Volume 1 Number 3 January 2006

Stories by

BarbaraDavies

* Sias

Bryant *

KamCaddell

* NannDunne

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Volume 1 Number 3 January 2006

3In This Issue Claudia Wilde

4Home and Heart Carrie Tierney

6The Krestyanova Genes Barbara Davies

14A Normal Bedtime Conversation Kam Caddell

20Sandra Dee’s Lips Sias Bryant

27The Broken Teddy Bear Nann Dunne

32Contributors and Artists

PublisherClaudia Wilde

Managing EditorCarrie Tierney

Assistant EditorC.A. Casey

Story IllustrationsTrish Ellis

T.J. Mindancer

Cover Art/LayoutT.J. Mindancer

Khimairal Ink Magazineis published July,October, January, andApril.

© 2006 Bedazzled InkPublishing Company

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s the New Year rings in, I'm “gobsmacked” when thinking about the

events of 2005. Never in my wildest dreams didI imagine I would be putting together a lesbianoriented e-zine and getting ready to publish oursecond book. What's that Chinese proverb? Becareful what you wish for . . . you might get it?

Surprisingly, the e-zine has become themost challenging adventure. As an avid onlinereader, I have enjoyed hundreds of interestingand insightful stories by both new and estab-lished writers. With all that talent out there, Iassumed the hardest job would be decidingwhat submissions would go into which month'sissue. But, it appears that the short story formatand our guidelines are proving rather dauntingfor many. Ironically, the stories submitted bymen are meeting our criteria with greater suc-cess than most. Our editor, Carrie, has done amarvelous job with the ezine blog explainingthe nuances of what we are looking for. Again,I challenge the writers out there to take thatunfamiliar step into the short story venue.

Taking a very familiar step, the exceedinglypolished writer, Barbara Davies is back with

another wonderful Sci-fi tale. The always-cre-ative Kam Caddell entertains us with a witty,slice-of-life play. Author Nann Dunne has puttogether a poignant story guaranteed to pull atthe heartstrings and Sias Bryant has written awonderful piece that will make you laugh andcry at the same time. All the stories deal withfamily and loved ones so this issue's theme is“Home is Where the Heart is.” The graphics arepictures of local homes and we have moregreat drawings from Trish Ellis and the multi-talented TJ Mindancer.

I’d like to thank again the many readers whohave made this past year so rewarding.

May this new year bring you the fulfillment ofyour dreams.

See you next issue!Claudia

We’d love to hear from you. Send comments,suggestions, and questions topublisher@bedazzledink.com and don’t forgetto check out our blog athttp://khimairalink.blogspot.com/

Join us for the June 2006 issue including . . .

Fade to Rose by Tyree CampbellSelected Poems by Sheela Ardrian

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or this issue we chose four very differentstories, each dealing in their own way

with concepts of family and home. You’ll notice that one of our stories is in the

form of a play. Stories can be told in many dif-ferent ways and if a certain way—like the for-mat of this play—works, it works. We try tokeep an open mind because art isn't about put-ting everything into the same size box. We firsthave to enjoy a story as a story, regardless offormat. And that's the bottom line. We like tosee creative approaches but—and this is animportant but—an author has to have a thor-ough understanding of the fundamentals ofwriting and storytelling to present a story in acreative way.

On the other hand, we continue to see sub-missions that seem to trample over the samestorytelling ground. Locations, occupations,characters’ names may be different but the paththese stories take are fundamentally the same.We now have three issues of examples of thetype and quality of story we want to see. Thesestories were written with care, revised, rewrit-ten, and revised again. The authors obsessive-ly checked for typos and misspellings beforesubmitting to us. They understand the protocolsand rituals of this strange business.

I’m always delighted that we can offer storiesthat reflect the unique imaginations and voicesof the authors. In this issue, Barbara Davies

takes the concept of family to the genetic levelin the gripping science fiction tale, TheKrestyanova Genes. Kam Caddell creativelystrips an ordinary bedtime conversation to thedeceptively simple format of a stage play.Sandra Dee's Lips is a moving story about atruly memorable woman who leaves a lastingimpression upon the story's narrator. NannDunne weaves a graceful metaphorical tale inThe Broken Teddy Bear.

I hope you enjoy this issue as much as Ienjoyed putting it together.

Carrie

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hile the AI recitedthe facts about the

influenza outbreak, Natalyagazed at the details of thoseinfected. Only two domeswere involved, she saw withsome relief, and one wasCopernicus, so the travellingshould be minimal.

A name scrolling down herscreen was familiar. Sheblinked. “My cousin’s on thelist! And it looks like a partyshe hosted might be thecommon factor.”

“Cousin?” Emma lookedup from her own screen,shoving back the curtain offair hair that was always flop-ping in her eyes.

“Yes. Anya Litton.” Flu wasrarely fatal, so Natalya wasn’tworried about Anya. Shetapped the name with herforefinger and a photoappeared.

Emma peered at it. “Shelooks like you!”

Natalya grimaced at the unflatteringmugshot. “Thanks for nothing! . . . It’s theKrestyanova genes. When we were kids, peo-ple always thought we must be sisters.”

“Litton,” mused Emma. “Why is that surname

familiar?”“Reeve Litton is Anya’s husband. Or rather

was. They’re divorced.”“The Reeve Litton?”“Mmm.” If the truth be told, Natalya was

relieved Anya was finally rid of her industrialist

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husband. She had never liked him.“Divorced, eh?” Emma gave her a sideways

glance. “Krestyanovas don’t seem to havemuch luck with their love lives.”

Natalya ignored the unsubtle invitation totalk about her ex-girlfriend. She knew Emmathought she was being too proud, not makingthe first move toward a reconciliation. Maybeshe was. Her first relationship to last more thansix months, and she had blown it. Milena hadbeen gone for a month now, in charge of hydro-ponics irrigation, so Natalya had heard, inKondratyuk on the Far Side.

She sighed, pulled out her earpiece, andreached for the suitcase-sized kit leaningagainst the wall. A few moments’ checkingreassured her that she’d replaced the swabsand phials used last time: a food poisoning out-break in Russell—the potato salad had provedto be the culprit.

She stretched and looked at Emma. “I’ll takethose who live in Kepler, since Anya’s amongthem.”

“Good. I’ll take those who live here.”

pproaching Kepler station,” announcedthe monorail pod’s computer.

Natalya braced herself, then decelerationpressed her into her seat and the sunlitlunarscape visible through the clear canopyvanished as the pod flashed into a tunnel,through an airlock, and came to rest. Sheunbuckled the seat’s webbing, grabbed her kit,and stepped out onto the platform.

Taking a moment to adjust to the scale ofher surroundings—Kepler’s crater was smallerthan Copernicus’s, its water-shielded domecorrespondingly lower—she pulled her palm-pad out of her pocket, called up a streetmap,and set off walking.

Anya’s flat was in Gorky Street. WhenNatalya arrived, the flat’s AI was refusing allvisitors. She showed it her LCDC credentials,however, and after a few seconds the frontdoor clicked open.

As she walked into the hall, the clutterreminded her of Milena’s sometimes endear-ing, sometimes irritating untidiness. She sighedand pushed that thought away.

“Hi, Anya. It’s Nat,” she called.“In the bedroom,” came a croak.Though they’d kept in touch by Vidlink, the

last time Natalya had actually seen her cousinin person was at Anya’s wedding two yearsago. Then, Anya had been expensively andfashionably dressed and made up; now, shewas wearing a shabby nightdress and her facewas bare.

Natalya noted the feverish eyes, the sallowskin, the strands of long black hair plastered toher cousin’s face. Aware of her scrutiny, Anyapulled the bedclothes up to her chin and gaveher a weak smile.

“Mask and gloves, eh? Now I know I’m sick!”“Sorry,” said Natalya. “It’s just a precaution.”Anya cocked her head to one side and

frowned. “There’s something different aboutyou. Ah.” Her brow smoothed. “You’ve had yourhair cut. I thought you liked it long.”

Natalya shrugged, too embarrassed toadmit that she had cut it in a fit of pique—Milena had liked her hair long too.

“This’ll teach you to throw parties,” shejoked, dragging a chair across to Anya’s bed-side and sitting down. She placed her kit on thefloor, then turned to her cousin and becameserious. “I take it you’ve seen a doctor?”

Anya nodded. “He gave me these.” She indi-cated the pill container on the bedside table.

Natalya peered at the label; the yellow cap-sules were antivirals, standard treatment forflu. “So, who was at this bash of yours?”

Anya pointed to a palmpad lying on top ofher dressing table. “The guest list’s on that.”

Natalya retrieved the palmpad, linked it toher own, and downloaded the names, cross-checking them against those that had alreadybeen notified to the LCDC. “Not everyone atthe party got flu then,” she mused. “Just overfifty percent.”

Anya rubbed a bleary eye. “What is it withKepler? Last month it was a cold, now this.”

