by Sandra Hill
"What is impotence?" he whispered in an aside to Steve.
"Involuntary downtime for your..." He waved a hand toward his genital area.
"Former Red Sox baseball player. Navy SEAL vet. Can't get the lead back in his pencil. What a laugh, huh?"
Jorund nodded knowingly, and he did not think it was a laughing matter at all.
"I know much of this ailment."
"You do?" Maggie asked with astonishment.
"Not from personal experience," he was quick to add, "but many of my soldiers suffer from this malady after a particularly gruesome battle, or after serving in too many wars."
He glanced around and saw that he had everyone's attention, even the women. Was he talking too much? He looked at Mag-he and she appeared enthralled, so he assumed he was on the right course to curing himself.
"Are you for real?" But Steve meant no insult.
He was genuinely interested in knowing more, as became evident with his next que. "And how did those soldiers get... better?"
"Well, the healers never did have the answers. But then, they rarely do. Just slap on the leeches and grind up a few powders. As I recall, time was the most important thing."
"It's been ten freakin' years, man!" Steve snared.
Jorund decided to ignore his less-than-respectful tone. "The most important thing is for the man not to believe that he is less than a man. It is a natural condition that will pass, in time, if the man does not let himself think it is permanent. Unless, of course, there was actual bodily injury, like an arrow to the balls, or a battle-ax severing the cock."
Every man in the room cringed and crossed his legs.
"Then, of course, there are some potions that can help, in some cases," Jorund concluded.
"Like Viagra? That's for old men," Steve scoffed.
"Not necessarily," a new voice in the circle offered. It was Hair-vee, a young man who had been counting the lint pieces on his trousers ever since Jorund had arrived. "I tried it once."
"You did?" at least five voices asked.
"Yep. My girlfriend got it for me. Man, oh, man, I had a five-hour hard-on. Shirley was happier than a hog in a mud slide."
"You are such a bullshitter," Steve observed.
"You don't even have a girlfriend," Chuck added.
"What's vie-ag-rah?" Jorund wanted to know.
"You know what they say about the watched kettle never boiling," Hair-vee threw in. "Maybe you've been watching your kettle too much."
"Maybe I'll break a kettle over your head, Lutz," Steve remarked.
Unconcerned, Hair-vee went back to counting, his own teeth this time. It was not a pretty sight.
"I heard some positions are better than others for maintaining..." Rosalyn's voice trailed off when she saw that everyone was gawking at her.
Furr-red, the man holding the two dinner trenchers, bobbed up and down in his seat. He couldn't wait to offer, "A psychiatrist once told me that too much masturbation can make a guy get the technique down so good that no woman can please him."
"What's master-bait-shun?" Jorund asked.
"Jesus H. Christ!" Steve put his face in both hands and groaned. "Please, God, cut out my tongue if I ever decide to say anything to this motley crew again."
"My brother bought an electronic device on the Internet that you attach to your willy." Not-a-lie had stopped humming long enough to offer that sage advice. "It could tell a guy exactly how long his erection lasted, and how hard it was. Honest. Unless he got a shock, of course."
"I wish I were dead," Steve said. Then: "You people really are nuts if you think I'm gonna risk lightning boltin' my dingo."
"I think we've heard enough on this subject for today," Mag-he announced in a decisive voice, her face blushing profusely. From the blush on her face, he figured a dingo must be something sexual... and interesting.
"Fred, what are those lovely plates you're carrying today?" Mag-he asked.
"My name isn't Fred," Fur-red said. "It's Moses."
Oh, for the love of Freyja!
"These are the Ten Commandments," he added, contemplating the food trenchers with the same fondness a mother would show toward a newborn babe cradled in the crook of her arm.
And Mag-he thinks I am in the same class as these muddleheaded fools?
"Natalie, we haven't heard from you today, except for some singing, which was lovely, by the way."
Not-a-lie had her hands folded in her lap, where she kept wringing them nervously. But she did peer up finally and disclose, "I went to the mall with my mother this week."
