On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  They were picking at crumbs and sipping at the last driblets of the wine when Helen pushed back her chair and stretched.

  "The thing about working in clothes that I'll never get used to is the heat. Management thinks we have to keep it high so customers trying things on won't get chilly, but the store help is fully dressed all the time, and we swelter."

  Christine giggled. "I got hot trying things on, too."

  "I know, and I've told them so a hundred times, but they don't listen to me. I need a bath. Care to join me, Chris?"

  Louis had known it was coming, and was braced for it. He held his expression so rigid that his face threatened to crack and fall off.

  Christine apparently took no notice. She yawned and stretched. "Sounds good. Where to?"

  Helen gestured. "That way. I'll be right behind you." As Christine rose and moved off, Helen turned to Louis and murmured, "You'll be all right here by yourself? We could be a while."

  He allowed himself to exhale. "Certainly, Ma'am. I noticed your bookshelves on the way in. I'll stay occupied."

  She fixed him with a no-nonsense look. "Drop the 'ma'am,' Louis."

  "Uh, okay, sure thing."

  She smirked and followed Christine down the short hallway to her bedroom.

  ***

  The bathroom attached to Helen's bedroom boasted an oversized Jacuzzi-style tub, quickly filled but large enough for two adults. The warm, lilac-scented water was a blessing after the morning's efforts. In a better world, she'd have a tub in her office.

  Within minutes, Christine became a picture of relaxation. Only her head showed above the bubbles from the aerators. Her eyes were closed, and her expression spoke of a state of bliss. Helen smiled to herself.

  "Time to neaten up." Christine looked up as Helen took her razor from the accessories rack and sat on the edge of the tub.

  Helen noted the younger woman's gaze following the razor as it glided over her legs. She enjoyed shaving. It left her feeling very clean and feminine. When she had rinsed, Christine rose from the water, sat next to her and said, "Show me, please?"

  "Why, certainly." She knelt before the younger woman and began to shave her calves. Christine's expression of dreamy contentment returned as Helen labored over her.

  Helen had intended only to teach Christine this element of feminine grooming, but Christine's obvious pleasure in her ministrations was too flattering to resist, and she wound up doing the whole task herself. When she had finished Christine's thighs, she paused, then trimmed away the longer hairs at the edges of Christine's pubic mound. A slight shiver ran through the younger woman's frame, but she said nothing.

  As Helen rose and turned to put her razor away, Christine said, "You've left a lot of hair there," and pointed down to her mound.

  After a pause, Helen said, "You're right, how careless of me," and began to shave Christine's pubic hair away. The young woman closed her eyes again and relaxed completely, occasionally stretching a little in contentment. She began to purr.

  If Helen Davenport did not trumpet her bisexuality to the skies, neither did she trouble to conceal it. Yet she had not intended an erotic adventure when she had volunteered to help Louis with this task. Christine was too hurt, and too frightened, for such a thing to have crossed her mind.

  Even so, Helen could not mistake the invitation Christine was offering, and the younger woman's shy sweetness was more than she could resist. When she had removed the last of Christine's pubic hair, she clasped the younger woman around the buttocks, and lowered her head to the treasure she had bared.

  Christine floated on currents of pleasure. Helen's tongue, probing in the folds of her labia and brushing gently over her clitoris, was the finest thing in all the world. Her hands went to the sides of Helen's head and held it between her thighs, as her new friend demonstrated the difference between an act of degradation and an act of love.

  ***

  Louis had refrained from watching the clock, from pacing, or from pondering the events in the bathroom down the hall, events he had helped to arrange. When the two women returned arm in arm, in identical white terrycloth robes, he noted only how happy they both looked.

  "Are we ready to return to the work part of the day, ladies?"

  Christine smiled. "Helen has the nicest tub. You'd like it a lot, Louis."

  The older woman nodded. "I'm sure you would."

  He forbore to comment. "We have shopping left to do. And I think I left my credit card in your office."

  "Of course you did. Would I have allowed anything else? Chris, go get dressed and we'll go back to the store. I'll be right in."

  The younger woman giggled and ambled back down the hall. Louis pitched his voice low. "Everything all right?"

  "Oh my, yes." There was a luminosity to Helen's expression that made Louis's heart surge. "She's awfully sweet, isn't she?"

  "She could break any heart in America, scars or no scars."

  Her mouth quirked. "She's right, you know. You'd like my tub. And I think I'd like to enjoy it with you some day."

  His breath came short. He controlled himself with some effort. "That would be very nice. A rain check, perhaps?"

  "Certainly, dear. Limber up your shopping muscles. We have a lot left to do."

  ***

  It was early in the evening when Louis and Christine returned to the house on Alexander Avenue. The truck was weighed down with their purchases, and both of them were as worn out as Albrecht's and Helen Davenport could manage.

  Six thousand, one hundred and thirty-seven dollars. Dear God.

  They had parted after a flurry of plans and promises, and Louis knew that Christine and Helen would not let him forget them. His finances might have been depleted somewhat, but his luck was running strong.

  They unloaded the truck into the living room. It took several trips. As he dropped the last of the packages on his sofa, Louis collapsed into the tiny space left on it and said, "You know, my main fault has always been lack of planning."