“I had the cold too,” said Natalya absently.“We never did find the index case.” She select-ed a throat swab from her kit. “Open wide.”

Anya obliged. “What’s an ‘index case’?” sheasked, when Natalya had finished.

“The source of the outbreak.” Natalya filedthe swab away, then peeled the wrapping from

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a small syringe. “We thought some Earthermight have brought the cold up, but . . .” Shereleased her cousin’s arm, detached the phialof blood from the syringe, and sealed it. “Now,just a few questions.”

It took Natalya five minutes to complete theepidemiological questionnaire, mandatory incases like this and very thorough. When sheput away her palmpad and changed thesubject, Anya’s relief was palpable.

“So. How’s life after Reeve?”“Fine. He was such a pain, Nat. Always

wanting things ‘just so.’” Anya let out an explo-sive sneeze, and Natalya handed her a cleanhandkerchief. “I don’t know how I stood it for solong.”

“The servants, the fashionable clothes, themoney,” suggested Natalya wryly.

“You never liked him,” said her cousinthrough the hanky.

“No. And I expect he’s cutting up rough overthe divorce.”

“Actually, he isn’t.” Anya looked bemused.“The lawyer says he wishes all divorces wereas amicable.” She laughed. “He’s lying ofcourse. The less amicable a divorce, the morethe lawyers make.”

“I suppose Reeve can afford to be gener-ous,” said Natalya. Anya’s former husband hadmade his fortune building isolation domes—lack of an atmosphere meant the Moon wasperfect for gene research.

Anya shrugged. “I’m just glad we can still befriends. Talking of which, sorry to hear you andMilena broke up.”

“Me too.” Natalya didn’t feel up to one of hercousin’s searching interrogations so she stoodup. “I can’t stop, sorry. That’s one sampledown, nineteen to go.” She reached for the kitand regarded the other woman for a moment.“Take care of yourself, Anya.”

Another huge sneeze was the only reply.

atalya’s stomach rumbled. She sup-posed she should get herself some-

thing to eat, but the cafe next door would beclosed at this time of night. There was alwaysthe vending machine in the LCDC lobby, ofcourse.

“Analysis complete,” came the AI’s voice inher earpiece.

She had spent the afternoon gathering sam-ples and information and the evening withEmma loading the phials and swabs into theappropriate analyzers, downloading the con-tents of their palmpads, and telling the AI any-thing they thought might be relevant. It was atedious process, but the AI could spot connec-tions they’d miss and it was a thousand timesas fast. There was no need for them both towork overtime, though, so she’d sent Emmahome.

“Report,” she ordered.“Indiana Flu,” said the AI. “An outbreak of

this particular strain occurred five years ago inEratosthenes.”

“Index case?”“An Earther. Gary Savage, 65, born Indiana,

USA. He was visiting relatives.”“Go on.”“Since that outbreak, this strain appears to

have become gender-specific.”Natalya looked at the list of names again

and frowned. It was unlike the AI to make amistake. “What about Mikhail Ivanov?”

“Mikhail Ivanov,” said the AI, “was bornMikhaila Ivanova. He completed his sexchange in 2061.”

“Ah.” Natalya chewed her thumbnail. Whathad triggered the dormant flu virus? And whyhad it mutated? On Earth, it was common forviruses to find new ways to overcome theirhosts’ acquired immunity. But on the Moonthere was little infection and consequently littleacquired immunity.

“There appears to be no index case for thecurrent outbreak,” continued the AI. “All suffer-ers developed symptoms within an hour of oneanother, indicating simultaneous infection.”

“So something, or someone, at Anya’s partymust be the carrier?”

“Affirmative,” said the AI.

he Crystal Room at the CopernicusMajestic was still cordoned off. Natalya

ducked under the yellow-and-black warningtape, keyed in her security code, and waited forthe door locks to click open. She yawned—

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working late last night had left her feelingbleary-eyed this morning—put on her mask,and went in.

There was nothing special about the func-tion room where Anya had held her party, andwhich must owe its name to the crystal chande-liers hanging from the ceiling. At one end werestacks of molded chairs and matching tables,at the other, a bar, the security grill pulled downand padlocked.

“Ms. Krestyanova?”She turned. “Yes?”A deliveryman in a red-and-black uniform

stood in the doorway. Beside him on the carpetlay a small metallic trunk stenciled “Property ofLCDC.” He kicked it with the toe of one boot.“Your autosampler, as requested.”

“Thanks.”She removed a glove and pressed her

thumb on his authorization pad. When he’dgone, she crouched, opened the catches onthe trunk, and lifted out the cylindrical robot. Ittook only seconds for her to activate it and giveit instructions, then it was trundling around thefunction room, photographing everything andusing its toolkit of tiny nozzles, scalpels, andtweezers to take samples for later analysis.

If there was anything to be found, thoughtNatalya, as the autosampler beeped at her andrequested access to the air conditioning duct, itwould find it.

take it you didn’t find anything?” Emmalooked up from her screen.Natalya sagged into her chair. “Not if you

discount dust and mice droppings.”“Those damned mice! Probably time we

scheduled another extermination sweep.”Emma finished what she was doing then satback and regarded Natalya. “So I supposethat’s that?”

Natalya yawned. “The flu was only a verymild strain. The high ups will say it’s not ‘costeffective’ to continue the investigation. So wewon’t.”

“OK.” Emma twiddled her pen. “So, yourcousin—what was her name, Anya?—is sheany better?”

“Much.” Natalya had contacted Anya half an

hour ago, and even on the tiny Vidlink displayshe could see that Anya’s color was more nor-mal and the feverishness in her eyes had gone.Her appetite was returning too, and alreadyshe was bored with being cooped up. She wasdefinitely on the mend. A mixed blessing: goodnews for Anya was bad news for epidemiolo-gists.

Emma read her mind. “Back to boring oldstatistics?”

“Mm,” agreed Natalya. “That’s probably ourexcitement for the year.”

ut it wasn’t. The month long lunar dayhad given way to the month long lunar

night, and Milena and Natalya still hadn’tVidlinked one another, when Natalya learnedthat her cousin Anya had once again picked upa virus. And this time it wasn’t so benign.

“She’s in intensive care, Nat,” said Emma,peering at the information scrolling down herscreen. “They don’t think she’s going to makeit.”

Natalya’s heart sank. “What is it?”“A filovirus.”“Hell!” She was all too familiar with the histo-

ry of the Marburg and Ebola filoviruses. Butthey’d found vaccines for them eventually, had-n’t they? If the lunar version was similar—

Emma whistled. “Is that sinister looking orwhat?”

Natalya followed her colleague’s gaze. Onthe screen was a picture of something long andthin and blue-grey, something almost snake-like, full of strange twists and loops. It made herfeel nauseous just looking at it.

“The bug that attacked Anya?”Emma nodded.“Any other cases?”“Not according to the AI.” Emma looked wor-

ried. “That’s the weirdest thing about it, Nat. Noone except your cousin seems to have beenaffected.”

here was so little infectious disease onthe Moon that the main hospital, situated

in Copernicus, had been using its isolationunits for storage. Natalya negotiated her way

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between the pieces of equipment now relocat-ed in the corridor and peered through theobservation window of one of the units.

A nurse in a full protective suit stood besidethe single bed, examining readouts and updat-ing charts. Anya was barely visible beneath allthe umbilicals connecting her to the variousmonitors and drips.

It had all happened so quickly. Anya’s firstsymptoms—severe headache, muscle pains,and fever—had been mistaken for flu. Even hersore throat, vomiting, and diarrhea hadn’tcaused the doctors much concern. Then herblood pressure had dropped precipitously. Thedoctors, with LCDC guidance, were trying atreatment that had proved successful againstother filoviruses, but they were up against it—the human body can only take so much.

As Natalya gazed helplessly at her cousin, aman came up beside her and pressed his faceto the glass. She recognized him at once,though it was two years since she had lastseen him and he had lost some of his hair andgained a double chin, which he was trying tohide beneath a beard.

“Hello, Reeve.”Anya’s former husband glanced at her,

mumbled something unintelligible, thenpressed his nose to the glass again, misting itwith each exhale.

“They’re doing everything they can,” saidNatalya, as much for her own comfort as forhis. But the industrialist didn’t reply, and shethought it best to leave him to his thoughts.

There was little she could do here. She’d bemore use tracking down the virus that waskilling her cousin.

atalya pulled on a full protective suitand set about searching Anya’s flat.

She still had no idea what she was looking for.A source of contamination, obviously. But whatform would it take? She wished Emma werehere to give her her opinion, but her colleaguewas currently in Messier B, investigating a seri-ous outbreak of food poisoning.

