Of War and Women

  Chapter 1

  Reckless Youth

  Charlottesville, Virginia - August, 1968

  Central Virginia lies within that jagged and timeworn wedge of the Southeastern portion of the United States that, like an exit overlooked on the interstate highway, has gone unnoticed by much of our country. Located little more than a two hour drive from the nation’s capital, Charlottesville somehow seems to the observer to have halted and indeed even thrived eternally in the era of its illustrious forefather - Thomas Jefferson.

  It snows there, sometimes in great hip-deep throngs that should know better than to find their way that far south. And the snow can further enhance the feeling of isolation in winter, but when the weather is kind to the inhabitants, Charlottesville is a well-hidden jewel that is uniformly treasured by a long line of inhabitants going all the way back to the days of the westward moving settlers at the dawn of the eighteenth century.

  Each fall when the University of Virginia opens its doors, the citizens of Charlottesville are inundated by a new wave of college-bound students, but by contrast to many college towns, the locals actually welcome the students back with open arms. When the student body represents a significant portion of the local population, they are an essential part of your economy. Thus, when the students return, the city blooms with activity, as if it were a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Several generations of Virginians have grown to adulthood in this small out-of-the-way throwback to another time. And many of these young adults have gone on to scintillating careers across the state and the nation.

  Thus it was that Rebecca Carey arrived in late August for her sophomore year at UVa. Rebecca absolutely worshipped UVa and everything it stood for. Accordingly, she had spent her entire summer in Danville moping about, impatiently awaiting her return for her sophomore year.

  Perhaps the single greatest source of Rebecca’s dismay lay in the fact that she had never had a significant boyfriend, something that was unusual for a young lady of twenty. “A sophomore in college should be worldlier,” she thought to herself. But whenever she thought back with revulsion to the scant few opportunities she’d had to rectify her unfortunate situation, she had to admit that she was relieved that none of them had come to fruition. She wanted her first serious relationship to be special. She might be only twenty, but she nevertheless understood that you only come through life one time. As such, she was determined to get it right the first time, because she understood full well that in life there is no second chance at a first chance.

  Finances had been tough ever since the death of her father, but she had worked through high school, and the resulting savings, together with her academic scholarship and her mother’s income, had been just enough for her to afford UVa. Thus, it was no stretch to say that she understood how fortunate she was to be studying at such a highly regarded institution.

  Having grown up further south in Danville, Rebecca didn’t really care for the lengthy period of winter in Charlottesville, but it wasn’t sufficient to detract from her affection for UVa. Most of all, she appreciated the tolerable distance college provided from her mother. “There comes a time,” she observed to herself, “When one should be afforded the opportunity to live one’s own life.”

  Although Rebecca loved her younger brother very much, he was often away at the school for the deaf. At thirteen, James wasn’t very happy with his new school. He had been such a happy child before they had sent him off to the school.

  James wasn’t terribly intelligent. Apparently the umbilical cord had gotten wrapped around his neck when he had been born. The lack of oxygen, though brief, had caused some permanent brain damage. Still, it had not affected his joy with life, so much so that Rebecca had loved playing games with James when they were growing up. They used to sit for hours signing to one another, an ability that her mother had somehow never completely mastered.

  Being away from her mother’s claustrophobic ministrations was a liberating experience, and Rebecca intended to take full advantage of the opportunity despite the fact that she had not quite made the most of it in her first year of college. Still, she had almost three more years of college to affect her escape from her mother’s intrusive power.

  She had pledged Phi Delta that fall primarily in the hope that it would help her to meet more interesting people, perhaps even a few boys. Males were a great mystery to her, at least in part because her mom hadn’t allowed her to date much before college. But now that she was in a sorority she hoped to begin to meet and get to know someone, perhaps even someone special, her fondest hope being that this might indeed be the year for it.

  That Same Day

  Trevor Sutherland looked forward to his senior year at UVa with great anticipation. Although he didn’t let on to his friends, Trevor was the son of an Earl, the Earl of Winston to be exact. His father, Trant Sutherland, had been appointed the British Ambassador to the United States three years earlier, and Trevor had used his family’s temporary relocation to the United States to convince his parents that it would be convenient for him to attend college near their new home in Washington, D.C.

  Having spent much of his youth in London, Trevor didn’t much care for the small town of Charlottesville, but he had developed friendships there, and - even better - he was in the fraternity that maintained the best connections with the sororities. Trevor reasoned that now that he was a senior, the UVa coeds would be significantly more accessible.

  The Following Day

  Bryan Highsmith bounded up the stairs to the frat house and, literally bumping into another young man on entering, he exclaimed, “Hey Trevor, sorry about that. Where’re you off to?”

