by Sandra Hill
“See? That’s what I’m talking about.”
“You gotta lick a few warts to find a prince, honey.”
“Yeech!”
“You’re too young to be so jaded.”
Lydia just shrugged. Kirstin was thirty-two, only a few years older than she was. The difference was, Lydia’d had the best. It was hard, if not impossible, to settle for less.
“Who says we’re looking to hook up with men tonight anyhow? Can’t we have a girls’ night out, enjoy a drink, dance a little, without men being involved?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Besides, your son left yesterday for his farm vacation; so, lack of a babysitter can’t be an excuse.”
“But—”
“Okay, truth to tell,” Kirstin sighed deeply, “there’s this guy, and I don’t want to appear too obvious going by myself, and if I just happen to show up with a friend—”
“Enough said!” Lydia laughed. She could recall a time when she’d managed to accidentally bump into Dave. A lot. Later, he’d confessed to doing the same thing. Ah, the games of love! “I’ll go with you, but I don’t want to be stuck there without a car if you do hook up.”
“We can both drive.”
It was Lydia who sighed now and finished the last of her wine . . . for fortification.
She had a feeling tonight was going to be a colossal mistake.
Little did she know.
Down on the farm . . .
On the way to the tavern, Lydia pulled out her cell phone to call her son. Taking into account the time zone, Mike and her family should be just finishing dinner, which was part of a fixed schedule on the farm. If her dad didn’t get his meal by seven, after the evening milking, he was grumpy the rest of the night.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Mom,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, just wonderful, honey. You know how much we enjoy having Mikey here with us. I still say you should move back home, and—”
“Not now, Mom. That subject is a dead horse.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk! Speaking of dead horses isn’t a joke.”
Lydia had to smile. She could just picture her mother, with the old-fashioned wall-phone at her ear. Oh, not the crank kind, but out-of-date, nonetheless, with its finger dial. On the farm, nothing was thrown away or changed unless it was no longer useful. Her mother even recycled Ziplock bags.
Yep, Mom would be standing in the kitchen, which had been painted yellow and had tie-back white ruffled curtains as long as she could remember. And a big pine table and side benches.
“Is Mike behaving?”
"Of course. He’s been helping his PopPop milk, and he’s been a special helper to me collecting eggs. Here, he wants to talk to you.”
“Hey, Mom, did you know a cow’s boobies are called tits?” He giggled, and Lydia just knew he would be imparting this bit of information to his kindergarten class-mates in the fall.
“I knew that, sweetie. Have you seen Grandpa and Grandma Denton yet?”
“Yep, they came over this mornin’. Grandma hugged me so hard I could hardly breathe, but Grandpa jist shook my hand. They wanna go to the fair with us when you come.”
“Oh, boy! You know how much I like the country fair.”
“Itchy entered his pig, Ester. Betcha he wins a prize.” Itchy was the ten-year-old son of Lanny Brown, the longtime hired hand. He was given that nickname when he’d gotten a particularly bad case of poison ivy.
“Is Nana going to enter her pie this year?” Nana was the name given to her mother, so as not to be confused with his other grandmother.
"Yep. Me and PopPop picked two buckets of huckleberries. I ate so many I thought I was gonna pee blue. But I didn’t.” How like a little boy, to be disappointed over the color of his pee!
"Let me talk to PopPop now, and you behave for them, and for Grandma and Grandpa when you go there next week. Do you hear?”
“I will.”
“I love you bunches, sugar pie.”
“I love you more bunches, sugar plum,” he replied, making a kissy sound into the phone.
She clicked off after talking to her father, who related some of the activities related to the ceremony for Dave, including the fact that the local newspaper did a big spread, even mentioning her and her Silver Strand Studio in Coronado. A very patriotic piece. Lydia hated the publicity, but knew that it made Dave’s parents proud, and that was the most important thing. And, frankly, a similar article that ran in the Coronado paper, as well as Stars and Stripes, would probably garner her more business.
