Jim neglected his work. There were other, more pressing manuscripts to read. Stork wanted Jim to peruse a kiss-and-tell unauthorized biography of actor Warren Beatty. Jim got as far as chapter six. The work was filled with name-dropping and innuendo. Allegations of sex, like allegations of breathing. The sex was intended to shock, rather than to titillate. Tabloid style, not porn style. Was anyone actually shocked by this stuff anymore? Don't people have lives? Jim had thrown it down in disgust and was loathe to return to it. Who writes this bullshit? Worse yet, who would read it? If they weren't paid to do so, that is. What was most disconcerting was the fact that this trash had already been approved for publication. Jim's assignment was to pre-edit it for logical errors. As if publishing this garbage wasn't a logical error! Jim would be looking for inconsistencies: a grammar teacher saying "ain't", a Sikh character smoking, someone getting up at ten and arriving to work at nine, that sort of thing. As soon as Jim was finished Stork's lawyers would check it for legal exposure. Then there would be the final edit, checking the style and grammar. Someone else would do that.

Stork also wanted Jim to evaluate another submission. Judging from what he had read so far this one was a sci-fi shoot-em-up. Jim was one of the few male readers Stork had. They always steered all of their blood-and-guts epics his way. Because of the paucity of male readers Jim's opinion carried a lot of weight with these submissions. The writer had no credentials but the writing style was impressive. Jim would likely suggest that this one would make a better movie than book. Perhaps the writer should start rewriting it as a screenplay. Stork had a lot of dealings with movie producers. Often they would publish such a book and not distribute it aggressively--except within the movie industry. The idea was to establish a stake in its movie rights or to benefit from the film's popularity to publish a second edition.

From all appearances this second submission would do very well at the box office. It followed a tried-and-true revenge theme. Bad guys kill a peaceful man's wife and family, turning him into a killing machine. The usual Death Wish nonsense, complete with a marksman good guy and experienced murderers that can't shoot straight. The police spend more time looking for the vigilante than his family's killers. Lest a cliche be forgotten, the plot even had a kind-hearted prostitute being sliced up between the time she phones the hero and meets him, the good guy escaping from capture and a corrupt politician orchestrating the sale of narcotics to school children. The movie would be a sure-fire winner. Having already made up his mind about it, he was having a difficult time getting motivated to finish reading it.

Jim stared down at the two binders in front of him as he sat beside the pond. If nothing else, these manuscripts were new and different. The dictionary was an impressive piece in its own right. An English dictionary takes generations of committees to accomplish. This LOOP dictionary was completed by one single author. Of course, the structure and simplicity of LOOP must have helped. Grandpa once claimed that in LOOP a person could express ten times the number of thoughts and shades of meaning in one tenth the verbiage. It was not an outlandish exaggeration. Jim counted the number of definitions on one page and multiplied by the number of pages. From this he calculated that LOOP had only six thousand words. Each word, however, had fifteen different contexts, each with its own unique meaning. And ideas were much easier to express in LOOP than in English.

The dictionary contained a few entries that Jim had never heard before. Holaka meant "tribalogamy"--defined as a form of marriage involving one woman sharing several interchangeable husbands within a closed society. Jim could have used a more complete definition. It certainly sounded like an interesting concept. What was even more interesting was that its passive form denoted sexual willingness while its aggressive form spoke of extreme sexual excitation. Horniness. Hmm, no wonder Grandpa never used this word around him! But who would bother to create such a root word? Especially in a language that had so few?

Muntaka was another strange word. The definition read: "collective action after informed debate; roughly, direct democracy". What raised Jim's eyebrows was the fact that its passive voice meant "anarchy" while its aggressive form referred to "despotism, fascism, tyranny". Odd that direct democracy should be placed halfway between anarchy and fascism. Jim was more familiar with kimaka, or "proxy representation; roughly, representative democracy". That word's passive form described professional or legal representation where the person being represented might be unaware of the intricacies of the process. Its active voice, kimakakoi, alluded to a mouthpiece, "front man" or apologist. Political candidates on television often used what would be called a kimakakoi to attack their opponents without seeming mean- spirited themselves.

One word had always baffled Jim: cintaka, "individualism". The active voice meant "freedom" while the passive voice translated to "loneliness". Jim could not see why liberty and solitude should be linked in this way.