  “I have class - thermodynamics, if you must know.”

  “You engineering nerds are all alike, always taking stuff no one else can even pronounce,” Bryan put in facetiously, “Hey, before you cut out, want to go to the mixer at the Phi Delta house on Friday night?”

  “Of course,” Trevor replied bluntly, “By then I shall be desperate for any sort of distraction from coursework.”

  “Yeah, and we’re not even a week in!” Bryan observed paradoxically.

  “Tell me about it,” Trevor agreed and, turning to leave, he suggested, “My room, 6 P.M. Friday night?”

  “You got it,” Bryan quipped, and so saying, he trotted off to his second floor room.

  Bryan liked Trevor, but he always felt at a distinct disadvantage around him. The guy was far too smart, and still worse, he was easily the best looking guy in the entire fraternity. And that obsequious English accent was just the topping on the cake, affording Trevor unfair advantage in Bryan’s view. Being a reasonable sort, Bryan couldn’t quite come to grips with why the saints in heaven would see their way to provide such a plethora of natural endowments in one male. Still, there was no getting round it, and Bryan was forced to accept it for what it was. After all, Trevor attracted coeds like flies, and Bryan saw opportunity in proximity to such a singularly unnatural phenomenon.

  Friday Afternoon

  Vanessa Markham tousled her hair in a vain attempt to dry her blonde tresses the easy way, but to no avail. Musing as she glanced in the mirror, she thought to herself how having such an abundant array of wildly disobedient blonde locks was a double-edged sword. They were like convicts, always attempting to escape and, despite failing, they nevertheless required constant supervision so as to avoid wreaking havoc. On the other hand, such an arsenal of weaponry was, as she was well aware, a distinct advantage on the battlefield that constituted any interaction with those darling but dangerous members of the opposite sex.

  At the sound of a knock on her door, she called, “Come in!” and, seeing her friend Rebecca push her way within, she responded gaily, “Oh, hi Rebecca. Just trying to get my hair ready for the mixer this evening. What an unruly mess!”

  “Pshaw!” Rebecca responded jealously, “What I wouldn’t give for such a problem! But my parents’ genes didn’t include such a possibility, I?
??m afraid. Instead, I got this stringy red hair.”

  “True, but you have your own share of attributes, Rebecca. The good lord spreads it around, you know. I’d trade a few with you if I could.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s an exercise in futility,” Rebecca responded with a snort, “Tell you what though, I’ll just hang around you at the mixer tonight, and you can throw me one of your rejects. How ‘bout that, you hair goddess, you?”

  At this suggestion Rebecca giggled so uncontrollably that Rebecca was induced to join in and, the pair embracing in anticipation, Vanessa retorted, “Yes of course, dear girl, but mind you, hands off my keepers!”

  Just Down the Hall

  Sarah glanced at her watch, anticipation forestalling her ability to concentrate on her studies. She fancied herself a scholar of sorts but, it being Friday, her mind strayed repeatedly to the upcoming mixer. She understood that, next to many of her sorority sisters she was what was considered a ‘wallflower’, whatever that really meant. Still, she understood well enough that looks were not the only ingredient in physical attraction, thereby giving her hope that she might one day outshine a sufficient portion of her competitors to actually attract a member of the opposite sex. Reflecting that at that point she would be flying blind, she decided to stay close to her friends Rebecca and Vanessa, both of whom seemed to be far more experienced than she.

  Pushing these thoughts away, she reluctantly returned to her studies, mumbling to herself, “All in good time, Sarah Johnson, you irrepressible twit, you. All in good time.”

  That Evening

  Trevor and Bryan arrived at the Phi Delta house and, wending their way amongst the throng of hormone-laden young men, they searched out the optimum location from whence they could observe the proceedings. After several frustrating minutes, they agreed that in such an overinflated multitude there was little possibility of such. Instead, they settled on a spot in the sorority house dining room where there was at least an ample supply of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Alcoholic beverages being prohibited on campus, drinks were limited to soda pop and punch. Thankfully, in keeping with the nefarious nature of youth, someone had seen fit to spike the punch bowl with Southern Comfort.

  For his part, Trevor could not for the life of himself understand why on earth American students had a penchant for such sickeningly sweet whiskey, but he reasoned to himself that under the circumstances he was not at the moment in a position to bear qualms. Accordingly, he settled in as closely as possible to the punch bowl and, appropriating himself a cup of much-needed elixir, he opined sagely, “Sooo, Bry, I’d say hunting season is open, and I for one confess to having awaited this moment ever since the close of the spring semester.”