As the autosampler trundled round thecramped flat, she assessed the contents of thebathroom cabinet, sorted through waste bins,

and peered in drawers, her mind working.Filoviruses were most often spread by contam-inated blood. On Earth, cases had occurredafter eating monkey meat, but such delicacieswere unavailable in lunar restaurants. A morecommon path was sharing needles; but as faras she was aware the only syringe Anya hadencountered recently was the sterile oneNatalya had used for the blood sample.Besides, if this filovirus conformed to type,infection had occurred within the past week.

She turned back the sheets, looked underthe pillows and mattress. Nothing.

Poor Anya. First the cold, then the flu, andnow this. What were the odds on one personcontracting so many viruses in such a shorttime? It was almost as though . . . Natalya felta sudden frisson of unease. It was almost asthough the viruses were targeting her cousin.

atalya inserted her earpiece and waitedfor the AI to say, “Ready.”

“Compare Anya Litton’s DNA with the RNAof the following viruses: Cold virus ref: 2.5;Indiana Flu virus ref: 4.6; and the unidentifiedfilovirus ref: 8.9. Look for connections.”

“Working.”Natalya chewed her thumbnail.“Analysis complete.”“Report.”“There is a partial genetic match in each

case.”“Be more specific.”“Cold virus ref: 2.5 requires human hosts—

Anya Litton is human. Indiana Flu virus ref: 4.6requires human, female, Caucasian hosts.Anya Litton matches the criteria.”

Natalya frowned.“Unidentified filovirus ref: 8.9,” continued the

AI, “requires human, female, Caucasian hostswith the following characteristics: blood group:B; height: tall; weight: average; build: average;hair: straight, black; nose: small; eyes: blue . . .”

She listened to the list of attributes withgrowing horror. The AI was describing hercousin in uncanny detail. (It was also describ-ing her, but she shoved that thought aside.)Finally, she halted the recitation. “Enough.”

Someone had had a virus tailored to target

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Anya’s DNA. Someone with money, since suchcomplex gene-splicing would cost. Someonewith samples of—what?—nail clippings, hairfrom an old brush? Above all, someone withenough of a motive to want her cousin dead.

Suddenly, Natalya knew who that someonemust be.

“Get me the police,” she told the AI. “Tellthem I want to report an attempted murder.”

atalya eased past the equipmentstacked in the hospital’s narrow corri-

dor.“That’s him.” She directed the burly police-

man accompanying her toward Reeve Litton,who was still standing by the isolation unit’sobservation window, his hands in his pockets.

Sgt. Schwartz halted next to the plumpindustrialist. “Mr. Litton?” Reeve barely glancedat him before nodding. “I’m afraid I must askyou to come with me to Police HQ.”

“What are you talking about?” Reeve wasthe very picture of bewilderment. “Why shouldI go anywhere with you? Especially now. That’smy wife in there.” (“Ex wife,” muttered Natalya.)

He pointed at the bedridden figure on theother side of the glass then shoved his handback in his pocket. “She’s dying. I need to behere not down at some police station answer-ing pointless questions.”

“I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding,”soothed Schwartz.

Natalya ground her teeth. If she’d had herway, Schwarz would have simply trankedReeve and carted him off over his shoulder, buthis superiors had ordered a more cautiousapproach until they had the hard evidence toback up her suspicions.

“The sooner you come with me and get thissorted out,” continued Schwarz, “the sooner Ican get you back here with your wife.” (“Exwife,” mouthed Natalya.) He rested a glovedhand on Reeve’s arm.

“Get off me! Do you know who I am?” Reevebatted the hand away and glanced at Natalya.“She put you up to this, didn’t she?” He gave alongsuffering sigh. “My wife is her cousin, soit’s understandable she’s overwrought. We allare. But really!” He turned his attention back to

the observation window.Schwartz threw Natalya a doubtful glance. It

was her word against Reeve’s, and the indus-trialist was a highly respected figure.

“For God’s sake, Sergeant!” she protested.“He’s been trying to kill Anya.”

“Delusional,” muttered Reeve, with a pityingshake of the head.

Natalya balled her hands. She felt an over-whelming need to pierce his composure. “Howdid it feel,” she asked, “when your marriagefailed so publicly? I bet it stung. The great suc-cess story, the self-made millionaire, and hecan’t even make his marriage work. I bet youhated Anya for that. For making you look like afailure. Didn’t you?”

He didn’t react, but Schwarz did. “This isn’thelping,” he told Natalya.

“As for the method,” she continued, raisingher voice, “who better than you to make agenetic weapon? . . . Oh, I don’t mean that youactually made it yourself—you don’t have thetechnical know-how, do you? But you’ve gotthe connections to get hold of a filovirus, andthe money to hire a good gene-splicer.Someone willing to do your dirty work for you,no questions asked, as long as the money wasgood. And I bet the money was good. Verygood. That’s something you have no shortageof.”

“If you repeat that allegation,” said Reevecalmly, “I’ll sue.”

“It was clever using different viruses for thetrial runs,” continued Natalya, unable to stopnow she had started. “Testing out the targetingmechanisms while at the same time obscuringthe identity of the real target. Not cleverenough though.” She gave her watch a pointedglance. “By now the police should have inter-viewed your gene-splicer and searched yourhome and your office.”

“Ms. Krestyanova!” Schwartz’s voice wassharp. Perhaps she shouldn’t have revealedthat last bit, she thought guiltily. But it was toolate for Reeve to do anything about it, wasn’t it?

Reeve’s head swiveled toward her. His eyeshad acquired a strange glitter. It occurred to hersuddenly that he didn’t look quite . . . sane.

Then Schwarz’s comm unit light winked redand a man’s voice said faintly, “Schwarz?

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Evidence retrieved. Arrest suspect at once.Acknowledge.”

The policeman lifted his wrist to his mouth.“Acknowledged.” Pulling the restraints from hisbelt, he advanced on Reeve.

The industrialist looked at Natalya,shrugged, withdrew his fist from his pocket,and opened his fingers. The gesture was soundramatic, so ordinary, it caught Natalya offguard. The hesitation cost her, and even as shedived, hands reaching, she knew she’d be toolate.

She landed awkwardly on the tiles, the thudof the impact almost drowning out the faint tin-kle of glass shattering. Her right cheek stungand she touched it then looked at her fingers:blood. Pulse pounding, she retrieved a tinyshard. It had been a small glass phial.

Natalya looked up at Reeve, who a worried-looking Schwarz was clamping into restraints.

“Too bad you won’t be around much longerthan your cousin,” he said. Then he smiled.

For a moment Natalya could only gape athim, then she rose, crossed to the nurses’emergency call button, and pressed it. In thedistance, an alarm began to sound.

“Get on the comm, Sergeant,” she toldSchwarz with a calmness she didn’t feel, “andtell them to quarantine this area. He’s justreleased a virus.”

atalya gazed at Emma through theglass. They had put her in the isolation

unit next to Anya’s and brought her colleagueback from Messier B.

“It’s the same filovirus that infected yourcousin,” came Emma’s voice over the speakersystem. She paused then said awkwardly, “I’msorry, Nat.”

Natalya shrugged. She had expected asmuch. “How is Anya?”

“A little better. Litton’s research notes haveproved a godsend—the doctors are alteringtheir treatment regime. Her blood pressure’sstabilized, which is a good sign, but she’s notout of the woods yet.” Emma sighed. “Youknow these filoviruses.”

“Intimately, unfortunately.” Natalya tried toconvince herself her thumping headache was a

reaction to stress and not the first symptom.

s the hours crawled past, boredomalternated with terror. At first, Natalya

tried to take her mind off her predicament byreading a book, but when she realized she hadread the same sentence ten times and still nottaken in its meaning, she switched off herpalmpad, lay back, and let her eyelids droop . . .

“Wake up, Ms. Krestyanova. Good news.”She sat up with a start and blinked at the

grey-haired doctor standing beside her bed.There was something different about him. Ittook her a moment to identify what it was—hewas wearing ordinary hospital whites.

“Your cousin’s much better.” He beamed ather. “She’s going to make a full recovery.”

“That’s wonderful!” Hope surged through herbut she fought against it. Just because Anyawas recovering it didn’t mean . . . “Why aren’tyou wearing a full protective suit?”

“It’s no longer necessary. Your colleague atthe LCDC has just sent over the results of heranalysis and it seems Litton’s gene-splicer dida better job on the filovirus than even hisemployer realized.” The doctor chuckled.“That’s what happens when you pay for thebest.”

A baffled Natalya stared at him. “You saythat like it’s a good thing.”

“In this case, it is. The targeting mechanismis so precise it even includes Anya’s sexualpreference.”

“But she’s—”“Straight and you aren’t. My point exactly.

Litton didn’t know his virus cared about thatone way or the other. He thought allKrestyanovas were equally vulnerable. He waswrong.”