Jim grinned at the attempts to translate some LOOP words. Bentaka, for example, could never be expressed in such a crude language as English. "Predestined collective enlightenment, development, progress; very roughly, a path to paradise". A good try, he thought. Jim's eyes narrowed as he studied the bottom three lines of the page. Here was something of interest: the elements of bentaka were listed below its definition. These five constituent parts included levels of development based upon fear, hope, discovery, thought and godhood. Bentaka was one of the very few words that had their elemental cases explicitly spelled out. Why had the author singled out this obscure word? Jim had heard his grandfather use it on occasion, but only in the fear- based, hope-based and god-like cases.

The text was getting more and more difficult to read as the light faded. This would be a moonless night. Egyptian darkness fell like a stone. Twilight was perfunctory, like a starving family dispensing with grace before eating. Where had the day gone?

Jim dropped the binders on the ground beside him and closed his eyes. A lot of questions were trudging through the quagmire of his mind. He rolled over onto his left side along the waterline of the pond. His right hand groped forward, dipping into the water. Underground springs kept this water cool even in the hottest weather. The skin on his hand tingled in water that was often frozen at this time of year. A few moments later a warm current flowed past his hand.

"Hello!"

Jim leapt to his feet. Who the hell was that? He stared back toward the house and then up the driveway. Was someone visiting him at this time of night? Apparently not. Jim peered apprehensively around him. His gaze scoured the shrubs around the pond. Trees on the far side were nothing more than dark shapes on a black background. But how could anyone approach from the woods? The underbrush would have alerted him. He had heard no snap of twigs or crunch of moss. The voice had sounded very close-- frighteningly so. Jim stood silent for a moment, listening carefully for movement.

"Who's there?" he shouted. No response. He picked up some rocks and threw them into the bushes, hoping to flush whoever might be there. Again, no reaction.

Obviously, someone was pulling a prank on him, playing "knickey-knackey-nine-doors" with his mind. Jim settled on a plan. He lay down again along the shoreline and placed his hand back into the water, posing as he had been when he had heard the sound. This time, though, his eyes--and ears--were wide open. He concentrated his attention on the trees across the pond.

Suddenly his right hand felt something in the water! Jim refocused his gaze downward. Hundreds of one-inch-round jelly-like glowing cells were congregating around his hand, like leeches sensing warm blood.

"Roast shit!" he screamed, recoiling at the sight. He jumped to his feet and dashed to his truck. Quick! Open the door. There! Lock the damned doors. Click, click. Good, locked. He reached into his pocket and groped for the keys. The keys! Where the hell were his keys? Damn! He had left them hanging on the mantle of the fireplace. In the house. The house. The house was only twenty feet from the truck. But should he risk it?

Jim gaped out into the darkness. He held his breath and listened for any sound. Nothing. Gathering his courage he flung the door of the truck open and sprinted into the house. A towel hung from the counter near the kitchen sink. He grabbed it and began wiping his hand dry. Out, damned spot! Jim snatched up his keys from the mantle. He reopened the front door, half expecting to see an inbred hillbilly with a chain saw standing there to greet him. No one there. He ran to the truck. Closed and locked its doors. Inserted the key in the ignition. Please, start! The truck's engine turned over once but did not catch. He tried again. Same result.

"Start, you son of a bitch," he cursed. Apparently, someone or something was listening. The engine sprang to life. Jim decided to forego any warm up period, slamming the truck into gear. It lurched forward. Jim matted the gas pedal, stalling the truck in the process.

"Screaming snake shit!" he swore, retrying the starter. Once more the engine roared into action. Jim took a deep breath, determined to follow a more deliberate course of action. He revved the engine twice before putting the truck in gear. This time he coasted forward and cautiously depressed the gas pedal.

He felt immense relief as soon as he turned out of his driveway and onto the road. Now, if he could only catch his breath and get his heart rate back down to double digits...

Jim knew the road well. He steered by dead reckoning until it occurred to him to turn on his headlights. Ahh, much better!

Dirt and gravel flew in every direction as the truck sped down the road. Potholes and bumps caused it to buck and dip like a bronco. Jim gripped the steering wheel tightly to stay in control. The right angle turn near Horton's farm posed a problem. He hit the ditch and rode up the opposite bank. This incline allowed him to complete the turn and return to the road. Moments later he turned onto the paved highway leading to Gopher Brook.