  “Man, you got that right,” Bryan put in amenably, “Although one cannot avoid the feeling of being a needle in a haystack.”

  “How so?” Trevor inquired vacuously.

  “There must be ten guys for every female in this house,” Bryan observed, adding, “Those odds wouldn’t even warrant a two dollar bet in Las Vegas.”

  “Ah,” Trevor responded and, as if he hadn’t even noticed the extraordinary imbalance, he shrugged it off with, “One must start somewhere, I suppose.”

  Bryan, resigned to the possibility of making an early departure after a couple of drinks, was within minutes surprised to see Trevor surrounded by no less than three coeds. Despite having seen it before, Bryan was in awe. Trevor possessed the propensity to do nothing more than stand motionless in the middle of a crowded room and the distribution of females within earshot would invariably be seen to gradually converge uniquely upon him. Being no fool, Bryan camped as close as possible to tonight’s inexorably contracting vortex.

  One admiring coed inquired offhandedly, “Where exactly did you say you’re from?”

  Trevor responded genially, “Gloucestershire, in the west of England, Miss, er…”

  “Vanessa…Vanessa Markham,” she replied and, her eyes flashing invitingly, she offered him her hand.

  “I say, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Miss Markham,” he retorted, “Trevor Sutherland at your service.”

  “What brings you to the United States?” she inquired breathlessly.

  “My father is in the diplomatic service, in Washington. So you see, it seemed the convenient thing to do. This way, I can be near my family, and at the same time learn more about colonial life here in America.”

  At this, an escaping giggle causing her abundant hair to thrash enticingly, she proffered, “So I take it we ‘colonists’ are your subjects?”

  Obviously taken with her feisty disposition, he replied, “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “Ha!” she cackled, “Well, then, Mr. Trevor Sutherland, member of the English aristocracy, we ‘colonists’ shall try to make you welcome here in the hinterlands!”

  “My dear Miss Markham, I most certainly am not a member of the English peerage,” he fibbed, “But I would nonetheless be honored to avail myself of your considerate gentility.”

  At this, the young lady adjacent to Vanessa howled in obvious hilarity, “My goodness, I have no earthly idea what he’s saying half the time, Vanessa, but isn’t it just too delicious!”

  Turning towards her friend, Vanessa winked and uttered, “Yes, Rebecca. I don’t think I’ve encountered anything quite like it!” And, seeing his puzzled reaction, Vanessa announced with mock extravagance, “Oh, sorry, Mr. Sutherland, I am remiss. These are my friends, Rebecca and Sarah. Rebecca Carey of Danville, and Sarah Johnson of Fredericksburg, meet Mr. Trevor Sutherland, some sort of big mucky-muck from Glowering-Chester, England.”

  Smiling patiently at Vanessa’s purposeful misstep, Trevor reached for Rebecca’s hand, proffering politely, “So nice to meet you, Miss Carey,” following this with a similar action toward Sarah.

  “Goodness, I’ve never met a duke before,” Rebecca responded condescendingly and, taking his hand, she curtsied ostentatiously.

  “Me either!” Sarah interjected excitedly.

  Having thus far taken in the unfolding scene in silence, Bryan interjected in absolute amazement, “Well, I’ll be!”

  Seemingly spying him for the first time, Vanessa queried, “And who, may I ask, are you?”

  “Oh, pay no attention to me,” Bryan murmured, “I’m simply auditing.”

  “Auditing? Auditing what, may I ask?” Rebecca interjected suspiciously.

  “Why, it’s a graduate level course on English courtly manners,” Bryan volunteered facetiously.

  “I see,” Rebecca offered with feigned suspicion, “A huckster, and of the worst sort!”

  “What sort might that be?” Bryan frowned in confusion.

  “Why, the anonymous sort, of course,” Rebecca opined sagaciously, at which Sarah burst into uncontrollable giggles.

  “Oh, I say, please do pardon me, ladies. You are so right, I’ve been quite remiss,” Trevor responded and, bowing his head slightly, he proceeded to announce with palpable formality, “Ladies, allow me to introduce my friend and fraternity brother, Mr. Bryan Highsmith,” at which Bryan beamed incongruously in self-importance, as if he had just been knighted by the Queen herself.

  Taking up the gauntlet at this, Vanessa put in with contrived sarcasm, “And me thinking he must be your personal valet!”

  Bryan, obviously deflated by such a cutting remark, responded in like kind, “Better an English valet than a colonist commoner!” At which all five broke into uncontrollable giggles.

  Their infectious good humor having by now reached distracting proportions, Trevor suddenly suggested, “I say, dear ladies, I find this line of discussion intoxicating, so much so that I am forced to conjecture – might the three of you be persuaded to step outside with we two, perhaps wending our way thenceforth to a local constabulary for the purpose of further exploring heretofore hidden subjects?”