  Christine was puzzled. "What do you mean?"

  "Why didn't I empty a closet for you before we went shopping? I knew well enough that we'd need one."

  Christine didn't giggle as he'd expected. She regarded him solemnly for a long moment, then dropped to her knees before him and took one of his hands between her own.

  "Louis, do you want anything from me? Anything at all?"

  She wore the forest green suit, her declared favorite among her new outfits. In the soft light of the evening, her scars stood out as if illuminated from within, creating a vision of loveliness and pain. The effort in her voice made him want to cringe. He leaned forward and brought his hands together to enfold hers.

  "No, Chris, I don't want anything from you, except that you become strong and confident and happy. Would you do that for me? Become those things?"

  She blinked back tears, nodded once, rose and ran for her bedroom. The slam of her bedroom door shook the house.

  Louis took a deep breath and rubbed his temples. He surveyed the room, littered with the trophies of their day. Garment bags and shoe boxes were strewn over every horizontal surface.

  "I suppose unpacking can wait for tomorrow."

  ***

  Helen Davenport lingered at her evening ablutions, taking an absurd amount of time and care over everything, as if she planned a glamorous evening out rather than an immediate retirement to her bed.

  It had been quite a day, no doubt of it. She'd gotten an unexpected degree of pleasure out of putting aside her managerial persona for the day and reverting to a saleswoman. Her eye and her taste were what had gotten her into fashion retail in the first place. It was gratifying to confirm that they still worked as well as ever.

  Nice to have that kind of raw material to work with, too. It isn't every day I get a customer like that, and carte blanche on the costs.

  Helen found herself thinking about the purchaser much more than the customer. That shy smile of his was enough to melt rocks. His protectiveness over h
is ward was incredibly endearing. "Ward" was exactly the right word for the relationship between them. Helen had no need to ask Christine whether they'd slept together; the possibility didn't exist.

  Men like that are supposed to be extinct.

  Get real, Helen. He's younger than you are, and obviously unattainable.

  Well, I can dream, can't I?

  She smiled to herself, closed the drawer of her vanity, and went to her bed. There would be nice dreams tonight.

  ====

  Chapter 11

  Louis was washing the previous day's dishes when he heard Christine descend the stairs, enter the kitchen, and seat herself at the table.

  "Good morning. Did you finish the book?"

  "Yup."

  He turned from the sink to reprove her. What he saw made it impossible.

  "That's not standard breakfast couture."

  "Huh?"

  He went to stand before her, arms crossed. "Breakfast is traditionally eaten in pajamas or a robe, at least around here. Not in a white linen suit and high heels." He noticed then that she'd buttoned the jacket unnaturally high. Her hair was too tousled to have been washed or brushed. Beneath the hem of her skirt, her legs were bare. "I don't believe I heard the water running. Have you showered yet?"

  "Nope."

  "What have you got on under that?"

  Her mouth curved in a wicked grin.

  "Chris!"

  "All right, I'll go shower. Give me twenty minutes before you start the eggs." Still grinning, she scampered from the room, entirely too pleased with herself and close to breaking a heel. He shook his head and returned to the sink.

  She seems to get a lot of mileage out of teasing me. I suppose it's harmless enough.

  She returned as promised twenty minutes later, just as he'd started frying French toast for the two of them. She was again in the white linen suit and heels, but groomed for the day, and with the normal complement of accompanying garments. She fetched plates and utensils and set the table as he finished preparing the food.

  He served them both. She waited for him to sit before picking up her fork and digging in.

  "So? What did you think of the book?"

  She started to answer through a mouthful of food, then thought better of it.

  "You can chew and swallow first. We have time."

  She did as he suggested. "I didn't get the point. He set those two guys up just to shoot them down. It was awful the whole way through. Why write about something like that? Hey, wait, it was just a story, right?"

  He nodded. "Just a story. But it's considered an American classic. Now you tell me: what point do you think he was trying to make?"

  Her face contorted and her eyes darted back and forth. "I don't know. It was like he was saying that nothing they could do for themselves could change their situation. They were doomed."

  He nodded. "Were they the only characters in the story that you could say that about?"

  "No, he described Curly and his wife that way. And the other hands, too. At least they talked like that."

  He nodded again. "Prisoners of fate. What qualifies a man to be a prisoner of fate, Chris? Do you think it's something you could predict about someone, if you knew the right things about him?"

  "I don't know, maybe. But it would have to do with him, not with the situation. The guys in the book seemed to be trapped by a situation. That's bullshit."

  "Chris!"

  "Well, isn't it?"

  He grimaced. "Well, yes, but there are a lot of less vulgar ways of putting it. Let's call it 'fatalistic nonsense.' "

  She shrugged. "Bullshit's bullshit no matter how many words you use to say it."

  He threw up his hands in mock surrender. "Have it your way."

  "So what was the point?"

  He sat back in his chair, hands steepled.

  "What did you think of the writing?"

  "It was beautiful. I cried over it a dozen times. That's part of what confused me. He's too smart to have gone for that...fatalistic nonsense."