He was on the road only a couple of minutes when a flashing red light appeared in the rear view mirror. Police! His first reaction was to flee; maybe he could shake the cops on one of the backroads. In the horror movies the authorities are always minions of the monster. His second reaction was to glance down at his spedometer. Mind racing, he calculated the fine for the speeding ticket he would get. He'd be paying off the national debt single- handedly. His third reaction was the same as his first.

Finally, some vestige of sanity reigned as Jim reined in his steed. Once at a full stop he rolled down the window, praying that it wouldn't be one of the highway patrol. Those people were merciless. Rejects from the Gestapo.

The officer shone a flashlight on Jim's face, blinding him in the process.

"Jim? Is that you?"

Finally, a lucky break. It was John Tait, Jim's high school and poker buddy. There was some hope that Tait would not try to recoup his life-long poker losses in one fell swoop.

"Jim, I clocked you at--"

"Yeah, I know," Jim agreed, "I know."

Officer Tait became John Tait, studying his friend with concern.

"Jimmy, what's the matter. You look like you've just seen a ghost."

"Yeah, I know," Jim sputtered again, "I know."

"Jimmy boy, settle down," calmed Tait. "Get a hold of yourself. Tell me what's going on."

"Tait, you wouldn't believe the bullshit I just saw!"

"What? What was it?"

Jim collected himself. What could he say here? If he reported what he'd seen they'd toss him in a mental hospital and throw away the key.

"Uh, a transport truck was following me," Jim lied.

"A transport truck?" asked Tait, wondering why this had scared his friend silly. Jim understood his friend's confusion.

"Yeah, a transport truck," reiterated Jim, "on my ass for fifteen minutes. But..but there was no driver!"

Officer Tait looked down the road behind them. He had come from the opposite direction; no such truck had passed him. Again, Jim picked up on his friend's thoughts.

"Uh, I think I gave him the slip near Corbeil Corner," fibbed Jim.

"Well, I'll go and check it out. Jim, you don't look so good. Maybe you should go to Kelly's," advised Tait, mentioning the tavern in Gopher Brook, "and have a stiff drink. Calm your nerves."

This seemed like a good idea. Jim thanked his friend for the suggestion. The lawman straightened up and thought about what Jim might have seen. Perhaps the phantom driver was a very small person--too small to be seen over the dash. Maybe the driver was anxious but unable to pass Jim's truck on such a narrow stretch of the highway. Officer Tait muttered something about an impatient midget teamster, got back into his cruiser and drove north.

The irony of a policeman advising a driver to stop for a drink was lost on Jim as he turned into Kelly's Place. He recognized most of the cars parked outside. Kevin Morley's red Camaro. Barbara Julian's old blue Chevy. Steve Unger's Toyota, red since he had had it painted. There were few surprises in Gopher Brook, fewer still in Kelly's. Jim pictured the scene inside. Barbara would be drinking herself silly before trying her luck with one of the male patrons. Steve would be making jokes about his staff and customers at the restaurant. Kevin, undoubtedly, would be regaling anyone who would listen with inside stories about local and national politicians.

Jim had not been in Kelly's since Grandpa had died. There were too many men there. He could accept the sympathies of his female friends. But it was far more difficult for him to accept the condolences of men. Worse, there was the chance that one of locals would drink enough to give voice to his real feelings about Grandpa. That might be trouble.

As he entered Kelly's Jim spotted Barbara in front of the jukebox, nursing a screwdriver as she swayed to the sounds of "Rock On". Morley was ensconced at a table on the far side of the room, away from the jukebox and doorway. Carol Collins, one of the English teachers at Gopher High, and another woman were sitting at the table with Kevin. They were discussing the federal elections due that fall. Kevin was pontificating about how liberal flower children from the sixties gave birth to conservative Alex Keaton yuppies who, in turn, raised left wing environmentalists. Seated at the table closest to the bar Frank Ward, Karl Meissner and a couple of other men were discussing "family values", which they defined as "Leave It To Beaver" with few variations. These men had little regard for single-parent families. Jim always found it strange that these people placed so little value on half of the families in the country. They certainly didn't have any use for the McGuire family!

