The Empty Warrior

by J. D. McCartney

  O’Keefe’s eyes followed the direction of her arm. “That’s the boat house,” he answered.

  “You must have an awfully big boat,” she said in a tone that suggested he might be teasing her.

  “Well,” he said, chuckling at her innocent suspicion, “there’s more than one in there.” He suddenly realized that he was close to smiling and quickly replaced the expression with a scowl. He had no business smiling.

  Julie turned to look down at him, an expression that might have been concern etched across her face. “How can you live out here all alone and go out on all these boats. What happens if you fall in the water?”

  “Like most people,” O’Keefe said, returning to his customarily caustic locution, “I wear a life preserver, and my arms are fine. See?” He held his arms out before him, palms facing outward, and spread them wide as if he were doing the breast stroke.

  “At least you take precautions,” she said sweetly, apparently undaunted by his less than pleasant response. “So what kind of fish do you catch out there?”

  This damn girl has more questions than the SAT, O’Keefe thought irritably. But before he could answer there was the sound of speed over dry grass as the dogs broke from beneath the evergreens and ran along the side of the mountain toward the overlook. Ajay carried a large rawhide chew between her teeth while Bizzy sprinted along beside her, lunging every few strides, trying to grab one end of the toy in his jaws. He barked excitedly with each failure, while Ajay growled and periodically shook her head from side to side, attempting to make it more difficult for him to grasp the precious object which she carried. They came to a halt near the platform, next to the spot where the inclination of the slope increased to the point that it was nearly impossible to cross. An immediate tug of war ensued.

  “Stupid dogs,” O’Keefe muttered, his near smile of a few moments before almost returning before he quickly quashed it.

  “I take it they’re yours,” Julie observed.

  “Oh, yes,” O’Keefe answered, bemused by their antics. Growling fiercely, both of them now pulled against each other with front paws splayed and hindquarters high in the air, taking turns shaking the bone and trying to tear it loose from the jaws of the other, while neither was apparently in any mood to release the filthy prize.

  “They’re so silly,” Julie cried happily, laughing. “I had a dog once; when I was a little girl. She was part Lab and part who knows what. I named her Molly. She was either lost or abandoned, but she had no collar and since no one ever came for her my mother let me keep her. She was such a good dog.” She spoke wistfully, her eyes on O’Keefe but focused on the past. “I’d have a dog now, but I’m out of town so much. And even if I wasn’t it wouldn’t be fair to keep one cooped up in my little apartment. But I’ll have a yard someday,” she said assertively. Abruptly she refocused on O’Keefe’s face. “Are they like, allowed up here?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said, nodding. “Would you like to meet them?”

  “Yes,” she drawled, smiling coyly. “I love dogs.”

  O’Keefe moved his chair to a spot near the railing that was closest to his pets and shouted though cupped hands. “Hey!” The dogs ignored him. “Hey, you two! Ajay, come here!” The Weimaraner reluctantly dropped her end of the rawhide bone and began to trot toward O’Keefe while Bismarck started to turn and run with the prize. He was frozen after two steps as O’Keefe sternly shouted his name. “Drop it,” he commanded. The big shepherd remained where he stood, looking back at O’Keefe, but still balked at releasing his grip on the chew toy. “Bizzy, drop it now!” O’Keefe repeated slowly. At last the dog unhappily obeyed. “Now come here!” Bismarck unwillingly turned and left the toy, following in Ajay’s wake while twice looking longingly over his shoulder at the dirty, saliva covered strip of dried, dead cow; a bounty he had fought for mightily and now hated to leave behind.

  Moments later both dogs had ascended a flight of stairs that led to the boardwalk and were approaching the overlook. Ajay crossed immediately to O’Keefe and assumed a protective position, sitting at his feet, directly between him and the stranger while eyeing her warily. Bismarck on the other hand ignored him entirely, trotting over to Julie as if she were his best friend. He slipped his nose beneath her hand and pushed upward on her palm, an overt gesture he had learned would almost always get him a good petting.