The doctor talked on, his eyes bright withadmiration for the skill that had gone into tailor-ing the genetic weapon, but Natalya was nolonger listening. A feeling of intense relief wasspreading through her; she was going to be allright.

atalya finished showing her temporaryreplacement how the system worked,

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then wandered over to her colleague’s desk.“You’d better not stay away too long,” hissed

Emma, shoving back her hair and grimacing atthe sheep-faced young man now blinking atNatalya’s screen.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I have to beback for Reeve’s trial—Anya and I are witness-es for the prosecution.” She wondered whethershe was making a fool of herself, travelling allthat way with no guarantee things would turnout the way she wanted them to.

“If it’s any help,” said Emma, divining herthoughts, “I think you’re doing the right thing.Asking Milena in person rather than over theVidlink will show her you really mean it.”

“What if she doesn’t want to make up andcome home?”

“If she wasn’t still interested, she wouldn’thave kept calling me to find out how you are,now would she?”

Emma’s expression was smug. WhileNatalya was in isolation, she had taken it uponherself to contact Milena and tell her whatNatalya was facing. At first, Natalya had beenannoyed with Emma, but now . . . Her recentbrush with death had revised her priorities.

“Maybe,” she said.“Anyway,” continued Emma, “even if things

don’t work out, at least you’ll have tried, Nat.‘Fortune favors the brave’ and all that.”

Natalya rolled her eyes. “Since you’vemoved on to platitudes, I’m leaving. Got a trainto Kondratyuk to catch.” She checked herwatch. The journey by monorail was long andcomplicated, but if the two of them ended upback together it would be worth it. “Wish meluck.”

“With the train schedule or with Milena?”asked Emma, grinning.

“Both.”

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urtain opens on bed-room set. Comfortable

double bed with cat lazing on itdominates stage left; stagecenter there is a wardrobe;right is occupied by a comput-er work station, seated atwhich is a woman, SAM, indressing gown.

SAM: <Reading from thescreen to an unseen KAREN>Apparently GW’s latest nomi-nee defined what was normalwhile in college.

KAREN: <Offstage> No doubt with God’s help.What did he decide it is?

SAM: I don’t think it’s us.

KAREN: <Offstage> Damn!

Sam hits save on the screen and turns in swiv-el chair to face the door.

SAM: I know. I’m disappointed too.

KAREN: <enters> NO! Not that. This bloodybread maker is still too hot from the last lovelyloaf I made. I’ve fed it all the ingredients andnow it won’t let me set the program to start bak-ing!

SAM: Give it a few minutes to cool and tryagain.

KAREN: No. I have to be up early.

SAM: Presumably without the gourmet “show”loaf you promised to take to the party at work?

KAREN: I’ll make it when the cat gets us up atsix o’clock.

SAM: Us? You must mean you and the cat. Ifyou have to get up at six for bread, then you’redoing it without me.

KAREN stands beside SAM. She leans over inwhat soon becomes an embrace.KAREN: If you’re not happy here, I wouldn’twant to stand in the way of your happiness. Offyou go! Pack your bag!

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15 Khimairal Ink

SAM: Hugging me while you’re saying this is abit of a mixed message.

KAREN: If you chose to take it that way.

SAM: But you already mixed the ingredientsand the yeast, right? So what happens if it sitsthere all night?

KAREN: I’m going to bed. I am not going to beruled by a bread maker.

SAM: But this is your lovely cheese and herbbread to impress your lowly peons!

KAREN: I am going to bed.

SAM: <sighs> What program are you using . . .

KAREN: You press menu twice, then pressstart, but you see, it WON’T!

SAM: It will when it cools down.

KAREN: <with a kiss> Thank you. Then I’mgoing to bed.

KAREN shuts off light and begins to undress.She pauses. Sam is sitting in the chair, armscrossed, looking expectant.

KAREN: Why are you still sitting there?

SAM: Floor show.

KAREN: Don’t you . . . do that.

SAM: You mean, watch you?

KAREN: YES!

SAM: Being a sex object after five years is agood thing.

KAREN: No, it isn’t.

But KAREN continues to strip off her clothes.SAM: Absolutely lovely.

KAREN: Look. I won’t have you leering and

drooling. Turn around.

SAM: I defy you to find any drool anywhere.

KAREN: It’s all over. Drooling down all horribleand nasty. Horrible Person. I’m getting in bed.

KAREN lifts blankets and slides under the cov-ers. She looks up to see SAM has shut off thecomputer and moved to the side of the bed.

SAM: Move over.

KAREN: I thought you were going to take careof my lovely bread?

SAM: I will. But in exchange I demand cuddlingtime.

KAREN moves aside and Sam drops dressinggown and slides in. Cat grudgingly moves aswell.

KAREN: You’re disturbing the cat.

SAM: The cat is already disturbed.

KAREN: Years of living with you. I know howthat can happen.

SAM: The cuddling makes it worthwhile.

KAREN: True.

Their heads are now close together and theyspeak quietly.

SAM: Only because I love you.

KAREN: Silly old moo.

SAM: I object to each of those words.

KAREN: You denying that you’re old? Silly? AMoo?

SAM: You’re a silly old bear.KAREN: <Growls>

KAREN rests her head on SAM’s shoulder and

16 Khimairal Ink

both close eyes. Then Sam lifts her head.

SAM: I need to make excelsior for tomorrow.Can I have your shredder?

KAREN: What . . . are you talking about?

SAM: I want to shred that paper I bought for theegg baskets I’m making for the Easter party atthe home.

KAREN: Then why not say that?

SAM: It was a perfectly logical sentence.

KAREN: It was not.

SAM: The shredded stuff you put the eggs in iscalled excelsior.

KAREN: Maybe on your planet.

SAM: Excelsior.

KAREN: Yes, dear.

SAM: A banner with a strange device.

KAREN: Now you’re completely logical.

SAM: It’s a poem by Longfellow.

KAREN: Suddenly normal is becoming veryattractive.

SAM: Normal would have you alone in this bed.

KAREN: And the bad part of that would be . . . ?

SAM: You’re arguing a lot for someone whowanted to go to sleep and get up early.

KAREN: Why couldn’t you just say, “I’d like tohave your shredder to make some paper shredsfor some Easter baskets for my old people.”Instead of blathering on.

SAM: My sentence had less words and wasmore precise.

KAREN: Not if I don’t know what you’re blather-ing on about.

SAM: I thought you’d know. You’re the one withthe English Lit degree.

KAREN: Yes, and it’s about useful subjects. Notwhat you blather on about.

SAM: I am not blathering!

KAREN: And how am I going to get to sleep ifyou keep moving around and yapping awayabout shredded paper?

SAM: I agree. Less talk, more cuddling.

Again they settle in together. This time it isKaren who lifts her head.

KAREN: Is the back door locked?

There is a pause.

SAM: Possibly.

KAREN: Is it locked?

SAM: I’ll see when I check the bread maker.

KAREN: I don’t want anyone breaking in.

SAM: Maybe they’ll steal the bread maker andsolve all my problems.

KAREN: If someone breaks in and steals thebread maker, you’ll have many more problems,believe me.

SAM: The insurance will cover it.

KAREN: If you leave the door unlocked, theinsurance won’t cover it.

SAM: Nonsense. Even if a door is open, to walkin without permission is unlawful entry and totake something is theft. Got to be covered bytheft insurance.

KAREN: It isn’t.

17 Khimairal Ink

SAM: We’re in the house, we have a right tohave the door unlocked.

KAREN: It isn’t covered.

SAM: Is in Canada.

KAREN: If you hadn’t noticed, this isn’t Canada.

SAM: So, in Britain, if some guy comes to someold ladies’ door and says he’s the meter reader,shows some card, and while she’s making teafor him, robs her of everything, the insurancecompany will say, “we won’t pay because you’restupid?”

KAREN: It’s negligence on the part of the policyholder.

SAM: The insurance companies would be incourt all the time trying to prove or disprove stu-pidity on the part of policy holders.

KAREN: Just lock the door.

SAM: Why are we talking about theft? I’d havethought you’d be more worried about somebodysneaking in and coming into the room and going(makes PSYCHO’ stabbing noises.)

KAREN: That too. Actually about now, I mightwelcome it.

SAM: I will repeat this again, aren’t you trying togo to sleep?

KAREN: Yes, but you keep going on aboutshredded paper.

SAM: I am not going on. You keep dredging itup.

KAREN: You can’t seem to say things clearly.

SAM: Then I will be very clear. May I borrow thepaper shredder tomorrow?KAREN: Of course.

SAM: We have now dealt with the shredded

paper. We have pressed it through the finestscreens, sifted it excruciatingly carefully andremoved every nugget that could be gleaned.

KAREN: So you say. Now you’ve upset the cat.<to cat which is standing on their bodies andglowering down at them both> Do you want togo out?

SAM: I know I do.

KAREN: I was just getting comfortable and youhave to move.

SAM: I am not a mattress.

KAREN: Of course you are. Let the cat out ifyou must get up.

SAM extracts herself from under KAREN andswings legs over the side of the bed.

SAM leaves room with cat sulkily followingbehind.

KAREN: Did the poor little mite go out?