When Frank spotted Jim he pointedly changed the subject to the decline of Christian values, as reflected in the disappearance of school prayer.

Sex, politics and religion. Jim sat by himself at a table in the middle of the room. All he wanted was a drink.

Genny Baker knew her customers well, sizing Jim up at a glance. She reasoned that if he were in a talking mood he would have joined Kevin or Barbara. She even knew that he would not want her to mention his grandfather; sympathy could wait for a subsequent visit. Genny was an old pro.

Jim considered Scotch but asked for a beer. Genny went to the bar and returned, her plate carrying two draft beers. She place one in front of him. Jim downed it in one gulp and then turned around to request another. He found Genny still standing there, anticipating this quick re-order. The second draft was for him.

Genny knew her customers well.

Jim laughed nervously.

"You look spooked," she observed.

"I was," Jim confessed, "but...I'm okay now. Thanks, Gen, you're a prize." Jim reached over and grabbed his next draft.

He relaxed and sipped at his drink. Genny retreated to the bar and dumped his first glass into the dishwater.

When "Rock On" finished Jim found another woman standing behind him. The perfume was different. Barbara's.

"Jimmy," she said solemnly, "I haven't seen you since...since your grandfather died. I'm very sorry..."

Jim nodded his appreciation for these sentiments.

"Can I sit down?" she asked politely.

"Uh, sure. Of course," he replied, pushing the chair beside him back. Barbara took the seat and set her vodka and orange juice down on the table. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence before she re-opened the conversation.

"I remember once when Alice Swanson was calling me down at Marco's. Your grampa came in just as she was telling everyone what she thought of me. Calling me all sorts of things. I thought it was jealousy talking, myself. Alice couldn't get lucky on a flat- top. You should have seen him, Jim. You should've been there. He was great! He fixed that sow with his eyes until she stopped yapping and looked back at him. I still remember what he said. He spoke real calm. You know the way he talked when he was serious. Very calm. Sort of British, you know? He told her: `Please, don't confuse inadequacy with virtue.' I'm not sure what he was talking about but I remember the look on Alice's face. Coulda knocked her over with a feather. I thought she was gonna keel over with a heart attack. Hell, I even felt sorry for her for a second. Only for a second, mind you. I hated that cow! Still do, of course."

Jim smiled at the story. It was vintage Jason McGuire. Alice had never been one of Grandpa's biggest fans. The old man had born her no malice. In fact, he never gave her much thought. She was just another loyal member of Reverend Carter's flock.

"It's nice to see you smile again," continued Barbara. "I haven't seen that since Sarah--"

"I don't want to talk about Sarah!" Jim pre-empted sharply.

Barbara flinched at her friend's change of mood. She'd had more than enough experience with men to know when to leave them alone.

"Uh, of course, Jim," she said as she stood up. "Listen, I better be on my way."

Jim shook his head and placed his hand on her forearm.

"I'm sorry, Barb. Didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just a little jumpy right now. Had a rough day. Please, don't leave on my account."

Barbara studied him before deciding to take her seat again. She knew that Jim was not easily excited; something serious must have happened to make him so nervous.

"Is something bothering you, Jim?"

"No. Well, nothing worth mentioning. Someone pulled a prank on me. Pissed me off, that's all."

Barbara stared down at her drink. Now it was Jim's turn to study her. The two of them had grown up together. As children there was not much contact; little boys rarely play with little girls. Puberty jump-started their friendship. Barb had matured physically very early. She was having difficulty dealing with the attention she got from older boys. Couldn't talk to parents or teachers about it. After all, what did grown-ups know about love or sex?

"Every generation thinks that it has discovered love," Grandpa had once teased him.

Other girls her age had been no help to young Barb. Many of her girl friends resented her for these developments. Those that were not resentful tended to be just as confused as Barb. She needed to go to the source. She needed a boy to explain the attitudes of the other boys. Enter Jim. He was her age but had not reached puberty yet. Jim offered her advice on what to do to encourage or discourage attention from various older boys. Often he was simply passing on counsel from his grandfather. He was very reluctant at first. After all, a twelve year boy has a lot of words to describe romance and none of them are flattering. But a year or two later Jim needed the same help to understand girls. Barbara did not have a brother, Jim no sister. The two acted as windows into worlds that the other could never comprehend. The friendship blossomed naturally during high school.