  Julie was more than willing to comply, crouching in front of him, taking his massive head between her hands, and gently scratching behind his ears while mouthing what amounted to baby talk about what a sweet dog he was. Bizzy was in heaven. He craned his neck ecstatically at her touch, and the moment she attempted to stop her ministrations he reached out with a big padded foot and pawed at her hands. She laughed gaily, childishly, and continued with her affections.

  “He’ll keep you there for a week if you let him,” O’Keefe warned, and at length called the dog away. He incited him, repeating several times the catch phrase “Go get your bone” in an agitated manner, until Bismarck ran from the deck down to where he had left the chew toy and plopped down to begin blissfully gnawing on it.

  Julie approached Ajay carefully, cognizant of but not unduly alarmed by the dog’s distrustful nature. After allowing her several sniffs of her outstretched fingers she slowly and softly ran them from front to back over the Weimaraner’s short-haired head. The dog acquiesced to her touch but could hardly be called enthusiastic. “She’s really a sweetheart,” O’Keefe said, somewhat defensively. “She’s just a little overprotective; doesn’t like strangers around the property too much.”

  “Yes, you’re a good dog,” Julie whispered. “You love your daddy, don’t you? Yes, you’re a good girl.” After a few more moments of petting the slightly uncomfortable dog, Julie backed away and returned to her spot at the railing while O’Keefe shooed Ajay back down to the slope where the battle for the rawhide chew commenced anew, as Bizzy headed for the trees with it as soon as he noticed Ajay approaching.

  Julie stood silently for several minutes afterward, staring out over the mountains and the lake below until O’Keefe again felt the vague discomfort of being in the presence of a person who was still, despite their exchanges, more a total stranger than not. He wanted to speak, but all the words that entered his mind seemed rehearsed or foolish. At last he fumbled for a cigarette and lit it, not because he really wanted the noxious tobacco stick, but just because his hands had felt suddenly empty.

  Abruptly Julie broke the silence. Without turning to look at him she spoke as if addressing the breeze that still tousled her hair. “You have such a great place. This is exactly what I want someday, except I’ll have horses instead of boats.” As O’Keefe was thinking bitterly that he too would like to have horses if only he were still able to ride, she turned to face him. “I’m glad Melissa asked me to fill in for her,” she said, and O’Keefe got the distinct impression that she really meant it. “I was a little scared coming way up here by myself even though she said you were really cool. But I’m glad I did it now.” O’Keefe nodded but remained silent, and she turned back to the view and her ruminations.

  Finally she picked up her glass, which had been sitting atop the railing, and turned it up to pour the last bit of wine between her lips. She approached his chair, and, walking behind him, bent over to wrap both arms around his neck. He could feel her hair spill over his head; feel the softness of her skin against the whiskers under his chin, the warmth of her breath on his ear. “So are you ready for me now?” she asked softly.

  Desire sullied with guilt raced up and down O’Keefe’s still functional neurons. He reached up with one hand and caressed Julie’s forearm, then took her hand in his. Somehow he managed to croak out an affirmative. At that she stood, pulled back her hand, and turned to walk away toward the house with O’Keefe following close behind.

  Once inside, she turned toward him but gazed at the floor, seemingly discomfited. “I hate to ask right now,” she said, “but everybody tells me that I have to get paid first,
no matter what. It’s like the number one rule. Is that okay?” She stood with her hands clasped behind her, biting her lower lip again and still staring at the floor until he answered.

  “You’re a little new at this, aren’t you?” O’Keefe asked.

  “A little. But I’m still good; everybody says so.”

  “Look,” O’Keefe groused, “I didn’t mean anything negative, okay; I was just wondering. And I know the drill about getting the money up front; it’s not a problem.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip, counting out ten one hundred dollar bills. When he looked up, Julie’s unease had vanished to be replaced by eyes that looked hungrily avaricious. She took the money, turned, and bent to stash the bills in her purse.

  “Melissa didn’t lie,” she said, her back still turned to him. “You are cool.” Once the money was secure she straightened and turned back to face him. “So, like where do you want me? In here?”