"Why, Natalie, that's wonderful!" Mag-he said, and started to clap her hands together. As if on cue, everyone else started clapping their hands together, too. So Jorund joined in, as well. He assumed that this hand-clapping was a sign of approval. He had no idea what they were all approving of, but for now he was willing to go along with the crowd, especially if it would convince Mag-he that he was improving.
"I'm a sex addict," the mousy woman known as Rosalyn blurted out.
Everyone appeared stunned by her announcement. Then, one by one, the men leaned forward with decided interest to gaze at the plain wench.
"What's a sex add-hick?" Jorund asked Steve.
Steve jiggled his eyebrows. "A person who can't get enough."
"Enough what?"
The only response Steve gave him was a grin and a jab in the ribs with his elbow.
"Oh," Jorund murmured when realization hit. And he, too, leaned forward for a better view. The wench still looked plain as barley flour, even with her now flaming face.
"Rosalyn," Mag-he said. "You never told us that before. Thank you for sharing."
Mag-he started to clap, and everyone joined in. The men clapped really hard.
"I wanted to tell you, but I was too... too embarrassed."
"Now, Rosalyn, you know that we decided at the beginning of group that there would be no judging of each other... that no one should be embarrassed to disclose anything. Therapy won't work if we're not, all of us, honest with each other."
"Hell, if I can admit I've got a limp wick, what the hell were you afraid of?" Steve asked huffily.
Rosalyn gave Steve a scathing glare.
"Why are you here?" Hair-vee had stopped counting his teeth and was now counting the butt-ons lining the front of his shert, even as he addressed his blunt question to Jorund.
All eyes swung his way.
He wasn't sure what he should say. "I'm here to be, ah, healed."
"From what?" the singer asked, then resumed humming.
Jorund mumbled under his breath.
"What?" They all strained to hear.
"I am Jorund the Warrior, and I come from the tenth century," he practically shouted.
All jaws, except Mag-he's, were open. She just seemed sad.
Then a small voice next to him that sounded very much like a horse neighing commented, "Well, whoop-dee-dee!"
Maggie was leaning over Beth's shoulder that evening while she explained her Internet Web site.
"Orcalove.com is only for kids around my age, from eight to twelve. I want other young people, all over the world, to learn about killer whales. We share information, but mostly we want to increase the number of people who care about them. If we start young enough, maybe our generation will be the one to stop the killing and capture of these creatures."
"You sound like a teacher," Suzy commented from the sofa, where she was supposed to be doing homework. Instead Maggie noticed that the TV had somehow been turned on, to MTV, no less, and that singing sensation, Ricky Martin, was swinging his hips and belting out the sexy lyrics to his stellar hit song from the previous year, "Livin' La Vida Loca." Even Maggie had to stop and look and listen when he came on. Beth, too. In no way did he resemble Joe, as Beth had stated one time, but the singer was very cute.
"So what if I sound like a teacher," Beth protested. "It's important to save the orcas."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Suzy commented to her sister. "Wanna dance?"
"Oh, OK," Beth said. First she saved the information on her computer screen and walked over to Suzy, who was standing in the middle of the small den now, mimicking the movements of Ricky and the scantily clad dancers. The two of them were soon into the salsa beat. "Inside out, upside down, Livin' La Vida Loca," Ricky belted out, while the girls danced on, swinging their hips, lifting a leg, shaking their buns.
"Come on, Mom. You, too," Suzy encouraged. Maggie hesitated a second, then joined them. It took her a moment to get the moves right, but soon she, too, was swinging and swaying to the irresistible beat. When the song ended with a flourish, they all fell back onto the sofa, laughing uproariously.
This was one of those moments out of time that would be impressed on Maggie's memory. It exemplified, albeit in a small way, how she and her girls were happy and contented in their lives. That was so important. More important than money, or... or husbands and daddies.
"Is Joe getting better?" Beth asked, as if reading her mind.
