Part 1 (1/2)

FIRST.

By KIM PRITEKEL.

Disclaimers: These two really nifty ladies are strictly a figment of my overactive imagination, so don't get too excited.

Subtext: Yup. These here ladies are of an alternative nature. Ain't it cool?

Violence: Nah. Not unless you view catching a few fish as cruel and violent.

Language: There may be some, but nothing extremely horrible.

Note: This story does somewhat contain the Kleenex factor at times. Especially the end, so do be prepared.

Copyright 2001 Kim Pritekel For Jen. I love you, and hurry home!.

FIRST.

PART 1.

THE LINE HUNG silent on my end.

”Emmy? Are you there?” my big brother Billy asked, worry marking his deep voice.

”Yeah, Billy I'm here. Are you sure? Dead?” I could not bring myself to believe that she could possibly be gone at only thirty-four. What did he say she had died of? Breast cancer? Couldn't be. She's far too young for that. Isn't she? ”I have to go, Billy. Someone is calling in on the other line.” I lied.

”Okay, Emmy. I'm sorry I had to call you at work. Are you sure you're okay? I mean I know you two had been such good friends when you were kids and all.”

Friends. If only they had known the truth about Beth and I. Wiping those thoughts and memories from my mind I said, ”That's okay. I'm glad you told me. Thanks Billy.”

”Yeah. Hey, come home now and then. I know they give you parole now and then in The Big Apple.” I grinned into the phone.

”Yeah. Now and then. Bye, Billy.”

I gently set the receiver into its cradle and sat back in my chair and looked around my cramped office. I was an up and coming lawyer at the law firm of James/Parks/Stone where I had worked my b.u.t.t off to win the favor of the s.e.xist partners over my male peers. Not an easy task, but one I performed with gusto..

Perhaps I would take some personal time off and go to the funeral. I was due for some time off anyway. I would catch a flight out to Denver, Colorado, and head south to Pueblo where I grew up, and had not been for some time. I could still see all the neat rows of modest sized homes, all painted similar colors. Gray barbecue smokes wafting up over the six-foot wood privacy fences. The perfect Norman Rockwell neighborhood. The town held nothing for me anymore. Not that it ever really did. But it had been awhile since I'd seen my parents and Billy. His kids were growing up so fast. He may have even had a daughter that I'd never seen.

I stood from my desk and walked over to the window that looked out over a park that was next to the building, and watched as a man was walked by his overly enthusiastic Great Dane. The last time I had seen Beth had been in that park. I rested my forehead against the cool gla.s.s. She had come up to New York to see me, and the short visit had been uncomfortable and strained at best. I remember how tired she had looked. Thin, too, which made her tall frame seem lanky and gaunt. I realized then that that day would be one of those that can haunt a person for the rest of their lives. What if. I sighed. I didn't believe in what ifs. If did nothing to worry and think of all the things that were over and done with, and could not be changed. But still....

With a sigh I turned back to the pile of files and papers on my desk. I really ought to clean it up. I smiled to myself. Never could keep my mind on one thing. Suddenly with the force of a blow to the stomach I plopped down into my chair, a malformed sob ripping from my throat. I gripped the arms of my chair with a fierceness that surprised me, and closed my eyes. I squeezed them tight as I fought the emotion that was trying to make its way to the surface. Finally I could breath again. After a couple of deep breaths I had myself under control again, and decided that maybe it was best to start that personal time today. I sent a quick email to John Stone, one of the senior partners, explaining my sudden departure, gathered my belongings and headed toward the door.

”Ms. Thomas?” my secretary, Lois asked as I locked and closed my office door, suit jacket and briefcase in hand.

”I'm leaving for the day, Lois. If anyone calls please transfer them to my voice mail. If any of the partners wish to speak with me then transfer them to my home phone. It's in the Rolodex.”

”Why certainly, Ms. Thomas. Is everything all right? You look a bit out of sorts today. Are you feeling all right? Shall I call Ms. Kelly?” Lois Wutherman, my trusted secretary of two years was a kind, older woman who had been born and raised in London until she moved to the U.S. with her husband after World War II, or what she called ”the big one”. She looked at me with her large brown eyes hidden behind enormous bifocals, her silver hair piled on top of her head. I often wondered just how long her hair actually was, though she never, ever wore it down. Probably thinking it was in bad form for a lady. I smiled to myself at the thought.