  The young ladies breaking into further giggles at this, Rebecca eyed him as she whispered in her companions’ ears, thereby induci
ng Vanessa to exclaim, “How could we ‘commoners’ refuse such a well-said invitation by such a well-healed gentleman? Lead on, MacDuff!”

  “Lay on,” Rebecca corrected.

  “What?” Vanessa quipped vacuously.

  “Oh, nothing,” Rebecca responded in embarrassment.

  “I say,” Trevor now put in admiringly, “That is quite excellent, Miss Carey. How do you come to know our Mr. Shakespeare?”

  For her part, Rebecca simply glanced at him and, apparently attempting to avoid rancor, she responded, “Yes, well, what say we get out of here?” at which the five made a hasty departure.

  Two Days Later

  Bryan tapped on the door and, at a sound from within, he entered and exclaimed, “How are you, Trevor? Recovered yet from Friday night?”

  “Certainly,” Trevor replied pleasantly, “We did have a fine old time, did we not!”

  “Beyond all expectations,” Bryan observed, adding wistfully, “I confess, I didn’t see that one coming at all. We seem to have started the year off on the right foot.”

  “My thoughts as well,” Trevor volunteered.

  “Sooo,” Bryan stammered and, getting to the point somewhat circuitously, he inquired, “Any thoughts?”

  “Thoughts? What sort of thoughts?” Trevor responded blankly.

  “Well, er…what I mean is, did you fancy any one of them?”

  Eyeing Bryan questioningly, Trevor blubbered, “Hmmm, I suppose I hadn’t really thought about it, if you must know, Bry.”

  “You’re kidding!” Bryan quipped in amazement.

  “I’m sure I’ve no idea to what you are referring,” Trevor shot back.

  “Oh, good grief,” Bryan responded, “You can be so exasperating, Trevor!”

  “What? Why ever for?”

  “You just take everything for granted. Young ladies like those three don’t grow on trees, you know.”

  “Oh? I hadn’t noticed,” Trevor responded, subsequently adding, “I say, old boy, what exactly are you getting at?”

  “What I’m getting at is – I’d like to ask one of them out,” Bryan responded in exasperation.

  “Oh, I say, good show!” Trevor replied distractedly.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” Trevor frowned in confusion.

  “Which one of them do you fancy, Trevor?”

  “I’m confused,” Trevor responded vacantly, “Did you not already ask me that question?”

  “See here,” Bryan explained, “I’ve no idea how things are done in your country, but in the United States, a gentleman does not trod on his friend’s turf.”

  “Oh, I see now,” Trevor replied, “You want to make sure we don’t compete with one another!”

  “Right!” Bryan blurted.

  “Well then, by all means – ask her out,” Trevor suggested.

  “What! Ask who out?” Bryan queried in irritation.

  “Why, Rebecca, of course,” Trevor observed.

  “What! Why Rebecca?”

  “I should think because she’s the one who holds your attention, of course,” Trevor supplied matter-of-factly.

  “How do you know that?” Bryan inquired, one eyebrow arching in amazement.

  “Why, anyone could see it, I should think. Besides, I’ve already asked Vanessa out for this Friday,” Trevor declared.

  “You can be so exasperating, you know,” Bryan exclaimed in irritation.

  “Right, but all’s well that ends well, or so they say,” Trevor opined indifferently.

  Ten Days Later

  Rebecca poked her head within Vanessa’s room and, observing that she didn’t appear to be busy, she inquired pleasantly, “Hey, Vanessa, how is it going?”

  “Oh, fine, and you?” Vanessa responded distantly.

  “Okay, I guess,” Rebecca murmured, “Got a sec to chat?”

  Sensing Rebecca had something on her mind, Vanessa nodded pleasantly, “Sure. Have a seat.”

  Taking a spot on the bed’s end, Rebecca observed, “I had a date with Bryan last weekend.”

  “Oh, good for you! How’d it go?”

  “Alright, I suppose,” Rebecca prevaricated.

  “That doesn’t sound very upbeat,” Vanessa replied suspiciously, “C’mon, girl, give over. What happened?”

  “Oh, he was nice. I like him just fine, but I’m afraid I’m really not interested in him.”

  “What makes you say that, Rebecca?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Frankly, I’m not sure I know anything at all. But, if I’m not mistaken, attraction is a necessary part of courtship.”

  Eyes focusing upward in apparent contemplation, Vanessa murmured, “Hmmm. Yes, I think I agree. I am terribly attracted to Trevor. So yes, I agree, definitely.”