Since high school the two saw each other only occasionally. They might meet at a local event, in a store or, most likely, here at Kelly's.

On this night a thought came to Jim that he had never considered before. Why had he never gone out with Barb? After all, she had been quite pretty in school. Granted, the years had etched a hard road on her features since then. Makeup covered the lines but nothing covered the makeup. In her early years Barb fended off most of the advances. When the offers dried up she started making a few advances of her own. The transition from defence to offence was difficult and not one that the locals accepted easily. Other women had little good to say about the process. They used expressions like "slut", "tramp" and "town pump". The men of Gopher Brook were much less overt, preferring not to bite the hand that fed them. Instead, they would laugh knowingly and derisively at the mention of her name. These people had long since decided that sex was inherently evil and the efforts of a free-spirited "tart" like Barbara Julian would change nothing. But, for Jim, sex with Barb seemed...incestuous. He couldn't fathom why the thought had occured to him.

Night after night Barb would show up at Kelly's, hoping to find someone to keep her company. The search had never been easy in such a small community; it was getting harder and harder with the passing of years. Growing old alone was no fun in Gopher Brook.

"You say `growing old'. I say `growing'," Grandpa had once told Jim. Again, a memory of the old man had intruded on Jim's thoughts.

"Barb," he asked, "why do you spend so much time here?"

"What?" she gagged.

The question had been far too direct.

"I mean, there's nothing much here. Same old faces. Same old songs on the jukebox. Drinks are cheaper at home. No T.V. here."

"So what are you doing here?" she riposted. It was a good question.

"Me, I'm just...getting away for the night. I, uh, don't come here very often. For me, it's a change. For you, it's the same. You know what I mean?"

Barb nodded. She understood perfectly well. Jim's life had always been at home. Hers was here. Still, she didn't have a quick-and-easy answer. She thought about it for a few minutes. By the time she responded Jim had forgotten why he'd ever posed the question.

"I suppose I could stay at home and watch T.V. But I'd rather be here. If I'm here there's always a chance. Can't fish without a line in the water, you know? I mean, sure, I could probably spend my time visiting the rest of my family. Playing Auntie Barbara to all my nieces and nephews. But Auntie Barbara isn't quite ready to quit being a woman yet. Auntie Barbara wants a man."

Jim chuckled at the lusty tone in her voice. Obviously, Barbara Julian was still very much alive. Not unlike Sarah...

"You know, Jim, you're not the only one who had a grandfather," continued Barb, switching tracks. "My grandpa lived in Tennessee. Died long before I was born. He owned a light bulb factory. Made fancy ones. Custom made, sometimes. Business was good. Problem was, my grandpa was a little ahead of his time--kinda like yours, now that I think about it. Grampa used to hire the best workers he could find. Problem was, some of them were black. His white workers didn't like that. They wanted him to hire only white people. He said no. They told him if he didn't get rid of the blacks they'd all quit. He showed 'em the door. They told him there'd be hell to pay. He knew the people who were threatening him. Knew they weren't bluffing. Real assholes, you know? So Grampa packed up his wife and kids--including my dad--and shipped them up here. He knew that that kind of shit didn't go on here. He could have sold the place or hired a manager and headed up here too. But he stayed in Tennessee. Stubborn old fart, I guess.

"Well, from what my dad told me, they came for gramps. Bunch of apes with clubs. Broke into his house one night. Started beating him to death. My dad heard about it from the trial. Two of the murderers were charged with assault. Assault, no less! They called him a `nigger-lover', and killing nigger-lovers wasn't a very serious crime. Hell, some of the locals probably figured it was a community service.

"Anyway, one of the guys who killed Grampa talked to the papers later. My dad kept a scrapbook and showed me the clippings. This guy said that just before they started with their clubs he had asked Grampa a question. Why hadn't the old man gone north with his family. Didn't he take the threats seriously?

"Apparently, Grandpa looked at these assholes and said: `I'm here because any place else would be hiding.'"

Barb peered up from her glass as she finished her story. She looked Jim in the eye.

"I guess that's why I'm here."