SAM: <from offstage> The poor little mite slunkout with that charming air of “I despise you andI am going to a bigger house with nicer peopleand better food.”

KAREN: Are you going to start my lovely bread?

SAM: <enters and puts on dressing gown>No.I’m only heading toward the kitchen now to seeif an inter-dimensional portal has opened up inthe living room.

SAM exits.

KAREN: Did it work?

SAM enters bedroom and takes off dressinggown.

KAREN: Did it Work?SAM: You mean that grinding mechanical breadmachine type noise you hear? No, that’s just myteeth.

18 Khimairal Ink

SAM stands beside bed, which is now com-pletely covered by sprawling KAREN. SAMwaits.

KAREN: Yes?

SAM: Is there any room in there for me?

KAREN: No, I’ve decided I need all of the bed.

SAM: Interesting decision. It will not stand up toreality.

KAREN: I am not fond of this reality.

KAREN moves over and SAM gets back into thebed.

SAM: So you say. Often.

KAREN: Lie flat, and stop moving about.

KAREN prods and pushes SAM about untilKAREN’s head is resting on SAM’s shoulders inthe right position.

SAM: Comfy?

KAREN: If you’d stay still.

SAM: My mother didn’t raise me to be a mat-tress.

KAREN: Poor thing.

SAM: My mother?

KAREN: Her too. I feel her pain. Now be quietand don’t talk about shredded paper.

SAM makes strangled noise.

KAREN: And the door is locked, right?

SAM lifts her head to stare at her resting part-ner.KAREN: What?

SAM: You! You’re enough to drive me normal,

you know that?

KAREN: I love you too.

SAM ruefully shakes her head. They kiss, longand lovingly.

SAM: Goodnight, Love.

KAREN: Goodnight.

Lights dim. There is silence until . . .

KAREN: The door is locked, right?

Curtain closes.

19 Khimairal Ink

20 Khimairal Ink

hen you’re goingto tell a story, for

instance, it’s better to under-stand from the beginningthat it will become a part ofyou. If you know that right offthe bat, then there is a goodchance that you won’t fightthe particulars when theyseep into your memory andbones; you won’t be embar-rassed by the tenderness itcan bring. After a certainage, stories become thesolid part of living, taking upspace where there was onceschedules and heartache. Awell-told story has a skinabout it that will hold youupright against a lonely nightor a raging betrayal. It willbleed for you and, in somestories, bring you just the right amount of lovefor the day, not to mention an interesting pointor two. Story telling, like the one I am about totell you, is sometimes meant for the faint ofheart; the romantic who will sacrifice a fewspare moments for a sweetness that can onlybe found in the words of a stranger.

y aunt, Lillian Sly, was a woman without

the borders of convention. In 1952, when shewas twelve years old, she announced to herfamily and friends—including the minister at theFirst Presbyterian Church—that she would nolonger answer to her given name, Lillian. Ifthose who knew her would not call her “Lil” thenshe could not be held responsible to answerthem. Oh, at first, her mother and father thoughtlittle of it, perhaps even found it a bit endearing.However, her older sister, Margaret, had asomewhat sordid theory. She believed, or at

W

M

21 Khimairal Ink

least she told everyone, that Lillian had slippedfrom the doctor’s grasp and onto the floor dur-ing birth and that was the true malady fromwhich her sister suffered. Although it was nottrue, Margaret felt relieved when her friendsshined sympathy rather than disgust upon herfor having such an odd and boisterous sister.Well, the family spent weeks humoring myaunt. Then it turned into an irritating attempt toremember what to call her and ended with anexasperating outburst on an otherwise quietSunday afternoon.

“Lillian,” my grandmother bellowed, “I amyour mother and I will not call you by any nameother than your full name, which is a beautifulname; one that I picked out, although yourfather wanted to name you Ruth. Calling you Lilmakes me think you should be wearing a feath-er boa and belting out bar songs in a saloonand I will not let that thought keep me awakeevery night for the rest of my life. There is noLil, my child, only ‘Lillian,’ and you are her.”

Well, my aunt promptly ignored my grand-mother and, consequently, spent the next sixnights during dinner in her room. My grandfa-ther, the voice of reason, gently spoke to hiswife at the end of a very long and disturbingweek of evening meals.

“Mary, honey, we cannot continue to keepthe child from dinner, can we? Don’t you thinkwe need to be concerned about starvation atsome point? She looks a little skinnier to meand . . .”

So it was, that Lil came to dinner the nextnight. And for every day and night thereafter,she would be known, and called, Lil Sly.

Aunt Lil was a square girl who would growup to be a big, strong, and agile woman. Shewore what she wanted, despite the cajoling ofher mother and embarrassment of her sister,and she drank heavily at any early age. In highschool, her friends were college women andpeople with jobs in odd places. Her best friend,incidentally mistaken as her boyfriend foryears, was Simon, a lanky mortician with a per-sistent rash on the bridge of his nose from thickblack glasses. They would talk for hours aboutmathematics or Europe while playing chess atthe dining room table.

Lil could make me hysterical when I was a

girl by imitating my mother; nose in the air witha look that always suggested there was dogshitsomewhere within stepping distance of hershoe. She was a loyal friend and companion, asmart and worthy opponent, and a womansteeped in esteem, although God only knowswhy. It is like that sometimes. Out of an ordi-nary seed, some act of mystification will collidewith a natural kind of fate to form somethingprecious yet, unbreakable. She had no looks tospeak of and could not have cared less whatothers thought of her. She never raised hervoice that I can remember and was more hon-est than any other living soul. That is why it wasno surprise when the nineteen year old Lildecided to tell her family what it was that shehad discovered about herself in 1959.

It was on a Friday in May and, just like everyother day, Lil had walked home from her facto-ry job at the Staley plant. Her heart, however,was weary on this particular afternoon from try-ing to get out of her chest and onto her sleeve.Like sleeping on the unused side of a well-wornbed, she couldn’t quite get comfortable in thecovers of her skin and finally she knew why. Foryears, she had known that she was not likeother women and it had taken her the betterpart of that time to figure it out. Despite hermother’s pleadings, she had never had aboyfriend and had never wanted one. That partwas simple enough and she rarely thoughtabout her future and whether or not she wouldbe lonely. Still, Lil yearned for a life that was notyet defined and she had no words for it, at leastuntil that Friday.

Earlier on that day, Lil sat in the break roomdrinking the remnants of a cup of coffee shehad nursed for most of the morning. The hang-over and late night she had was making it hardfor her to give a damn one way or anotherabout much of anything. Co-workers, Toni andLana, walked in the door, followed by a few ofthe other women coming in for morning breakas well. Whether it was fate or God or stars col-liding is still a mystery but, in the shortest blinkof an eye, Lil glanced up in time to see herfuture in the shape of one Patsy McGuire. Now,that may sound like a dime store novel but mostof life, when told properly, has a lot of dimestore qualities to it so bear with me.

22 Khimairal Ink

Patsy was a gum-chewing, lipstick-lacedbeauty with an easy gait that caused most peo-ple to stop and take notice. She wore brightscarves and tight sweaters with men’s pantsand red fingernail polish. Rumor had it that shewas a war-bride-turned-widow but the truth ofthe matter was that Patsy had never been mar-ried and, believe me, it wasn’t in her plans. Lilfelt her stomach stir and, for a moment, consid-ered that it might’ve been last night’s highballs.But, as she watched Patsy saunter across theroom and throw a knowing glance right back ather, she knew it wasn’t the booze at all.Sometimes, when some thing so small occurs,you might wonder if your life would’ve come outthe same if that moment—that event—had nothappened. Thankfully, you never know theanswers to such questions.

The full feeling of a heart finally set intomotion is an enlightening experience. Lil staredat Patsy and every other woman in the roomuntil she came to understand what she hadsomehow always known. Life had finally right-ed itself for my aunt and now she had to goabout making that life, not with the man of hermother’s dreams, but with the woman of herown.

First, however, she had to set the recordstraight.

When Lil walked in the front door of herchildhood home that afternoon, she bellowedfor anyone who could hear within a city block. “Ineed a family meeting after dinner.” Then shepicked up the phone and called Simon first, andthen my mother, Margaret, telling them that shehad an announcement and wanted them tocome over right after dinner. My mother hadmarried my father nine months before and wasnow very pregnant with yours truly, due anyday, but she agreed to be there at six-thirty.After all, it wasn’t every day that Lillian Sly wasgoing to speak to her family and hardly any ofthem could contain their curiosity. Precisely onthe half-hour, everyone gathered with their cof-fee in the living room and my Aunt Lil deliveredthis speech.

“It’s a simple thing I am about to tell you andyou may not understand it. I have come toknow something about myself that you shouldall know as well so you will never have to won-

der about me. I do not like men—no offense,Simon—at least, in the ways that most womendo but I have discovered that I do like women—in that way. Therefore, I will not be looking for ahusband, no small surprise there, but willchoose a mate that pleases me from my ownsex. There is no one in particular that I amready to discuss with you at present but, nowthat I know my true nature, I would expect thatI will find my . . . woman . . . in the near future.”Lil sat down after speaking what was on hermind and, to this day, my mother still swearsthat you could hear a hummingbird suckling twohouses down.

