The First Conception_Rise of Eris

by Nesly Clerge

  She left Connie and me at the table. We sat in companionable silence until Patricia returned a few minutes later bearing a tray with cups, et cetera, and a French press coffee carafe. With a deft hand, she poured and handed each of us our steaming cups.

  Once seated, she said, “It’s off-topic, and you can tell me if this isn’t the time to discuss it, but something has been weighing on my mind.” Facing me she said, “I wish there was a way to confirm that Ralph is complicit in your mother’s death. I hate the thought of you not being positive it was he who took her from you.”

  Connie blew across the top of her cup, took a sip, and said, “I’ve given that some thought. There’s a way.”

  We listened attentively and discussed options for how to bring justice to Ralph Johnson, if justice needed to be meted to him. To use Patricia’s phrase, we had a cornucopia of options worth consideration.

  CHAPTER 60

  I swiveled left and right a number of times in front of the full-length mirror in Connie’s bedroom. “You can’t be serious?”

  Connie shrugged. “If you want to catch a big fish, you gotta use the right bait.”

  “It’s winter. I’ll freeze my backside off.” I turned and stared at my exposed rear in the mirror. “Literally.”

  “You want this to work, don’t you?”

  “I’ll get arrested for indecent exposure before I can do anything worthy of incarceration. Or I’ll die of hypothermia.” I stared at my reflection and the tiny fabric triangles that did nothing to cover my breasts. “And what’s with this pitiful excuse for a top?”

  “The more of your girls you show, the better you’ll get his attention. We want Ralphie-boy focused on your fore and aft so he doesn’t notice me.”

  “This ought to accomplish it, I suppose.”

  “Just do what I told you to do. If you confirm it was him, we follow through with the plan. If you confirm it wasn’t or can’t confirm anything, we’ll call it a day and keep looking.”

  “I’m getting dressed. I can’t look at myself like this another second.”

  “Relax. It’ll work. That’s all that matters. Unless you’d rather wait until summer, when it’s warmer and crowded, with some lifeguard watching everyone.”

  “No. If he’s guilty, his reprieve has lasted long enough.

  “Atta girl.”

  Two days after Christmas, we headed north to Coeur d’Alene in a rental car secured with yet another false name assigned to Connie, though we both traveled with false IDs again. Since we were heading into my home territory, she said it was best if I made the drive disguised so no one who knew me could ever say I’d been there. With Abigail and Hubby-Buns remaining in Montana through New Year’s Day, there was no chance of bumping into her or him.

  We made the several-hour drive with me wearing a wig and makeup that altered me enough so that I barely recognized myself in the mirror. The plan was to spend the night at a motel in the area and avoid Mama’s apartment and Mr. Hopkins. Better if we got in and got out without anyone knowing I’d been there.

  That night, we dined in the room—with me still in disguise—and reviewed the strategy Connie had devised. The next morning we slept in and ordered breakfast from room service. When the server knocked, I hid in the bathroom since I’d yet to alter my appearance. Connie placed the do-not-disturb sign on the door after the server left. After we ate, she did a thorough check of the paraphernalia needed to accomplish our task. At two that afternoon, I got ready to fish or cut bait, as Connie phrased it.

  A quick call was made to Lavender, who reconfirmed Ralph had indeed remained in Coeur d’Alene for the holidays—no last-minute change in plans, was spending it alone, as well as that he and his dog walked to the beach around three thirty every afternoon, rain, shine, or snow, and always stopped at the same spot.

  A local weather report predicted a cold but sunny day. As the sunlight would start to wane by the appointed time, it would be frigid.

  It was easy to recall where that spot on the beach was located. Mama and I had always parked and sat in the same place, which was about twenty yards from where Ralph and Irish played fetch. At three twenty, I got out of the car, pulled the collar of my too-snug fleece sweatsuit tight around my neck then scrunched through the sand in slip-on tennis shoes and waited.

  The long curly black wig was secured to my own hair with so many bobby pins that even a strong gale wouldn’t have budged it from my head. Black wrap-around sunglasses stayed perched on my nose so I could look in any direction without indicating where my eyes were aimed. Connie had done my makeup, or I should say overdid it. The only cosmetic I typically used was tinted lip gloss. She was adamant that I had to look like someone else, as well as enticing, hence the Cleopatra eyes, too much blush, and pronounced red lipstick.

  Initially, I kept my gaze focused to my right. Minutes later, Connie, decked out in a diving suit and gear, duck-walked into the lake. I watched her swim out a distance then bob low in the water, her focus on me.

  A few minutes after that, a dog barked to my left. I felt sorry for the four-legged creature. Then I remembered proof was still required. He might yet return home with his master.

  Ralph threw the ball into the water. Irish, barked gleefully, frantically wagged his tail, and then dashed into the waves to retrieve the yellow tennis ball.

  I got to my feet and started in their direction.

  CHAPTER 61

  In the diminishing light, I made sure to sashay the way Connie had instructed, which was no easy task on sand. When I reached Ralph, I paused to watch Irish bound back into the water after the ball, as well as to see Connie give a subtle signal from her position, now opposite me and yards out in the lake.