  Self contempt flooded up from O’Keefe’s bowels, swamping his mind in a miasma of shame at what he was about to do. He swallowed and found his throat suddenly parched. Where was that damn beer? There it was, on the table beside him, resting on an oversized coaster, right where he had left it. He reached for it and poured some of the now warmish liquid between his lips. It foamed as it cascaded toward his belly. But at last he was able to answer, if only in a raspy, uncertain voice. “Sure,” he said. It was the only word he could manage to push from between his quivering lips.

  Julie placed her fists on her hips, feigning vexation, before bending at the waist until she could place a tiny kiss on O’Keefe’s forehead. Then, holding his face upturned toward her own with a tiny fist under his chin, she touched noses with him, and whispered. “Don’t be shy, sweetheart. You’re the boss. Just tell me what you want.”

  O’Keefe unconsciously licked his dry lips, and then spoke. “Why don’t you… lose that dress,” he said, trying his best to exude the quality of a male in charge. But the words scraped against his eardrums; sounding only pitiful, abrasive, and lewd.

  Julie didn’t seem to care though, or even notice. Turning her back to him, she sat on her heels in front of his chair. “Why don’t you… unzip me?” she asked, mimicking his previous tone and cadence. He did so, and as she stood the dress fell about her ankles where she deftly lofted it up onto the sofa beside her bag with a kick of one high-heeled foot. She wore nothing beneath it save a tiny black thong.

  “How about these?” she asked, pulling out one strap of the panties and snapping it against her hip. O’Keefe nodded and the thong slid down her legs as well before ultimately landing atop the dress. “Anything else?” He shook his head in reply. “Oh, you’re my kind of man,” she murmured seductively. “Stockings and heels should only come off for sleep, not sex. So what now?”

  O’Keefe dropped his eyes to the floor and again swallowed hard. He did not think much of himself for what he desired, and he did not like to be reminded that he desired it. It made him feel lecherous and depraved. It was easier when the girl already knew what he wanted and just did it, at least that way he could pretend that it wasn’t all his idea. It was that way with Melissa, and he suddenly missed the familiar routine he had established with her.

  So he did not answer immediately. Instead he reached for another smoke, holding the flame to its end with a trembling hand. She’s just a whore, he reminded himself. She does worse things every day for less money than what you’ve already given her. She wants you to tell her what to do, so just do it and get it over with. You don’t have to care about what she thinks. Finally he spoke, not making eye contact. “Just lie back on the couch and spread your legs,” he said, the words lacerating his throat on their way to his tongue. “Then do what comes naturally.”

  He was suddenly stung to the core. No matter how he tried to rationalize his wants, the truth was abruptly laid bare by his own utterance. The sum total of his existence hung in the air before him. He was only here to watch. He was an impotent, lascivious, lonely old cripple, nothing more; and he was paying a young girl for the memory of something he would never enjoy or even experience for as long as he was unfortunate enough to live. His ribs filled to bursting with pain and self-loathing. He took a deep drag off the Marlboro, and blew the smoke off to one side as he exhaled. This time the nicotine did not make him feel any better.

  But Julie made no move toward the sofa. Instead she approached O’Keefe and stood next to his chair, softly stroking his thinning hair with one hand. “Melissa told me you like to watch, and I’ll do it for you later if you want,” she said softly. “But let me sit with you first.” When he made no answer, she added a high pitched “Please” and stood closer to him until at last he nodded his assent. She took the cigarette from between his fingers and turned to stub it out while he unlatched the hinges on the arms of his wheelchair and lowered them to either side. At once she straddled the chair and plopped down on his lap, facing him.

  When she was seated, O’Keefe was terribly unsure of what to do with his hands. In the end he rested the right one lightly on her left hip. The other fluttered, seemingly without volition, at his left side while his fingers moved spastically until at last he laid them noncommittally across her thigh. She laughed lightly, took that hand in her own, and placed it over one of her breasts, holding it there with both of her hands.

  “There,” she breathed softly, “isn’t this better than just watching.”

  O’Keefe so savored the simple pleasure of a human touch that it was all he could do to murmur a confirmation. Yet he remained utterly flaccid. He could not feel it, but he knew it to be true, and that knowledge burned in his brain. None of this matters, he silently screamed. I’m incapable of satisfying either of us. The cruelty of it all brought the sting of salinity to his eyes, but no tears fell as he clamped his eyelids shut and concentrated instead on the wonderful feel of Julie’s nipple beneath his long deprived fingers.