It is safe to say after that fateful day, the dis-cussions about Lil went on for years but shewas not usually in the room at the time. Oh,there was the initial uprising of drama but that’sthe dime store stuff I spoke of earlier. Mostly,our family was in shock to the point of beingstupefied and by the time they were thawed, Lilwas in earnest pursuit of Patsy.

Besides, someone actually living an honestlife in the Sly household was a novelty andthere was much to learn from it. I would ventureto guess that Aunt Lil’s frank revelation broughta whole new closeness to my nuclear familyand, if they would’ve had the presence of mindto say it, might’ve thanked her for the fodder. Asit was, they just holed up in their houses at theend of the day and whispered aloud what theywere truly thinking.

“How do they . . . ?” “Where does she . . . ?”“Can you imagine . . . ?”

But how can anyone truly imagine anotherperson’s unbridled joy? And, oh, how joyousthey were. Eighteen years, almost to the day, itwas that Lil and Patsy were together till 1977when another act of fate split the pair likeripened halves of a Christmas walnut. It was aday when the particulars of an event wouldbring my Aunt Lil into a moment of pain thatwould last her lifetime.

Early on a Saturday when they were sup-posed to go to breakfast with my mother andfather, Patsy woke up before sunrise, complain-ing of stomach pains. She got up to find Tumsand Aunt Lil rolled over to sleep. Two hourslater, at six o’clock, Lil found Patsy dead on thebathroom floor from a massive heart attack.

23 Khimairal Ink

She was forty-three years old.Now, when the heart resigns itself to sorrow,

its veins and arteries are filled with a dense andlugubrious grief that changes the very sound ofits beating. It is that solemn change in the beat-ing of life that keeps you in mourning long aftersomeone is dead. As you might’ve guessed,this thick-blooded presence became my AuntLil. She walked the streets at night and stoodknee-deep in the lake on the west end of town;she sat in the last row of any place she wentand did not return phone calls to anyone.

She listened for Patsy and forgot to eat; shedrank until she fell asleep sitting at the kitchentable and didn’t shower before going to work.She lived without being present until the dark-ness passed and she finally stopped strugglingto see Patsy in everything around her. Life wasdifferent but it slowly began to crawl back intoits rightful speed. Aunt Lil grew past Patsy’spassing but not her memory. She put away herintimacies, trading them for a careful and thor-ough stance in my eighteen year old life; a lifethat was, well, that’s the next part of the story.

here are times when the first thing thathappens is the last thing you expect.

Then there are other times when the things youthought could never happen, do. Both of thesetruisms applied to my parents, Douglas andMargaret Atwood, or Dusty and Mitts, as theyaffectionately referred to each other. In 1958,the first time these two recent college gradu-ates had sex—after marriage, of course—theygot pregnant with me. Then in the late 70s,when all of my friends were getting married, Isat down with Dusty and Mitts to inform themthat I was a lesbian. My mother commentedthat she did not know how such a thing couldhappen again in one family and wondered if itwas in our genes or the result of some vitaminthat she had taken while pregnant.

My father asked me to go fishing.“Uh, Dad, I said, I’m a lessssbiiiiiaannnn. I

like women, not fish.”Thankfully, that was the end of that discus-

sion. After the initial quaking wore off, my fami-ly settled into a generic acceptance that therewere two lesbians in the family; one at full gal-

lop and the other at the starting gate. My grand-mother was sure that having Aunt Lil as one ofmy role models had somehow affected my abil-ity to be straight but I knew the truth.

I knew back in 1971, when I was twelveyears old, that the sound and feel of womenwould define me and draw me into a place ofsensual refuge. The alternative was just tooawkward and unnatural to consider. My parentsnamed me Shirley Delores Atwood after theactress Shirley Temple but, like Aunt Lil, I wouldforever be called Leedee because anythingelse would, well, just be too awkward andunnatural to consider.

People call me a “beauty,” like my mother,and I could sense her uneasiness with theclose resemblance ever since she found outthat I was girl-crazy. It doesn’t fit to her that abeautiful woman, especially one who looks likeher, would only have eyes for another woman.

Me, on the other hand, I live for that.I was—and am—an admittedly hopeless

romantic. Back then, I was frequently in loveagain for the last time, and my Aunt Lil wasalways there with a word of encouragementwhen I needed it. As far back as my memorystretches, she and Patsy were my mentors, rolemodels and surrogate parents. After I had iden-tified myself as a lesbian and Patsy had died,Lil and I became even closer. I knew that Isomehow reminded Lil of Patsy in those firstfresh days of grief and, while it might have beena painful awareness for her, she ultimately tookcomfort in that fact. She looked so intently atme sometimes, like she was catching a glimpseof a familiar ghost, and then she’d fall into a dis-tant stare, shaking it off after a moment or so.Lil never told me what she was thinking atthose times. I guess I mostly believed thatPatsy was sending her grief-stricken lover amessage that there is memory and connectionafter death, that she is never far away, and thatlife is worth living because of those very facts.After all, most of the things that we truly knowwe learned from those who are already gone.

As the grief of Patsy spread through me, Icame face-to-face with greatest loss of myyoung life, my apparent inability to love. Nevertruly loving is a cruel and square thing. It ishard-edged and razor sharp. Even thinking of it

T

24 Khimairal Ink

caused me to stumble inward without directionand lose balance. My greatest fear is that Iwould never know the kind of love that I sawbetween my aunts and how I ached to have thekind of love that they had experienced. I want-ed someone to caress my fingers and bring mespring flowers for no reason at all; someone Iwould long for until she filled the void that noone else could touch. It seemed, however, thatI was just slightly off the mark when it came tofinding a mate, especially after Patsy died. Thewomen that I had chosen were strongenough—beautiful in ways that I liked—butwhen it came right down to it, each one of themhad that “something” about her, something thatI could not put my finger on, that did not makefor a lasting relationship. Then again, maybe itwas not the women I had chosen at all. Maybeit was me who placed each relationship under amicroscope until I could label it “broken” andshelve it with the rest of the experiments.

It’s a sure-fire way to stay away from peopleif you think about it.

Anyhow, ten years and three broken rela-tionships later, I was twenty-nine years old andsure that I was putting out signals of despera-tion or some other dysfunction but Lil didn’tbelieve that was the case.

“You’re just not ready to see it yet, Leedee.”She told me this one rainy afternoon while

we were having a late lunch at Swannies’ barbeside the plant where Lil worked.

“What ‘it,’ Lil?” I asked.“Ah, well now, there’s the question, isn’t it,

Doll?”“Okay, what’s the answer?”Lil thought for a good long while before she

finally spoke.“Sandra Dee’s lips.”Pause.“What?”“Sandra Dee’s lips.”Well, she had said it again and it made no

more sense to me than the first time that shesaid it.

“I don’t real . . .”“I had looked at Patsy for months before I

truly noticed her, you know? And, when I finallydid really see her, the first thing that I noticedwas that she had lips like Sandra Dee. Now I

can’t tell you why that affected me the way it didbut I can tell you that, once I saw her lips, all Ithought about was kissing her. After that, therest was easy.”

Easy? We obviously didn’t know the samewomen. Just as I was about to speak, Lil raisedher hand to stop me.

“Just hang on, Leedee, and see if you canmake sense of this. I don’t mean that the rela-tionship was easy. Lord knows, in eighteenyears, Patsy and I had our ups and downs. Buteven when things were tough, we managed.That’s because we had found something ineach other when we first met that was unlikeanything else we could’ve found in anyoneelse. We hung on to what we’d found, knowingthat it could never be replaced. That’s whatkept us—or any other couple for that matter—together. Take your Mom and Dad, for instance.Who but Dusty could put up with Mitts, right?When you or I look at your mom, we see a pris-sy woman with a wide board up her butt butyour dad? He sees a young and winsome promqueen with gorgeous eyes. When he remem-bers what he loves about her, then he remem-bers to honor her and makes room for her oddand quirky ways. Now, there’s a love that lasts,Leedee; an unconditional love that has a longmemory about the best of who we are. I got toknow the woman behind the Sandra Dee lipsand, as a result, fell in love with so much more.”

As my aunt spoke, I remembered the num-ber of times I had seen my father softly touchthe tiny lines beside my mother’s eyes with hisforefingers and whisper, “Beautiful,” as hepassed her in the kitchen or hallway. I feltrelieved and embarrassed about realizing theintimacies that I had witnessed for years andwanted to say so but Lil began to hone in onwhat her point truly was—me.