  Louis nodded. "Don't you think you might be assuming too much?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "A writer doesn't have to believe the things he puts in the mouths of his characters. What's important is that they believe them, and act on them."

  "Oh." Her expression became thoughtful. "He could do that, couldn't he?"

  Louis chuckled. "Yes, he could. He didn't even have to use his imagination for a lot of it. He was writing about a very hard time, when a lot of people had it tough and many of them had lost their hope. Stories like that one were acted out in real life all the time."

  "So why did he bother to write about it?"

  He leaned forward. "To capture it. To make it real to people who might never have heard about it otherwise." He reached across the table to draw a fingertip down her scarred cheek. "To reach across most of a century and make a sweet young woman cry."

  "Did you cry when you read it?"

  He nodded. "Like a river."

  "Is that why you called it a classic?"

  "Partly. It's no easy thing to do that to millions of people you'll never see."

  Her expression had become grave. "I'll bet I could do it."

  "Oh? How?"

  "I'd tell them about the Butchers."

  He nodded, rose from the table, and brought his plate to the sink. He stood there with his back to her, running water over a plate that didn't need it, for perhaps a minute.

  They wouldn't cry, Chris. They'd retch. The best of them would get fighting mad. Most would refuse to believe that such a thing could ever happen to anyone in our enlightened age.

  "Do I get another book today?"

  "Sure." Something a little more cheerful this time. "Let me think about it for awhile, okay?"

  "Okay. Do you have anything planned for the day?"

  He turned to face her. "No, why?"

  She looked off, studiedly casual. "I thought it might be nice if we dropped in on the Father again."

  "Oh. Well, sure, why not?"

  ***

  Father Schliemann ushered them into the rectory's sitting room and bade them be comfortable with his usual combination of warmth and Old World courtesy. Louis chose one of the armchairs. Christine sat in the other. The priest sat before them on the battered old sofa. Curls of steam rising from the coffee service on the sideboard indicated that he had prepared for their arrival.

  "How have things been going for you, Louis?"

  Louis shrugged. "No real changes since we last spoke, Father. Mostly, life just goes on."

  "Yes, it has a habit of doing that." The priest's gaze lingered on his face for a moment before moving to Christine. "And what about you, child? Has my friend here been taking good care of you?"

  She nodded and turned to Louis. "Would it be okay if I talked to the Father alone for a little bit? I don't mean to be rude."

  He had expected it, and was rising from his chair as her voice trailed off. "Don't let it bother you, Chris. I'll take a walk in the woods. Will an hour be enough, do you think?"

  She nodded gravely.

  "Well, then, you two have a nice chat. I'll be back at about eleven. Take good care of her for me, Father."

  He closed the rectory door behind him with unusual emphasis, so they'd know he had left, and headed for the woods behind the building.

  Wish I'd thought to bring a book. Damn.

  ***

  Schliemann could see that Christine was emotionally disheveled. The girl had no idea what to do with her hands and couldn't sit still. "Is everything all right, child?"

  "Yes, fine, Father. I mean, everything's great. I feel great, Louis has been super, really super, but..." Her shoulders tightened and she looked down at her knotted fingers.

  "Christine, come sit by me."

  She rose a little unsteadily and went to sit by him on the sofa. He reached to take her hands, and she gave them into his clasp.

  "I'm a Catholic priest, child. We have a practice called
confession. Has Louis told you about it?"

  She shook her head.

  "We know that people sometimes do things that they have to talk about, but that they don't want to become widely known. So the Church trains us in how to listen, and how to keep secrets. You can tell a priest anything, and you need never fear that anyone else will learn it from him. What you tell me will stay between us forever. No one else will ever hear about it, unless you choose to tell him. Not even Louis."

  She said nothing.

  "We're also trained to understand, and to forgive."

  Still nothing.

  "Is there something you need forgiveness for, child?"

  "No!" Her color rose and her posture became defiant.

  He squeezed her hands, and she relaxed. "Then is there something you need help forgiving someone else for?" He paused to let her think. "It's not uncommon, child. And Louis, as fine a man as he is, is still only a man, with all of a man's needs and desires."

  Surprise spread across Christine's face, and she began to laugh.

  Schliemann watched in amazement as the laugh took over her whole body. Tears began to run down her face. It was plain that she was not laughing from a sense of merriment, and it was not a pleasant sight. It went on quite a while.

  She subsided in a last flurry of squeaks and sniffles. "How long have you known him, Father?"

  "All his life, child. I baptized him."

  "And you think he could bring himself to hurt me? You don't know him well enough!"

  Schliemann made a mental note to work on curbing his readiness to jump to conclusions.

  "Maybe this isn't such a great idea." She began to rise, but he squeezed her hands again and she stopped.

  "That's a good trick."

  He smiled. "Yes, it is, isn't it? I've been using it for fifty years. It's amazing how well it works."

  "Louis does something like that with his voice."

  "Really? I'll have to get him to demonstrate it. It's possible that I won't understand you, or be able to help you. I, too, am only a man. But forgive me, please, for suggesting what I just did, and let's try again."

  She looked away for a moment.

  "You said you were trained to understand and forgive. But were you trained to believe?"