As she pulled into the parking lot, waiting for Kirstin to catch up, she realized that she was in a good mood, looking forward to a good time. And that was a new stage for her in her grieving process.
Maybe I’m finally healed.
Vengeance is mine, sayeth some people . . .
“Assalam Alaikum.”
Jamal Udeen glanced up from his computer to see his brother Saluh entering his apartment in Detroit, Michigan. “Wa alaikum assalam wa rahmatu Allah,” he replied. “And to you be peace together with God’s mercy.”
Jamal turned back to his work at the computer, knowing why his brother was here once again. It was a rude measure of hospitality to ignore a visitor, but then Saluh pressed the bounds by entering his dwelling unbidden.
“Mother sends me,” Saluh said right off. “She is worried about you.”
Jamal rolled his eyes. “Can you not speak for yourself?”
“All right, then. I am worried about you.” A physician at Our Lady of Hope Hospital, where he had done his internship, Saluh, at forty, was his older brother by ten years. There was a large Muslim population here in Michigan, including their extended family, which had given Saluh the opportunity to come here for an education those many years ago.
His mother and two younger sisters moved here after his father’s death in Iraq three years ago, despite Jamal’s harsh condemnation for their choosing to live amongst the enemy. They did not share his hatred of the American special forces for the explosion five years ago, calling it an accident. He knew better.
Jamal had arrived only a few months ago. Saluh’s house was crowded, with his mother and sisters, along with his own wife and four children, but family was always welcome. It was the Muslim way. Jamal was considered a black sheep, living alone in this tiny apartment as he did, but he had plans. Once completed, he would return to his homeland.
“Have you been taking your medication?”
“Of course.” Actually, he’d tossed out the antidepressants a month ago because they made his brain fuzzy.
Without invitation, Saluh pulled a chair over to sit by him in front of the computer. When he saw what was on the screen, he gasped. “Jamal! Surely you do not continue these thoughts of revenge.”
“Allah says if anyone transgresses against you, transgress likewise against him.”
“You twist the Koran to meet your own needs.”
He shrugged. “The American infidel caused the death of my wife Aisha, Baasim, who had just learned to walk, and my unborn child. He must pay. Collateral damage, they called it.” He made a spitting gesture. “I call it murder.”
“But he is dead, Jamal. He died in the explosion, too.”
“Then he must lose a wife and child, too.” He pointed to the screen, where there was a newspaper article, taken from a Coronado, California, newspaper, about a woman named Lydia Denton, widow of Navy SEAL David Denton, and mother of four-year-old Michael Denton. Apparently, there was going to be some kind of honorary celebration for Lieutenant Denton in his hometown in Minnesota soon, on the fifth anniversary of his death . . . the same date as Aisha and Baasim’s demise.
“Jamal! What are you planning?”
"I, Jamal Udeen, declare a holy jihad to avenge my family.”
Hooking up with women . . . isn’t that painful? . . .
Thorfinn was sitting at a table in the Wet and Wild tavern, sipping at excellent beer, popping salty nuts into
his mouth as they awaited their meal—pizza, after all— whilst listening to the conversation betwixt Torolf and his Navy SEAL comrades. Like men in all countries, once the mead flowed, they discussed women: how to attract them to their bed furs, what to do when there, then how to get rid of them.
Along with Torolf, there were Geek, JAM, and Cage, men he had met several years back when they’d come to the Norselands to fight the evil villain Steinolf. So, though no one mentioned it, they knew or suspected he was a time traveler if, in fact, that was what he was. What strange names people had here, though! Like JAM and Geek and Cage. On the other hand, there were strange names in his country, too, he supposed. Like Svein Fork-beard or Cnut No Nose.
Torolf was the only married one amongst those present. But then, he ever had been a lackwit.