“I’ve watched you move in and out of rela-tionships with some pretty fine women, Honey,but never one that you truly saw for who shewas. It always looked as if you were working sohard at having the ‘relationship’ that you forgotthat you were supposed to be loving somebody.Before you choose another woman, you maywant to know her well enough to see what it isthat attracts you. Be ready to accept her as sheis, not how you want her to be. That way, when

25 Khimairal Ink

things are tough, you will think the best of herby remembering what you love about her. Therelationship will take care of itself.”

She was right, of course.Born a romantic, I also knew that I was less-

than-stellar in the romance department; alwaysgetting hung up on the details without trulyenjoying the ride. But what if I stopped weigh-ing and measuring every last ounce of eachrelationship? Wouldn’t I have to be vulnerablewithout knowing that things were going to workout? That’s like trusting God or somebody tomake sure that the “right” thing is happening tome.

And why in the world would I do that?Lil read my mind as I was sorting through my

possible changes and simply said, “You can’tcontrol anything, Leedee. You can only busyyourself thinking that you can. Love somebody,child. Find somebody who makes you forgetthat you ever wanted any control. That’s thewoman with Sandra Dee’ lips.”

Right again.“What if she dies?” I blurted.If this question startled Lil, she never let on.

She was quiet for a long time before looking mesquarely in the eyes. When she spoke, it wasquiet and sure.

“We all die, Leedee, that’s a fact. Not one ofus will take one more breath than God intend-ed. It’s what we do while we are here thatmakes the difference. And it’s how we lovethose we love that matters. The rest is just icingon the cake.”

My aunt’s words hung with me for the betterpart of a week as I weighed and examined mycarefully measured life. Lil had seemed awfullysure about what I needed but I felt mostly con-fused and preoccupied which is about how Iwas one Tuesday afternoon, standing in anuncommonly long line at the corner drug.Holding an armful of necessities, I shuffledthrough the line as if I were in a concentrationcamp, staring at the tabloid headlines for signsof my life.

“Excuse me?” I heard a voice surface intomy thoughts and furrowed my brow with agita-tion. Mustering my best intimidation, I slowlyturned to level my gaze at the intruder and lether know that I had placed her at end of my “I

don’t give -a shit” list.You may have guessed by now that that is

not what happened at all.She was the kind of drop-dead gorgeous

that only a true lesbian can understand; armsmeant to hold someone and enough legs towrap a body around with a smile that answeredevery question I had. She was unflappable andmy most feeble attempt to give her the “glare”was met with the sweetest dimpled smirk I hadever encountered.

“I . . . uh . . . well, you shou . . . er . . . can I. . . hmmm . . .”

I seemed to have lost my ability to speak andshe, standing there grinning, was quite contentto let me flounder. That is a trait that I can hon-estly say she still has to this day, twenty-sixyears later.

Now, sometimes, the particulars about astory aren’t always important; it’s more the out-come that’s likely to stand out. I could tell youabout our first kiss or give you the details of ourlengthy and sometimes turbulent courtship. Icould spin you a yarn about our many fights orfill you with information about how Mitts andDusty loved Kit as their own. All of it, however,would pale in comparison to telling you what wecreated and accomplished in our life together;that together we somehow became lovely andinvincible; we defied the laws of emotionalgravity and wound up asleep in our own well-worn bed.

From the moment that I knew Kit, I never lostsight of my aunt Lil’s words to love and cherishwhat I loved about her. Years later, watchingher in the garden or seeing her doze in herfavorite chair, I am struck by her profile, herhands, and the comforting memory of herbreath in my hair. My “Sandra Dee lips” are thesoft lines around her ever-twinkling eyes andthe softness of her cheek. Those particulars ofhers have been my mainstay for all these manyyears, I am a better woman for it, and I owe thatbit of insight and wisdom to my aunt Lil.

ust like any other ending that catches peo-ple somewhere between the head and

heart, this one is just what you’d expect.Six months ago, Lil called Kit and me to

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come to dinner at her home. It was the middleof the week and, as anyone from around hereknows, there must be something brewing if it’sa “weekday” meal you’ve been invited to.

After dinner, Lil sat in her rocking chair and,with a distant light in her eyes, she told us thatit was almost time for her to become reac-quainted with Patsy. The wistful happiness onher face was undeniable as she explained thediagnosis and just how much time she mighthave left. When she finished speaking, shepulled me into her arms—a gesture that shehad become famous for—and whispered intomy ear as she held me ever so close.

“I am not worried about you, Leedee, and Idon’t want you to worry about me either, ok? Iam going exactly where I want to go, youunderstand? And when I do, I promise to take asmall piece of your heart with me to share withPatsy until you join us in a hundred years orso.”

My tears spilled onto Lil’s shirt sleeve as Ihugged her tight around the neck.

“How do I do this, Lil? Let you go, I mean? I’llbe so scared without you and who will keep mealive and strong?”

Lil shook loose from me enough to hold myface in between her big, warm hands.

“Listen to me, Doll, it’s you that’s kept mealive and strong for so long. If not for you, Iwould’ve ended my life years ago from sheergrief alone. You have never stood in my shad-ow, girl. You blazed your own trail. I am just the

woman who helped you find the path. I prom-ise, you’ll be fine.”

Well, it was just two Saturdays ago that I satby Lil’s bed, reading one of her favorite storiesto her. As I paused to turn a page, I glancedtoward the now-small figure propped upbetween the pillows and instinctively took herhand in mine. Lil stared straight into my eyesand whispered, “I wish you could see her,Leedee. She’s still got those lips . . .”

After those words, she barely uttered asound as she slipped into the next world wherePatsy, my grandparents, and my father werewaiting to greet her. The room was strangelystill and I realized that my life would sound for-ever different now that Lillian Sly had left it.

And the same is true about a good story aswell. Once it’s spoken, it permanently alters theway we listen to the next thing we hear ormaybe it changes the way we love. Howeverwe are affected, it is in the telling of such thingsthat will make us who we are for all to see. And,if we’re lucky, it may also make someone fall inlove with the shape of our lips or cause us toremember a beloved aunt who taught us themeaning of life.

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al Zeeran clasped theBronco's steering wheel

with one hand while she swipedat the tears on her cheeks withthe other. Moisture overflowedher gray eyes faster than shecould clear them. A highwayrest stop, set in a thicket oftrees, came into her blurredview, and the danger of drivingwhile crying urged her into theexit lane. She pulled into theparking lot and turned off themotor.

Propping her elbows on thesteering wheel and splaying herfingers through short, darkcurls, she bowed her head andlet the sorrow wash over her.Eventually, she fumbled blindlyfor the overhead visor, flipped itdown, and yanked tissues fromthe attached holder. Get a grip,woman, she thought. You'rethirty-five years old and actinglike a baby. When her tearsended, she dried her face andpeered at her surroundingsthrough swollen eyes.

V

Weathered wooden picnic benches squattedamong the trees in a loose semicircle thatlooped around a bright yellow cement-blockbuilding. Squares of tan, crisscrossed slats

enclosed the restroom entrances on oppositesides of the building, with oval signs identifying“Ladies” on the left and “Men” on the right.

Val appeared to be the only visitor to the rest

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stop. She trudged toward the Ladies sign,passed the slatted wood, and entered thegreen door. Overhead fluorescent tubes lit theplain white interior, illuminating three stallsopposite the door and two sinks against the leftwall, with a mirror above them.

Val used a toilet, then washed her hands ata sink. She looked into the mirror with a gri-mace at her mournful appearance, then heranger flared. Dammit, Marti, you should behere with me. We were supposed to be on thisvacation together.

She flung cold water on her face, dried itroughly with paper towels ripped from theirholder, and went back outside. Fidgety withnervous energy, she angled through the tablesand stomped along the perimeter of the tree-covered area. Near the highway's edge, apatch of fuzzy brown material dangled from acable that stretched between the I-beams. Shewas too wrought up to be curious, but her trektook her closer to the material. She gazeddown at it, taken aback for a moment by itschildlike shape. A lump formed in her throatwhen she recognized it as a teddy bear.

Marti collects teddy bears . . . Forget aboutMarti!

The bear's covering had retained most of itsbrown coloring and fuzzy texture, but a clumpof cotton stuffing, gray and lumpy, spilled froma burst seam. Val surprised herself by untan-gling the bear from the cable and pulling it closeto her body. She walked to the nearest picnictable and laid the bedraggled bear on its top.Then she swung her legs over the attachedbench and sat down.

Poor Teddy. Where's the child who caredabout you? Did she get angry and throw youaway? Like Marti did to me? Val's gutwrenched. She was as much to blame for theirseparation as Marti, maybe more so. But thatdidn't stop the hurtful thought.

She settled her forearms on the table andstared at her clasped hands. Marti would wantto take the bear in and heal its wounds. Likeshe healed me. Old memories reeled slowlyacross the screen of her mind-taking her backfive years . . .

oneliness drove Val to the poetry clubmeeting. Her partner, Erin, had often

dragged her to the monthly meetings where afew professional, but mostly amateur, poetsmet. The members discussed poetic form andfunction, read their original works to each other,and tried to be supportive while honestly cri-tiquing each other's efforts. Following the meet-ings, they socialized over coffee and donuts.

