shaken in bottles, and the clink of a spoon mixing the contents of a glass.

With a exaggerated finality, Wade re-appeared, carrying two large glasses of Long Island Iced Tea. "Last chance," he said. "It's a roll in the hay or a fall down the stairs." I didn't get his allusion at first, but — hard-hearted me — I pointed to the glasses of tea. He shrugged and set them on the table.

I remembered in that moment that I hadn't eaten any breakfast. My stomach let out a low growl.

Wade had set both glasses on the table, but he hadn't let go of either one.

"Have you eaten?" he asked. "I haven't. What do you say to pancakes?" he asked. "You can tell me your story while I make them."

"It's a deal."

 

---

 

We left the drinks untasted on the table and walked into the kitchen together. I held off speaking until after he'd mixed the batter and poured the first four pancakes onto the griddle.

"Okay," I said. "You know about Charlotte Rafflyan," I said. Not so much a question; more of a confirmation.

"Sure," he replied with a shrug. "Everybody in Robbins knows about Charlotte. She's a strange kind of internet celebrity."

"Okay. So first thing — and this is my first secret: I don't have amnesia any more. I remember everything. Everything. But at this point nobody knows this but you."

"Okay," he said. "Got it." He flipped the first four pancakes. "So far, so good."

"One of the few things I remembered, even when I couldn't remember anything else, was the phrase, Charlotte had a boyfriend."

"Right," Wade agreed. He piled the first four pancakes in a stack on a plate. They were a nice golden brown on top. "Ross Goo— The football guy. Ross something-or-other."

"Exactly. At first I thought that Charlotte didn't have a boyfriend. At all. I sincerely believed the whole relationship was imaginary. That it was all in her head."

Wade gave me a quizzical look before pouring out four more pancakes.

"So what?" he asked. "So she didn't have a boyfriend. Why does that matter? Who cares?"

"Well, it's important, because, I mean, he was her boyfriend before. Months before. But they'd already broken up when he disappeared."

Wade flipped the pancakes. "Jesus Christ," he groaned, shaking his head. "You sound like an old lady whispering rumors over the back fence! I can't believe I'm giving up sex for this! It's nothing but silly gossip!"

"No, really! If she hadn't lied about that, none of this would have happened! We wouldn't have had the car crash. I wouldn't have lost my memory. You'd still have your drivers license and your law license..."

"Maybe," Wade said. He seemed to getting angry. "But I don't see how. It sounds pretty damned farfetched." He moved the newly cooked pancakes to the stack, and poured out the last four on the griddle.

"Alright," I said. "I'm telling it badly. But see, the hardest thing about this story is that I'm not sure how to tell it. I keep going back and forth in my head—"

Wade made an impatient noise, smacked the spatula sharply against the griddle twice, and told me, "Just do what Humpty-Dumpty says." He gave me a challenging look.

"Humpty-Dumpty? From Alice in Wonderland?"

"Exactly. I've told many of my clients this. Many. In fact, in my office, I have the saying framed and hanging on the wall, where I can conveniently point at it. What Humpty Dumpty said is this: Begin at the beginning, go on till you come to the end; then stop."

I sighed. "Yeah," I said, "It sounds simple, but I'm pretty sure I have to tell you the end first, or the beginning won't make any sense."

Wade gave me a weary look. "Then maybe we'd better eat our pancakes first. Then we'll drink coffee... or tea... And then you can start from wherever the hell you want. But I'm getting a bad feeling. Deeny, I lust for you with everything that's in me. I want you to know that. And I'm not kidding when I say that sex with you seems to help me stay sober. So there's that. But I have to warn you, and I am dead serious: If this is some goddamned conspiracy theory, I won't listen to it. I reject that shit right out of hand. And as for butterfly-effect nonsense, no. Just a hard no. Ditto for shaggy-dog stories. I am all out of patience for any and all of that kind of shit."

His negativity surprised me. "Do you really hear much of... of... that kind of thing?"

"You'd be surprised. Clients try it on me all the time. Person A wants to sue Person B — and do you know why? Because their feelings were hurt! They are the worst kind of client. The absolute worst. They don't have any sensible or rational basis for a suit. And so, they come in, waving a dollar at me." He shook his head. "Sorry, but that fucking dollar really triggers me.

"And so, yeah — I get prospective clients who come in with crazy, complicated stories. They figure the more crap, the more details they pack into it, the better. If they pile on everything they can, they think a good lawyer will find a case in there somewhere. Honestly! People tell me the stupidest stories. I'd share them with you, but—"

"It's none of that," I told him, aware that I was stretching the truth by a good bit. "This is an honest-to-God, cause-and-effect, real-people story. But, it's not even a story. It's what really happened."

"Okay." He shrugged. "We'll see."

He dropped the last four pancakes onto the stack. We set the dining-room table, and the two of us sat down.

Both of us were powerfully hungry, so we made short work of the pancakes. They were pretty tasty. Wade followed up with two cups of espresso. He closed his eyes to savor the tiny cup, then waved his hand to tell me to begin.