Maggie nodded. "Yes. Yes, he is. Today he had his first group-therapy session, and he did surprisingly well." That wasn't disclosing too much doctor/patient information, Maggie figured. And actually, Maggie was so proud of Joe... not just for his own progress, but for the sensitive way in which he'd treated his fellow patients.
"When he's better, can we meet him?" Suzy pleaded.
"I don't know. Maybe. No promises."
"You know something odd," Beth said. "I forgot to tell you this before, but my friends on the Internet have been reporting sightings of that whale that brought Joe to Orcaland. It's as if it's been hanging around, looking for him."
"Oh, I don't know about that. It could be any whale. How would they know it was this particular one?"
"All killer whales are not alike, Mom. Each has distinguishing marks and coloring. Besides, Joe's whale is odd because orcas rarely travel in the wild in this part of the country. The water is too warm."
"There's probably some scientific explanation," Maggie insisted.
"Or maybe there isn't," Beth countered.
"Why can't you just believe in the magic of it all?" Suzy wanted to know. "Why can't you accept that maybe—just maybe—the orca brought Joe here. For us."
"That would be more than magic, hon." Maggie hauled both Suzy and Beth into a hug on either side of her. "It would be more like... like..."
Maggie couldn't come up with the exact words she was searching for-not fast enough, anyway. But her girls had no trouble. They finished for her.
"Like a dream come true."
Two days later, Maggie was walking outside on the clinic grounds with Joe.
He was alternately staring at the sky and over toward the highway. Though he no longer talked about it, the man couldn't seem to accept the concept of airplanes and automobiles. His face was grim with some private thoughts. Perhaps homesickness. But the home Joe insisted was his, was thousands of miles away, and a thousand years in the past.
Despite that, his progress thus far—ever since he'd started talking—was remarkable, to say the least. If he would stop insisting that he was a tenth-century Viking and tell them who he really was, Maggie would almost believe he had no mental problems at all.
The most gratifying thing about his progress was that he was helping the other patients. Dozens of the resident patients were heavily involved in exercise, and that was always good.
Many of them had already been addicted to soap operas, but now it had become a communal undertaking, directed by Joe. They watched the soaps together, then discussed them, as if these were real-life happenings. Isn't that Victor Newman a selfiimportant dictator? How about that hotty, Brooke Logan, with her penchant for stealing other women's men? Will Reva recover from her latest bout of amnesia?
Joe also had a fascination with the reruns of The Andy Griffith Show. One of the nurses told her that Joe liked the program so much because Barney Fife reminded him of his big-eared brother... a Viking named Magnus.
"I'm going to have to leave here soon," he announced suddenly, sinking down on a bench near a small flower garden.
"I see." Alarm shot through Maggie like wildfire. She sat down beside him and closed her eyes momentarily in dismay.
"I left my homeland on a quest for my father. Much unfinished business awaits me. I cannot dawdle here much longer without making an effort to locate Thora and my way home. If naught else, I cannot risk being on the high seas come winter."
At first, an overwhelming sadness swept over her—that he still clung to these foolish notions. But then inspiration hit her. "I have the most wonderful idea."
"Somehow I misdoubt that your idea of a wonderful idea would coincide with mine... unless it involves sex."
She slanted him a disapproving frown, then continued. "I think we should go on a field trip to Orcaland. It might be just the trick to jar your memories and convince you that you aren't really a time traveler."
He just stared at her.
Disappointment that he wasn't immediately receptive dampened her enthusiasm, but only for a second when she realized he might not know what a field trip was. "A field trip is an excursion away from a facility. Not a permanent release. Just a day trip."
"So you are suggesting that you and I go to Orcaland... to visit the site of my time travel, and perhaps get a glimpse of Thora... and some answers.
She nodded hesitantly. "It wouldn't be just you and me, though. I would have to take the others in the group. I know, I know," she said excitedly. "We could stop by that traveling Vietnam memorial exhibit, as well. The Moving Wall, I think it's called. That might benefit Steve. And later, dinner at that new club, Boot Scootin' Cowboy, would give Natalie a glimpse of how her life could be if she ever realized her dream of being a country western singer. I hear they have live entertainment there."