But six months ago a drunken driver hadripped Erin and her poetry from this earth, andVal had struggled ever since to cope with aworld dimmed by her partner's loss. Now hereshe sat at the Poetry Club, thoroughlyengrossed. A woman about her own age, withlong, blonde hair and sensitive brown eyes,was reciting a poem that dove directly into Val'ssoul.

The world turns dim and cheerlessWhen the sun begins to set;Predicting nightfall, with its dreamsOf sorrow and regret.

You brought your light to my life,And spread sunshine from above;You led me from destructive pathsAnd helped me learn to love.

Then left me, heart forsaken--Oh! How could you e'er forget?How desperately I need you, when The sun begins to set.

Achingly touched by the poem, Val almostforgot to applaud and barely heard the critiquethat followed. Afterward, the club members andguests moved toward the back of the roomwhere a few tables held refreshments. Valremained hunched over in her chair, staring atthe floor, yearning for her lost lover.

“Would you like some coffee?” The unex-pected voice startled Val, and her body jerkedas her gaze leaped upward. She knew the starkloneliness she was feeling must be etched onher face, for she saw the blonde poetess hesi-tate. Then the woman spoke again. “Sorry, if I'mdisturbing you . . .”

“No,” Val replied. “I mean yes.” She felt her

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face flush, and she stood up so abruptly thatthe smaller woman took a step back. “I mean,no, you're not disturbing me, and yes, I wouldlike some coffee.” She recovered enough graceto extend her hand. “My name's Val Zeeran,and I really liked your poem, Ms . . .”

“Forget the 'Ms.' Just call me Marti. MartiRedmond.”

Val shook hand and then moved with hertoward the refreshment area.

“Thank you for the compliment.” Marti'ssmile warmed Val as they got their coffee andsettled at one of the tables. “I just joined theclub last month. Are you a member?”

Val cleared her throat and stared down ather styrofoam coffee cup. “No. I came hereoften with a friend. She used to write poetry.”

“Used to?”“She was killed six months ago in a car acci-

dent.” Val took a deep breath. It was still sohard to say out loud. Beautiful, loving Erin.Center of my life. Dead. Gone. Forever.

“I'm so sorry.” Marti patted Val's forearm thensqueezed it gently. “Did my poetry remind youof hers?”

“Not really. But your poem expresses exact-ly the way her loss has affected me. I feel aban-doned, bereft. Strangely, though, the poem alsomakes me feel better; as if I've finally taken thefirst step toward acceptance.”

Marti nodded. “I tried to imagine what itwould be like to lose someone you love. I'mglad I've helped you.”

'm glad I've helped you. A stiff breeze rustledthe tree leaves, rousing Val from her rever-

ie, but a smile lingered from her recollection oftheir first meeting. Marti had walked right intothe void left by Erin's passing. She hadn'treplaced Erin; she had formed a place unique-ly her own, and with loving patience, she hadhealed Val's lonely heart.

They discovered that they were alike enoughto get along well together and different enoughto keep their love fresh and interesting. For fiveyears, they had done almost everything togeth-er. They were inseparable.

Then, on Monday, they had a rare argument,and each said terribly nasty things to the other.

Marti calmed down first and wanted to discussit; but Val, the volatile one, refused. Too hurt totalk, she avoided Marti during the day and sleptin the guest room at night.

All week long, neither had talked to the other,and Val vacillated between wanting to patchthings up and getting angry all over again. Thismorning, Saturday, the anger had won, andhere she was, heading alone for the vacationthey had planned together.

If Marti wants to come, she can get there onher own. Val squirmed at the uncharacteristicmeanness of her thought. She and Marti hadnever been mean to each other . . . untilMonday.

Maybe everything could be settled once sheagreed to discuss it with Marti. If I can get theguts to do that, Val thought. But how do I knowwhether she still wants to? Val only knew forsure that the hum of joy she usually felt fromtheir love had turned into dead silence. And thatscared her.

She heard some chattering and saw a fami-ly opening a picnic basket several tables away:mother, father, and three children. The small-est, a boy who looked about five years old,noticed her gaze. While his parents were occu-pied with putting out food, he darted over toVal's table. She smiled at him as he turned afrowning look toward the table. “Your teddybear's broken,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed.He climbed up on the opposite bench and

began to shove the stuffing back through theburst seam.

“What's your name?” Val asked.“Tony,” he replied, intent on his repairs.Val watched him work awkwardly. After his

fourth attempt, he looked up and pushed thebear toward her. “Will you help me?”

“Sure, let's give it a try.” She directed Tony'shands as they pushed the stuffing back into thebear's body, bringing fullness to the arms andlegs as they worked. From the corner of hereye, Val saw the boy's mother point toward her,and the father came over. Val looked up at him,and the man nodded and smiled, which shetook as permission for her and his son to con-tinue their project. Finally, although the openseam still gaped, all the stuffing had been

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replaced. The bear actually looked halfwaydecent. She debated whether to give Tony thebear, and then decided he shouldn't be offereda gift from a stranger. “Thanks for your help,”she said.

Tony looked at her with obvious delight thatthe bear was in better shape. He touched thesplit seam with a careful finger. “He needssomething to heal his hurt.”

Val sucked in a quick breath, then nodded.“You're right. He needs sewed back together. I'llhave to get a needle and thread somewhere.”The boy smiled, climbed down from the table,and slipped his hand into his father's. Val metthe man's eyes. “Your son's a very caring boy.”

“Thank you,” the man said, then he and Tonywaved and walked away.

Val sat at the table for about ten more min-utes, musing over Tony's last remark. Howmany little kids ever say “heal”? It mirrored herown thoughts when she first saw the torn andbattered teddy bear. Was it some kind of omenthat he happened to blurt out that specificword? Or just a coincidence?

For Pete's sake, woman. You could sit herefor eternity mulling over this. Get off your duffand get going. Clasping her fingers across thebear's burst seam, she picked it up. Shereturned to her car, laid the teddy gently on thefront passenger seat, and drove away.

Two hours later, Val stood in front of her andMarti's apartment door, with the teddy bearpropped in one arm. Uneasy about entering,she pushed the buzzer instead. She heard anoise and knew Marti was looking through thesecurity peephole. She held her breath, won-dering if the door would even be opened. A clickrelieved that part of her apprehension, butwhen the door swung in and a sober-facedMarti appeared, Val had to force her voicethrough a tightened throat. She pointed a fingertoward the broken teddy bear. “Here's some-one who's hurting and needs help to gethealed.” Then she aimed the finger toward her-self. “Two someones.”

Marti’s brown eyes gazed at the forlornteddy bear then back at Val. One corner of hermouth twitched, whether from amusement ornervousness, Val couldn’t tell. But Marti openedthe door wider. Val, her heart thudding so hardshe thought it must be visible, stepped throughand held out the teddy bear. She nearlymoaned when Marti moved forward andembraced them both.

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32 Khimairal Ink

Barbara DaviesBarbara Davies lives in the English Cotswolds. Her fiction has appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’sFantasy Magazine, nanobison, Neometropolis, Spaceways Weekly, Andromeda Spaceways InflightMagazine, Shred of Evidence, and HandHeldCrime, among others, and in the anthologies F/SF Vol1, Crossings, and Ideomancer Unbound.

Sias BryantSias Bryant is quite possibly the busiest writer in her own head that you would ever want to meet.In her writing, she is wild about quirky romantics, odd women of questionable repute, and otherwiseindustrious, wise o' dames. Look closely and you will see her just about everywhere you go. Sias isthe one in comfortable shoes who most likely gave your lesbian aunt her first real kiss.

Kam CaddellKam Caddell is an ex-pat Canadian, living very happily in England with a partner who bearsabsolutely no resemblance whatsoever to any character in any short story. At all. Kam creates activi-ty and exercise programs for nursing homes and prefers editing other people's work to writing.

Nann DunneNann Dunne, an editor for 28 years, turned to fiction writing eight years ago and considers herself aconstant student of the craft of fiction writing and editing. Her published works include several shortstories and the novels, True Colours, Many Roads to Travel, and Staying in the Game; her mostrecent novel is the historical romance, The War Between the Hearts. Nann is Editor-in-Chief andpublisher of the online newsletter, Just About Write (http://www.justaboutwrite.com), which promoteslesbian writers, books, and publishers and offers articles aimed at improving the writing craft.

Trish EllisTrish Ellis is a Canadian girl who has lots of passion for her art. She started drawing at a very youngage, learning new tips and techniques throughout the years making her a stronger artist today. Herstubborness not to accept failure helps her strive to be the best that she can be.

T.J. MindancerMindancer sharpens her pencil and puts it to paper for relaxation and for the occasional illustrationemergency.