”No, I'm fine. That's not necessary. I've just got some personal business to take care of.” I said, though for just a moment I fought the urge to perch at the corner of her desk, and spill my guts to this kind woman who had mothered me through disappointments at work, fights with my lover, and a car accident two years ago. But for some reason this I could not share with her.

”Well,” she said taking one of my hands in both of hers and patting it in her usual motherly way said, ”Whatever it is t'will all be fine.” she smiled as she could read the strain in my green eyes, and see that annoying wrinkle that appeared between them and gave away my stress level.

”Thank you, Lois. I'm sure it will.” with a deep breath I walked past her desk, out of the office and past the receptionists desk to leave the firm all together. The early afternoon air of downtown New York hit my face and nostrils with an intense force, the cool autumn air sharp and biting. I found my car and pressed the b.u.t.ton on the little alarm box on my key chain, releasing the locks with a chirp. I climbed behind the wheel, and tossed my briefcase and jacket onto the seat next to me, stared out at the busy street, my hands placed on the wheel, my mind in another place, another time. Beth. I could still see the expectant look in those blue eyes as she stared at me, standing next to the park bench.

”What, don't I even rate a hug?”

I shook my head to clear it, and turned on the engine.

I shared a modest townhouse on the outskirts of the city with my lover, Rebecca. It was s.p.a.cious with big windows to allow all the sunlight of the day. The brick-faced front opened up to a small yard, the autumn yellow gra.s.s lining the driveway on either side. Come spring, flowers would be popping up in the planters that Rebecca had scattered around the yard.

My black Persian, Simon met me at the door, his thick tail waving in confusion at my being home so early.

”Hi, baby.” I crooned as I picked up his considerable bulk, rubbing my cheek against the soft fur of his neck. After a few moments of greeting Simon let me know he'd had enough and fought my tight embrace. I let him down to return to one of his numerous daily naps, and headed for the kitchen. I could not get Beth out of my head. Why? Why hadn't she told me that she had been sick when she had the chance? I could feel my shock begin to succ.u.mb to anger. I walked over to the sink and leaned on its st.u.r.dy surface, my head hanging. I could feel the tears welling up in my throat, wanting to spill forth and overtake me completely. The myriad of emotions was overwhelming. I fought the urge, but suddenly my cheeks were wet with the onslaught of tears that ran down my face and landed into the stainless steel double sink. PLOP. PLOP. My pain and self-pity were interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone that lay on the counter by the Mr. Coffee. I decided to let the machine pick up.

”h.e.l.lo you have reached Emily and Rebecca. We cannot come to the phone right now, so leave a message at the beep and we will get back to you as soon as possible.” Beep.

”Yes, this message is for Emily. Hi this is William Parks, and your secretary told me-” I pushed away from the sink, and wiped at my eyes as I walked toward the cordless.

”Hi, Bill.” I said s.n.a.t.c.hing up the receiver. ”Yes, I did. We have had a death in the family, and I had some personal time coming,-”

”Of course, of course. By all means take care of you. The criminals of New York will wait.” Parks said with one of his famously fake laughs. ”You take all the time you need. These things can be so difficult.” he lowered his voice for a more dramatic affect. I fought the urge to tell him to stick his pity up his a.s.s. Bill Parks cared about no one and nothing but Bill Parks. He was one of my bosses, so I thanked him for his kind words and a.s.sured him that John Dithers would take on my Holstead case in my absence. I was grateful to hang up with the pretentious, pompous man. He was my least favorite of all three senior partners. The kind of lawyer that jokes are made about.

I tuned off the ringer and walked over to the fridge. The remains of our left over linguini stared me in the face as did the two-day-old pizza, still in its blue and white Domino's box. Disgusted with the thought of food I walked over to the living room, and plopped myself down on the couch, my hands lying limply next to me. I stared out the French doors out into the small backyard. I felt so empty, as if all my insides had been taken out, and I was left with nothing. I sighed deeply, then an idea occurred to me. I walked to the hall closet, and on tiptoe reached up and grabbed the three white photo alb.u.ms that had been the source of much comfort in my life, as well as painful reminders. I felt a need to delve into the past, a past when Beth Sayers was still alive. A time when she was my best friend, my lover, my confidante, and just my neighbor. I felt a need to rediscover this woman who had stolen my heart, and had never given it back.