  “That’s a beautiful dog,” I said. “What’s his name?”

  “His name’s Irish. Mine’s Ralph.” Ralph gave me the once-over, grinned, and extended his hand.

  I gave him an award-winning smile and shook his hand, wishing I could wash it as soon as he let go, which took seconds longer than I preferred.

  Irish maneuvered through the water and rushed forward. He skidded to a stop right in front of us and shook the water from his fur.

  “Sorry about that,” Ralph said.

  “No problem.” I laughed, patted Irish on the head, and said, “Good boy.” I meant it, too, because it gave me a nice segue into what was to come next. “I think I’ll join him.”

  “You’re crazy. The water’s freezing.”

  I removed the sunglasses and waited. No recognition response came from him. I let the glasses slip from my fingers. “It’s like that club—Polar Bear, I think is the name—only I won’t be going in naked.”

  “My loss.”

  I smiled, kicked off my shoes and felt the first shiver run through me. My galvanic skin response to the cold was immediate and I worried that I’d resemble a plucked chicken more than a vixen. I unzipped my top and dropped it to the sand. Ralph’s eyes became transfixed on the tiny bikini-top triangles, which were now more like pyramids.

  I faced the water, shimmied my pants down my thighs—bending over just enough—and stepped out of them. At his intake of breath in response to my thong, I turned, licked my lips and said, “Come in with me.”

  “Much as I’d like to, I can’t. No swimsuit. But I’m happy to watch.”

  I sidled up to him and stroked his chest with a finger. “If it were nighttime, we could go in naked.”

  He wrapped an arm around me and rubbed my exposed buttocks. “I’d like that. A lot. Although, I think my hot tub is a better idea.”

  I looked around. “It’s dark enough. Close enough to nighttime, don’t you think? What are you wearing, tighty-whites or boxers?”

  “Boxers. But—”

  “C’mon, Ralph. Look around. There’s no one anywhere near enough to care what we do. Besides, they’re all leaving. We’ll go out just far enough so we keep our footing. We can keep each other warm, if you get my drift. Or do you get these kinds of invitations so often that
I’m boring you?” I gave him a red-lipped pout and ran my finger down his chest and thigh.

  “What the hell. Why not?” He began to strip.

  Irish dropped the ball at our feet. Ralph paused long enough to toss the ball a good distance down the beach rather than into the water.

  I ran into the lake first so I could keep his attention on me, not that Connie would be obvious to anyone who didn’t know to look for her. A few yards in I turned and held out my hand. He sloshed into the water with a yelp, took my hand, and we continued further out, laughing at our naughty endeavor.

  Irish barked at us from the shore. Ralph yelled at him to stay. Irish wasn’t happy but resolved himself to the command and stayed amused by chewing on the ball.

  When we reached a depth where the water came just below my breasts, I made sure Ralph’s back was to the opposite shore and held onto his shoulders. A quick glance behind him allowed me to see Connie waiting for my signal.

  CHAPTER 62

  “You know, Ralph,” I said as I stroked a finger across his shoulder, “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

  “What about?”

  “We actually know each other. Well, not really know, but we’ve met.”

  “I’m sure I’d remember meeting you.”

  He shifted the triangles until they no longer covered me. I let him grope me wherever he directed his hands and made sounds that seemed appropriate so it kept him entertained while I reminded him who I was.

  His eyes widened in recognition and his hands dropped away.

  I hung onto him and left the triangles askew. It seemed a more non-threatening thing to do. “Did you and Mama ever see each other here at the beach after I left for college? She was impressed with you, you know.”

  “Uh, yeah, I saw her here. Couple of times.” His gaze shifted around, like someone looking for a way to escape. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Did someone here—anyone—say something to you about your mother? About me?”

  “I haven’t spoken with anyone here. After her funeral, I cleared out and never looked back. I’m only here now because I felt sentimental with the holiday and all.”

  “What about the police? They say anything?”

  I shrugged. “They had no leads by the time I left, and I never heard from them again. I figured they didn’t care.” I stroked his chest. “Mama would have loved to have gone to dinner with you. She told me that after that first time we met you. Did you ever think to ask her out?”

  Ralph fixed his attention beyond my left shoulder. “No. No offense or anything, but we weren’t a match.”

  And there was the lie. “But you were friendly with her when your paths crossed here?”

  “Sure. No point in being rude.”

  I rested my hands on his shoulders. “Ralph, since you were so nice to Mama, would you mind if I kissed you to express my gratitude?” I bounced up and down just enough in the water to draw his attention back to my breasts, watched the wheels turn behind his eyes, and thought about how easy men are.

  He licked his lips. “You can thank me any way you want.”

  I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his torso, pressed my mouth to his, and held up one finger. I let him paw me and stick his tongue down my throat until the moment I’d been waiting for.

  Wide-eyed, he broke the kiss, looked down and around, as though he might be able to see anything in the shadowy water. “What the hell? Something just brushed my leg.”

  I released him and flung myself backward, careful not to let the water alter my wig and makeup. Down Ralph went, surfacing only once before Connie did whatever she’d planned to do to him—she’d refused to divulge that part of the plan—while I kept watch. The only soul paying attention to us, or on the beach, was Irish, who barked, picked up the ball in his mouth and wagged his tail. I shouted for him to stay.