"Mayhap we could also stop by a farm and let Hair-vee check out the livestock for a new personality. Or perchance Rosalyn the mouse could snag a customer or two for a swiving marathon."
Maggie gave Joe a dirty look. "Your sarcasm doesn't help."
He shrugged.
"This is a good idea. A really good idea," she insisted. "Of course, I'll have to get permission from Harry.—I mean, Dr. Seabold first, but I don't think he'll object."
"Is he your lover?"
"Huh? Who? Harry? No, of course not." She put a hand to her mouth to hide her smile.
"Good."
He exhaled with a loud whoosh, as if relieved.
Good? Why is that good? No, don't ask. It will just start him on the topic of things he and I shouldn't be discussing. But, good?
Changing the subject, she remarked, "Of course, my daughters will be upset that they can't come along. Especially Beth. She just loves killer whales and Orcaland."
Joe drew himself up stiffly. "I give you notice here and now: I am going nowhere with those girls of yours. Not now or ever. Keep them away from me."
Maggie would have been outraged at his maligning her daughters if she hadn't noticed the haunted expression in his gray eyes. In fact, she could swear they were misty with tears.
"Joe... ?" she probed.
He turned his face away from her.
She put a hand on his arm. "Don't you like children?"
Swinging his head, he scowled at her. "Heed me well, wench. Push me too far, and I will not be responsible for my actions."
An alarming question occurred to Maggie... one she should have asked before. "Are you married? Do you have a wife somewhere?"
His throat worked as if he was attempting to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. Finally he answered in a whisper of a voice, "I have no wife."
For some reason that news heartened Maggie. She shouldn't care, but she did.
"Okay, one last question."
"One too many," he grumbled, looking down at his fists, which were clenched between his widespread knees.
"Do you have any children? Perhaps a little girl who resembles one of mine?"
"Your tongue outru
ns your good sense, you foolish wench." He stood suddenly and faced her angrily. A low growl came up from deep within before he informed her in an ice-cold voice, "Seed of my loins exists nowhere in this living world, neither male nor female." With those words hurled at her, Joe stomped off on the sidewalk leading back to the clinic.
Maggie watched him leave. Without realizing it, Joe had given her a clue that might lead to his cure. Children. There was no doubt in Maggie's mind. Children were the clue to Joe's dysfunction.
Jorund's emotions were in a roil the rest of that day.
He exercised on the rowing machine till he thought his arms would fall off. He joined some pay-shuns in a lackbrain game of Bingo. He threw a Freeze-bee in the halls with Steve, till Norse Hatch-her took the circular toy away from him. He Ping-Ponged till his head felt as if it Ping-Ponged. He ate a dinner of burr-eat-toes and salt-sa that about took the lining off his tongue. He viewed "Em-tea-vee" till his eyes burned.
Still, thoughts of his daughters would not go away. Was he cursed for the rest of his life, or mayhap all of eternity, to carry this guilt with him?
It was all Mag-he's fault. Why did she have to probe so deeply?
"What I need is about a tun of mead," he muttered.
"Isn't mead some kind of beer?" Steve asked from the open doorway. "Me, too, then. A cold beer and a baseball game would come in handy about now. Mine would have to be the nonalcoholic kind, though." Without being invited, he stepped into Jorund's room and sank down into one of the two leather armchairs in front of the tea-vee.
"Baseball? Isn't that a game where you hit a ball with a stick and run around a diamond-shaped field? One of the Norses explained it to me."
Steve gaped at him for a second, then laughed. "Hell, don't tell me you've never seen a baseball game. Man, that's purely un-American." Taking the remote control from Jorund's hand, he flicked the channels until he came to one of those baseball games, the Dodge-hers against the Red Sox, and for the next hour he proceeded to explain the game to a fascinated Jorund.
"And you excelled at this game?"
"That was thirty years ago, but yeah, everyone said I was the next Ted Williams."