The allegory's effect on Jim was slow in coming. A grin began to spread across his lips.

"Barb, do you remember when we were at Gopher High and I had that thing for Liz Baker?"

Barbara put her hand up to her mouth and started sniggering.

"Remember how I was too scared to ask her out? Remember that?"

Barbara's snigger grew to a guffaw.

"Remember when I came to you and asked you if I should ask her out? I was scared shitless. You told me not to worry. You said she had told you that she had a crush on me. Remember that? You said it would be `smooth sailing'. `Smooth sailing,' you said."

Barbara was giggling uncontrollably now.

"Fucking liar!" shouted Jim in mock rage. His voice was drowned out by the sound of Barb slouching in her chair, clutching her stomach and howling.

"I breezed up to her and asked her out to a movie. She looked at me like I was a Martian and said `Shove off, creep!'"

Gasping for breath Barbara stood up, adjusted her chair and sat down again. Tears of laughter streamed down her face.

"Yeah, sorry about that one, Jimmy," she snorted, trying to regain her composure.

"Yeah, I'll just bet you are," cracked Jim. "But, you know, I learned a few things from that. I learned a lot about Liz Baker, for one thing. But I also learned that being rejected wasn't as scary afterwards as beforehand. Wasn't so terrible. I never asked Liz out again but I wasn't as scared to ask other girls out."

People in the bar stopped what they were doing and stared over at Jim and Barb, wondering what the commotion was about. Jim lowered his voice.

"In a funny way you helped me then. And you've done it again. I just want you to know that I'm grateful. In fact, let me buy the next round."

Genny brought another screwdriver and Jim's third draft. Barb and Jim spent the next half hour sipping their drinks and chatting. Barb's relatives. Jim's work. Local gossip. Some stories from high schools days, embellished slightly over the years.

Frank Ward swaggered over to their table, clutching a bottle of beer in his hand. Barb saw him before Jim did. She winced as Frank positioned himself square in front of them.

"Well, well, what have we got here?" wondered Frank, loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. "Two pillars of our community? I think not! Read any good books lately, Jim? Read the Good Book lately, Jim? I think not!"

Frank was playing to his friends back at his table. The audience there was very appreciative, giggling at Frank's performance. Conversation stopped at Kevin's table, where he and the women stared incredulously at Ward. Kevin would have loved to get involved but Frank's uncle, Burt Ward, owned half of the Gopher Gazette...

"And Barbara Julian," continued Frank. "Is it true you're enterin' a convent? Takin' a vow of chastity? I think not!"

Frank's buddies were snorting and wheezing with laughter now. But Frank was only warming up.

"Hey, Jim, I thought you was s'pposed to be a writer. How come I ain't heard about any of your books lately."

Frank was hardly a literary authority. He would have trouble reading a turn signal.

Jim and Barb did not try to respond until Frank was finished. He and she turned to each other and then back to Frank. In unison they shrieked "Shove off, creep!" before collapsing in hysterics. Kevin and his friends grabbed their guts, leaned back in their chairs and laughed with them. People at other tables were chiming in, shaking their heads at Ward.

Genny saw the potential for trouble and cut in front of Frank. She declared a "happy hour", offering half-priced drinks if everyone would take their seats. Liquor licencing board rules, she said. Can't serve drinks to patrons unless they sit down. Frank hesitated for a moment, but backed down when everyone in the room-- including those at his own table--bellowed at him to sit down. Gopher Brookers were hard to intimidate but easy to bribe.

Jim declined a fourth drink, deciding to call it a night. He had somewhere to go and something to do. He paid his bar tab and offered Barb a ride home, knowing that her car sat outside. She might not pass a breathalyzer test. No thanks, Jim. Barb wanted to stay a little longer, basking in the glow of the moment.

The ride back home was a much more deliberate venture than the flight into town. Slower. All four tires on the ground. Arriving home, Jim parked his truck in his driveway and strode through the coal-black night to the pond's edge. He sat down cross-legged, took a deep breath and shoved his hand into the water. In seconds he felt the warmth again.

"Jim!" said the voice, "we thought we had scared you off. We didn't know whether you'd ever come back!"

"Hey, I came back because this is my home," he explained defiantly. "Any place else would be hiding."

On to Chapter 8
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