With sweating palms I carefully flipped open the cover, almost as if I were entering a sacred realm. The first half of my photo alb.u.m was filled with baby pictures of Billy, and then four years later of me. Me at age three heading to my first day of ballet lessons, which from what I am told I hated, but my mother thought I looked so darn cute in my white tights and pink tutu. There is a picture of Billy and me dressed up for Halloween. The caption said he was nine and I was five. I don't remember ever wanting to dress as a princess, but I guess at some time I must have felt the urge. There I was holding my trick or treat bag with Billy dressed as a sheriff holding my hand, impatient smiles plastered on our cherubic faces. Ah! Now that one is more like me. I was sitting in the middle of a large sandbox with some little red headed girl that I don't remember at all, a large green bucket of sand forever poised over that mane of red hair. I had to smile despite my dead heart beating limply in my chest.

Skipping a few years I finally came across the time when Beth came into my life. It did not seem like there was ever a time when she wasn't. Now I would never hear her wild laugh again; never see those twinkling blue eyes looking with so much love into my own green eyes.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again to stare down at us. In the beginning it had been me who had pursued her for a friends.h.i.+p. During the summer of my tenth year many of the families in the neighborhood had decided to move, taking most of my friends with them. The Sayers' family moved into the house next door with their nine, soon to be ten year old daughter, Elizabeth, who refused to answer to anything other than Beth. She was a shy girl, and later told me that I had intimidated her, though why I never understood. Finally as the summer slowly crawled by with nothing to do and no one to do it with, she agreed to walk over that sacred boundary between their small, green postage stamp lawn, and our small, green postage stamp lawn and we played four square. From that day on the two of us had been glued hip to hip.

I turned the page to reveal us standing in front of my childhood home, the garage open to show the old Dodge my father refused to give up, and still had, except it isn't gold anymore, it's an interesting shade of avocado green. My father never did have any color sense. In the picture I was wearing an old football jersey that Billy had outgrown and handed down to a tom boy sister. My dark blonde hair half-hazardly pulled back into a ponytail. My knees had two painful looking sc.r.a.pes on them that were just beginning to scab over. I was linked arm in arm with Beth who was wearing that Mickey Mouse s.h.i.+rt that I swear she would have worn day in and day out if her mother would have let her. We had great big goofy smiles on our darkly tanned faces. So young. So carefree. I read the caption that my mother had so neatly written below the Polaroid- Emmy and Beth 4th of July, 1977. That was our second summer together. That was also the year we kissed for the first time.

I looked up from the photo alb.u.m suddenly aware that I was hungry. Putting the alb.u.m aside, I went to the kitchen and made myself a PBJ- peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly, the food of choice. I had not had one of these things since college! Looking at all these old pictures was bringing the child out in me. I smiled and shook my head.

With sandwich and can of Dr. Pepper in hand I grabbed the photo alb.u.ms off the coffee table, and plopped us all down on the floor. I got to my knees and unzipped my gray, pinstriped skirt, and pushed it down over my hips, then sat to remove it and toss it aside, followed by my nylons. Sitting in my camisole and underwear I looked at some of the other pictures on that page: Emmy and Beth at the zoo; Emmy and Beth in the pool; Emmy and Beth and Billy playing basketball. Then I saw it. The night of the school play and Beth's first starring role. It was a silly little play called ”Who Calls the Wild Wylde?” about a family by the name of Wylde who lived in the backwoods town of Looneyville. Beth played the son, Joseph Wylde. That year she discovered her zest and love of acting. In one scene her character had to give Miss Thelma Rooster a peck on the cheek, and she decided she wanted to practice. On me.

Beth was spending the night at my house the weekend before the show. We were up in my bedroom running my extensive collection of matchbox cars all over the many roads and highways, and stopping at all the good places to eat, and visiting all of our many friends along the way. Suddenly she stopped, tiny white VW Bug in hand.

”Let's practice!” she said, her eyes wide with this new idea she had.

”Practice what?” I asked as I rammed my truck into the post of my bed causing a great avalanche of rock and other such debris to fall from that ma.s.sive mountain that was in the middle of our town.

”Practice my scene with me and Thelma Rooster.” I could feel my stomach tighten with a strange sort of excitement. I just looked at her as if to say, are you serious?, though I knew she was, and I prayed deep down that she wouldn't change her mind. So I said, ”Which one?”