  As he did so he felt the soft touch of her lips against his ear, heard her whispery voice. “I thought you might like this, sweetheart,” she said. “I know I do. I love the way you touch me. And I’m here just for you. You just take your time and touch me anywhere you want. We’ve got all afternoon.”

  The rigid tension that had held O’Keefe’s torso like a vise began to lose its grip as he slowly began to relax a bit. He pulled her closer with a muscular right arm, exchanging the tenuous touch of his hand on her hip for a more confident clasp over her buttocks.

  “Oh, you’re making me hot now,” she purred.

  Tautness returned to every usable muscle in O’Keefe’s body like a steel trap snapping shut on its prey. “Oh, right,” he said cynically, dropping his hand from her breast. “I’m a cripple, not an idiot.” And you’re a hooker doing her job, he added to himself. Just trying to make half a man feel good, aren’t you?

  “Shush,” she said, taking the hand he had moved into her own. “I may be a good actress, but not even I can fake this. I’m totally wet. Feel for yourself.” As she spoke she pushed his hand down between her widespread legs.

  O’Keefe briefly ran his fingers through her pubic hair, surprised at how filigreed and soft it was, before he entered her with two fingers. As he did so he could feel the stiffening of her spine; hear the hissing intake of breath between her teeth. And she was wet, very wet. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he slowly slid his fingers into and out of her. With each inward stroke her breasts pressed more tightly against his chest.

  “I want you to do me,” she breathed. “Right here, right now. I don’t want you just to watch. Do me yourself.”

  O’Keefe wanted to howl in frustration and despair, but could not bring even his voice to rise. Instead he said softly, “I can’t,” and felt as if he were whimpering. “Why do you think I’m in this chair? Nothing works below the waist. Nothing!”

  “I know about that, but you can still be in control,” Julie insisted. “Roll up to the sofa and lean me back.” He did so, moving his chair forward a few feet
and then taking her by the wrist with one hand as she bent backwards, reaching over her head to retrieve her bag from the sofa. When she was again securely seated on his lap, she pulled an enormous flesh colored phallus from inside the purse. She raised its tip to her lips and sucked on it seductively for a moment before placing the prodigious plastic penis into his palm. Then she kissed him with what seemed to O’Keefe to be real passion before leaning backwards again to rest her shoulder blades on the sofa cushions while her buttocks remained atop O’Keefe’s unfeeling knees. She smiled a bit and looked up at O’Keefe. “Now give me what I want,” she said sensuously, and spread her legs even wider than before.

  By the time they had finished, the light of the sun had dimmed to tangerine rays angling in low over the mountaintops. O’Keefe had tipped Julie another three hundred dollars and she lay, still stripped to her stockings, on the sofa, smoking; while O’Keefe nursed another beer and his own cigarette. He took a long, deep drag from the Marlboro, watching the paper kindle closer and closer to his fingers before he removed it from his lips and sucked the last bit of the smoke from in front of his mouth down into his lungs. Julie watched him intently. “You really like smoking, don’t you?” she asked.

  No, O’Keefe thought. I really like committing slow motion suicide. I’m just too cowardly to actually do it any other way. But he kept the sarcasm to himself. “Yes,” he answered at last, not lying but not really telling the truth. “It’s one of the few vices I can still enjoy.”

  “Did you enjoy me?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said dispassionately. But you will never be with me, his mind continued; denying the unfamiliar glimmer of hope for a future that had somehow posited itself deep within his innermost being. If it weren’t for the money you wouldn’t even be here today, he thought. If you had simply passed me in the store, you would never have even spoken to me. I’m a cripple, you’re a hooker, and you’ll never be my girlfriend or my wife or anything else except an impossible fantasy, bought and paid for, that I indulge in every so often. Things won’t change, he told himself, starting into the mantra that he had silently repeated so many times over the years. My spinal cord is mangled, I will never walk again, I will never make love again, but I am alive. Deal with it. And he inhaled another lung filling cloud of smoke.