  Connie remained underwater for what seemed to me a long time. Occasionally, I’d glance at where Ralph had submerged.

  Long minutes later, her head popped up about fifteen yards from where I waited. She submerged again, and I grew concerned, fearful he’d dragged her down. Moments later, she emerged two feet from me, pointed and said, “You might want to fix those.”

  I tracked where her finger pointed and adjusted my triangles.

  “Atta girl. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  “What about Irish?”

  “I always wanted a dog, and this one’s already housebroken.”

  Irish barked and wagged his backside when I returned to shore. He stared out at the water then back at me a number of times. While I got dressed, I talked to him in soothing tones, or at least as soothing as chattering teeth allowed, and scanned the beach—we were completely alone.

  I retrieved his leash and attempted to attach it to his collar. No dice. He wanted to play. I started toward the car and called him to follow me but he wouldn’t budge. I picked up his ball and tossed it in the direction of the car. His attachment to the game too strong, he galloped after the dingy yellow orb. We repeated this activity until Connie and I got him into the backseat.

  Connie opened the trunk, stripped the wet suit off, dressed, and then got in and started the engine. She put the heater on high, the car in reverse, and started forward. “He’s got white flecks on his snout. How old is he?”

  “Irish was a puppy when I met him, so, probably elevenish.”

  “He’s in great condition. Usual lifespan for his breed is around twelve to fourteen years, though I read about one who lived to seventeen. His former owner obviously took care of him. I thought about getting one like him once.”

  I scratched Irish behind his ears. “And now you have.”

  “We need to get him some food and stuff.”

  I gave her directions to one of the large chain stores, where she parked so far from the entrance that we were the only ones there. Irish and I stayed in the car with the doors locked and the heater still on high to dry us. Connie returned with two large plastic doggie bowls, a giant bag of top-of-the-line kibble, treats, chew bones, a canister of tennis balls, a cushy comforter, two towels, and a case of water.

  We decided to drive fifty or so miles south and find a roadside motel rather than let someone see us with Irish. Connie asked for a room at the back so we could sneak Irish inside, but told the desk clerk it was to avoid traffic sounds from the highway. Better not to say anything about having a dog, she’d said as we parked. Once in the room, she used pliers retrieved from her trunk to remove the extra tag on his collar that identified his former owner and phone number.

  That night, Irish took turns sleeping with us, as we each had a double bed. We left before the sun came up and after he tended to his business outside.

  The ride home was definitely different from the ride up, with occasional stops so that one of our trio could use the grass and sniff everything in sight. And like Irish, I spent a good deal of the time staring out the window but without leaving smears on the glass. Whereas Irish’s thoughts revolved around food, intriguing smells, adoring pats and hugs, and a giant chew bone, I contemplated the path my life had led me down.

  Marcus Aurelius once commented, “For everything that exists is the seed of that which shall come from it.” Too bad men, who considered themselves superior in all ways to women, never heeded that fact. A great number of them had planted seeds of disquiet in a great number of women over the ages. They would suffer as a result of the fruit produced by those seeds, if I had anything to do with it.

  It took effort but I found earrings shaped like flip-flops, which I secured to Caitlin’s tree with a thin strand of wire—one for Mama, one for me.

  CHAPTER 63

  I put my avenger cape away for a period of time so I could focus on my studies and maintain the required pace through my third year, which included doing rotations to get exposed to various fields for consideration.

  We were guided to consider a numbe
r of aspects as we progressed, such as, if we found we enjoyed solving puzzles, we should consider internal medicine as our chosen field. If frozen section fascinated us, we should consider becoming a “physician’s physician” and choose pathology. Whatever we inevitably chose, our comprehensive essay, used for the purpose of residency matching, had to demonstrate a passion for the field, and that our personality and goals as a physician were a good fit. Applications for residency were to be made during September, before interviews were held in the early part of the following year, our fourth.

  Additional advice given was to take copious notes about meaningful interactions with patients, as well as what it was about a particular specialty that appealed to us. This level of detailed information would be looked for in the essay.

  My days were full ones, and the months seemed to zip by. Abigail sounded genuinely disappointed that I wasn’t going to Coeur d’Alene during any of my breaks—she called to check before each one, and didn’t press the issue when I stated my schedule was far too tight for her to come here. She had to be satisfied with our twice-monthly calls. No way would I trust her to come here. If she wanted to engage sexually with someone other than Hubby-Buns for one or more nights, she could do it someplace where it didn’t involve me.

  My third year now completed successfully, I sat across from Patricia during one of the brunches she treated me to whenever my schedule allowed, and remained animated as I discussed the highlights of what I’d learned, particularly how clinical immunology intrigued me.

  “Something I’ve always considered compelling, even as a child,” I said, “is phagocytosis, where the body defends itself against a foreign body.”

  Patricia gave me a small smile. “How apropos.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Consider how often you, as well as WAM members, and most women, I suppose, needed to defend herself against a foreign body or, I should say, an unwelcome and abusive body part.”