Missing was Slick, the SEAL with a shady background who had procured all his false identification papers in the name of Thorfinn Haraldsson of Lock Haven, Pennsylvania—black hair, gray eyes, six foot, three inches tall. Also missing was Pretty Boy, another SEAL he had met before; he was no longer a SEAL since he’d married Britta, a Viking warrior woman of some renown, and moved far away. Pretty Boy was now a cowboy, according to Torolf. Thorfinn didn’t bother to ask what that meant, though he thought it amusing that the full-of-himself man had gone from being one animal to another, seal to cow.
“More and more I’m beginning to believe that women are like phones,” Geek said.
The others grinned at Geek because he had the innocent face of a boyling. What could he really know about women?
But Geek blathered on, “They like to be held and talked to, but push the wrong button and you get disconnected. ”
The others groaned. Thorfinn just stared at him with confusion.
“So, we have Viagra and other male-enhancing drugs here,” JAM said. “What did they use in your . . . um, country when the flagpole flagged?”
Oh, good gods! Thorfinn knew what Viagra was, having watched Torolf and Hilda’s TV box; it was a blue pellet for men whose manparts would not rise, or would not stay risen a sufficient amount of time. He raised his eyebrows at JAM, the questioner, since he was a man who claimed to once have been a priest, or studied to be a god-man. Then Thorfinn responded, “Mayhap our flagpoles ne’er flagged.”
“Hah! Flagpoles always flag sometime, cher.” This from Cage, who spoke with an odd, drawling dialect, unlike the odd American dialect.
“Well, they had aphrodisiacs throughout time,” according to Geek, whose sharp brain never stopped working.
“Probably something disgusting, like ram or goat testicles.” Cage made a face at Thorfinn, as if he would ever eat such distasteful food, though he did, in fact, know some half-brained Viking men did. No doubt his brother Steven had tried it at least once.
“Lots of other things, too,” Geek went on, “like Spanish Fly, which is no more than ground-up beetles, and can be toxic, if misused.”
Yea, I am going to grind up bugs and eat them, just so I can last longer in the bed furs. When stinksome Gammelost becomes a king’s delicacy!
“Then there are oysters and figs, which are supposed to resemble and smell like a woman’s yee-haw.” This from Torolf, the idiot.
Thorfinn did not need to be told what a yee-haw was. “And you have told Hilda this . . . that her nether parts smell like oysters?” Thorfinn asked Torolf.
“What? You think I have a death wish? Besides, I never said it was true, just that some people make that claim. Shiiit! Don’t you dare repeat that to Hilda.”
Thorfinn just smiled at his cousin.
“I read that Aristotle once advised Alexander the Great not to let his soldiers drink mint tea before going into battle because of its aphrodisiac powers,” JAM said.
“Lustsome men do not make good warriors?”
“Apparently not.” JAM waggled his eyebrows at him.
“You are all idiots,” Thorfinn proclaimed.
“Time for some hooking up, boys,” JAM said then, flexing his fingers as he motioned his head toward a group of three women who were approaching their table.
“Hooking up?” he asked, but no one answered as the other men pulled out chairs for the women to join them. Torolf flashed him a warning look. Hah! It would be a cold day in Nifhelm afore he took his cousin’s advice on good behavior.
“We know these women from the military base.” Torolf leaned over and imparted this information to him in an undertone. “They’re female soldiers. In fact, female SEALs in a rigorous program called WEALS.”
He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “What is it about some females who e’er try to be men?”
“Shhhh!”
The women wore those den-ham braies, which were so favored in this country by both men and women, though he must admit they looked far better on the women since they delineated their thighs and buttocks and flat stomachs. On top, they wore tight armless and neckless sherts, which left naught to the imagination about the shape of their breasts, even though none of them had gone through that watering device at the door which produced some greatly-to-be-desired effect called a “wet T-shert.” Even without being dampened, on one of them, a tall Nubian, the nipples were apparent. Were all women in this country wanton? he wondered. If so, how nice for the men!
He noticed that Torolf, respecting his marriage vows, pulled his chair back, distancing himself from any one female, though conversing with all. He admired him for that. Not that fidelity had done him any good when he’d been married.
