“We have a new group member today.” She went around the circle and told Jorund each of their names…Steve, Chuck, Not-a-lie, Rosalyn, Furr-red, and Hair-vee. “I’d like to introduce you all to Joe Rand,” Mag-he was saying.
They all stared at him curiously, and a woman who was as plain as a brown field mouse whistled under her breath, which seemed to surprise everyone. At least it took everyone’s attention away from him.
“Did you say something, Rosalyn?” Mag-he asked excitedly.
The mouse woman kept her gaze downward, as if there were something important on the legs of her gray braies, which she pleated and unpleated in a jittery fashion. She refused to answer. And Jorund noticed something else: there were scars all over her forearms, like cuts from a sharp blade, and small burn marks, too.
Mag-he shrugged at the uncooperative pay-shun and was about to speak herself, but Jorund felt the need to correct something before she started.
“Ah, Dock-whore Muck-bride.” He waved a hand at her to get her attention.
The nervous tapping of her wooden stick on the parchment pad told him she was tense over what he might say.
“My name is not Joe Rand. It is Jorund…Jorund Ericsson.” While he spoke, he stood and went to each person in the circle and pumped their right hands with his right hand in salutation, repeating over and over, “How do you do?” It was a strange ritual, but then there were strange customs in many of the lands he’d visited.
She hesitated at his insistence on using his real name, then agreed with a nod of her head. “Fine, Jorund it is then…unless of course you go by the nickname of Joe, as well.”
“I never have, in the past.”
“Well, it’s up to you,” she said cheerily, as if it were of great import what name he answered to.
“I care not what you call me,” he grumbled. “I am Jorund the Warrior. If you want to call me Joe, it is neither here nor there to me, though I think Joe the Warrior sounds mighty peculiar. By the by, am I cured yet?”
“No, you’re not cured yet,” she declared with a laugh, then addressed the group. “Joe has a great sense of humor. Ha, ha, ha.”
I do?
“Jorund the Warrior, huh?” a man on his other side commented. “You one of them WWF crazies or something?” The man was about fifty years old with a receding hairline but a well-honed body that would do a Norseman proud. He wore the same blue braies as Jorund did…in fact, all the men, and Mag-he, too. His short-sleeved shert carried the words U.S. Navy SEAL.
It was odd this practice they had in this country of carrying messages on their sherts. Jorund had noticed this first at the orca place. Now not only did the man on one side of him wear words on his apparel about seals, but the clodpole on the other side proclaimed on his long-sleeved shert, I Don’t Suffer from Insanity; I Enjoy Every Minute of It.
Back to the seal man. “‘Double-ewe, double-ewe, if?’” Jorund inquired, as if he cared a whit…which he did not. The whole time he was thinking, Good Lord! One of these half-brains thinks he’s a rooster, and the other thinks he’s a seal. What next?
“Cra-aaazy! I’m cra-aaazy for feelin’ so lonely.” Another woman, huddled in a chair in the corner, began to sing.
Jorund almost fell out of his seat at the sudden singing.
The female was young, in her twenties, and pretty in a frightened-bird sort of way. Her voice was rather melodious, but singing spontaneously struck Jorund as rather…well, crazy. Crazy was a word he had learned from the black world box in his room, which he had come to find out was called a tea-vee.
“I go out walkin’ after midnight…” the woman sang next.
He saw no one walking, and it was definitely far from midnight. Jorund glanced around and noticed that no one paid any mind to the singer. It was as if they didn’t even hear her, or mayhap they were ignoring her, to spare her humiliation.
“WWF is the World Wrestling Federation,” Mag-he explained.
At first, Jorund had to think what she was referring to; then he recalled that the seal man had asked if he was in the double-ewe, double-ewe, if.
“It includes professional wrestlers who put on rather flamboyant acts in the ring.”
Jorund had no idea what she’d just said.
“Like Hulk Hogan. ‘Stone Cold’ Steve Austin. Jake the Snake. Or Jesse ‘the Body’ Ventura,” the seal offered.
“I knew a Norseman once who called himself Snorri the Snake; he had a special talent for fluttering his tongue that women especially liked. But he lost a leg in some Saxon battle a few years back. ‘Tis hard to keep track of all the Norse-Saxon battles. There are so many of them. The English weasels are always trying to provoke us Vikings.” Jorund couldn’t believe he was jabbering away like a magpie.
The rooster next to him suddenly became a snake and was darting his tongue in and out of his mouth and making slithering motions with his shoulders. Everyone else was gaping at Jorund as if he’d sprouted three heads, but they didn’t even blink at the snake.
Jorund knew he spoke in what they considered a foreign accent, in words they were unfamiliar with, but really, he was not the odd bead in this circle. He continued expounding: “I can wrestle, of course, but mostly I am just a Viking…a Viking soldier.”
“A soldier!” Steve, the seal fellow on his other side, exclaimed. “Son of a bitch! Don’t tell me you have PTSD, too.”
Jorund gave his attention to the man, who was sitting up straighter now. “Pea-tea-ass-deed?”
“That’s posttraumatic stress disorder,” Mag-he interjected. “It’s a syndrome that many soldiers get after active duty.”
Another person with a sin-drone! Just like me.
“You were a warrior?” he asked Steve. “And you suffer from this Pea-tea-ass-deed?”
“Hell, yes. Along with alcoholism, chronic depression, a broken marriage, impotence, ’Nam shakes, flashbacks, nightmares that could turn your hair white. You name it, I got it.”
“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 query. “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 snarled.
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?”
“Al
l 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 New-man a self-important 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.
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