“Ladies, this is my cousin Finn from . . . um, Norway. Cuz, this is Terri Evans.” He indicated a petite woman with red hair and mischievous green eyes; then, “Donita Leone,” who was a tall, slim Nubian with ebony skin and tight black curls like a cap . . . and the nipples, of course. Finally, there was “Marie Delacroix, who is a Cajun like our Cage here,” whatever that meant, indicating a dark-haired woman with chestnut-colored eyes. All of the women were well-muscled.
He stood and was about to say that it was his pleasure to meet the ladies when Torolf jerked him back to his chair and said, “My cousin doesn’t talk much.”
While a tavern wench took orders for drinks from the ladies, Torolf told him in an aside, for his ears only, “Terri used to be a gymnast. That means she can twist her body in lots of intriguing ways.” Torolf rolled his eyes meaningfully.
What a lackbrain! But then, he considered what those twisted positions might mean in the bed furs and reconsidered his opinion of his cousin.
“Donita there was an Olympic swimmer . . . you know, like the Greek games of old. Later she had a job diving from a high board through a circle of fire into a pool of water at circus events.”
He gave Donita a considering scrutiny. He was a Viking, and Vikings admired feats of bravery, whether they be from men or women. Mayhap she would be the one enjoying his “enthusiasm” this night.
“And Marie was a Marine; they are fierce fighting men . . . and women, too, second only to SEALs. Her father died in the Twin Towers on 9/11. Remember that terrorist attack I told you about? She joined WEALS to enact just retribution.”
He nodded, fully understanding how a person would want vengeance for such a cowardly act.
The little red-haired woman sidled her chair closer to his and gave him a slant-eyed glance . . . the universal signal of male-female interest. “From Norway, huh? Don’t suppose you know Britta Asado.”
He frowned, then realized she referred to Britta Asadottir. “Yea, I have made her acquaintance. Methinks she wed the seal, I mean, cow named Pretty Boy.”
“Huh?”
“He means cowboy,” Torolf interpreted for him.
Thorfinn glowered at his cousin. “That is what I said.”
The woman continued, “Britta was in training for the WEALS at one time, you know.”
How would you like to tup? He nodded. “She was a warrior back in the Norselands, too.”
“You talk funny.”
Dost prefer top or bottom? “Nay, you tal
k funny.”
She smiled at him.
I could have her on her back in the bed furs in a trice, if I choose. Oddly, he did not choose. She was comely, as were the other women at the table, but he could claim no “enthusiasm.” Mayhap I need one of those magic blue pellets.
But then, he smiled to himself. Nay, it was not that. More the stress of being in this time and place, and the wariness to watch his every step. Even if those steps were in the bed furs.
After answering her questions tersely and asking no personal questions in return, she finally realized that he was not going to mate with her. She muttered something to Torolf about his “brooding cousin,” and wondered, “Is he gay?” Which was silly, of course. How could I be brooding and gay at the same time? With a final glower cast his way, she turned to the man on her other side, Geek, who proceeded to expound on some invention of his called a penile glove. He must remember to ask Torolf about that, later.
Meanwhile, he leaned back in his chair, ankles crossed, and observed his surroundings. The music, if it could be called that, was so loud he could scarce hear what the others said around the table. And the lyrics! The musicians sang something about a man telling his wife that she wasn’t much fun since he quit drinking. He pondered the words for a few moments. ’Twas true. A little mead made a nagging wife tolerable; a tun of mead made the homeliest maid pretty. The downfall of many a man.
The men and women were dancing together, and what dancing it was, too! Arms wrapped around each other as they undulated their body parts. Then Cage got up to dance with the Cajun woman, Marie, and Thorfinn’s eyes about popped out of his head. In rhythm to a pounding beat of a song about “Hot, Hot, Hot!”—must be about California, since the climate here was sweat-producing even without exertion—they scandalously emulated bedsport in their motions. He bucked his hips against her backside. She nigh rode his extended leg. Foresport, it definitely was.