  Scrutinizing Vanessa with interest, Rebecca inquired, “Did you go out with him?”

  “Yes, of course I did,” Vanessa replied with obvious superiority.

  “Oh,” Rebecca said distantly, “How’d it go?”

  “Peachy, just peachy,” Vanessa responded evasively.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Look,” Vanessa responded facetiously, “Guys like that are all way up on the top end of the scale, you know.”

  “Actually, no, I don’t know,” Rebecca observed, “I’ve never had a date with a guy like that.”

  “Well, perhaps in some ways you’re lucky,” Vanessa observed condescendingly.

  “How so?”

  “Listen, ever been fishing?”

  “Of course, folks down in Danville all fish,” Rebecca responded, “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “My dear Rebecca, dating is like fishing. You throw out a line, and then you resolve to wait, most times interminably. Eventually, on rare occasions, you get a bite if you are lucky. So you real in that fish, and guess what – nine out of ten times you catch a tiny little minnow. But if you stick with it, one day you finally snag a whopper. At first you’re feeling lucky, until that fish gives you the fight of your life. And by the time you get it into the boat, you’re so exhausted that half of you wants to throw it back.”

  Rebecca eyed her a moment, then proffered, “So you’re saying Trevor is a whopper.”

  “Bingo!” Vanessa quipped knowingly.

  “Well, I’ve never even seen a whopper before,” Rebecca observed, “But from where I stand, I rather believe I’d at least like to experience hooking into a whopper.”

  “Well, then, keep fishing. In the meantime, I have a whopper on my line, and he isn’t anywhere near being yanked into the boat. So stay posted and watch my back, because this could be a tough battle.”

  “Done,” Rebecca responded, “And, just so you will know, you can count on me.”

  “Thanks,” Vanessa replied, “Now, back to my point. Just because Bryan is a minnow in your eyes, it doesn’t mean he isn’t worth netting.”

  Eyeing her for a moment, Rebecca now blurted, “Well, perhaps you are right, but I just don’t see it. I mean, if attraction isn’t there from the get go, then I don’t see how it can ever magically materialize.”

  “Well, you may be right, but I suspect that your hypothesis can only be tested experimentally,” Vanessa volunteered.

  “Spoken like a true psychology major,” Rebecca grinned in tacit concurrence.

  The Following Day

  Trevor stopped in at the coffee shop on his way to the frat house and, spotting Bryan in the corner, he purchased a cup and sauntered over. “Hey Bryan, is there room for me within your zone of solitude?” he asked.

  Glancing up from the book he was reading, Bryan responded, “Oh, hi, Trevor. Sorry, I didn’t see you,” and pointing to a seat, he added, “Sure, have a seat.”

  Sensing something was amiss, Trevor inquired, “Why so glum?”

  “What? Oh, it’s nothing. I’m fine,” Bryan prevaricated defensively.

  “Oh, surely friends such as we aren’t going to hold back on one another, Bryan.”

&n
bsp; “Right,” Bryan responded sheepishly, “Well, I suppose you’re right. It’s just that, well, I suppose I got dumped by Rebecca.”

  “Oh, I say, that’s too bad, old boy,” Trevor responded, “What happened? You two just met last week.”

  “Yes, well, here’s the thing, Trevor. I was quite taken with Rebecca, I mean quite taken. She is quite lovely, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, I can see how you would think that,” Trevor empathized, “And?”

  “And, well, we had a very nice time. I took her to a fancy restaurant and we laughed and joked, and she…well, by the end of the evening I confess she had me in the palm of her hand,” at which point he gazed sadly downward and added morosely, “So when we got back to her dorm, she allowed me to kiss her. At that point I asked her if she would be willing to go out with me again, and I guess I must have gone too fast.”

  “How so?”

  “She was really nice about it, you know, but she said no, that she didn’t think that we were suited for one another. I’m not sure what I did wrong, but I must have gone too fast.”

  “I doubt that, old boy,” Trevor replied matter-of-factly.

  “What? Why do you say that?”

  “Listen, Bryan, if things are headed in the proper direction, tiny improprieties do not lead to such gut-wrenching revelations.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Let me put it this way, Bryan. You should feel gratitude to her for being direct and honest with you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because the majority of the time, women do not have the civility or place of mind to be both honest and gentle with potential suitors. You, dear friend, were fortunate.”

  “When you put it that way, perhaps I was lucky. But what you’ve said makes me miss her all the more, considering that her treatment of me was apparently unusual.”

  “Still, I should think it would be much better if one were informed of such adversities early on,” Trevor sympathized.

  “Yes, yes of course,” Bryan mumbled and, pushing a stray strand of hair back, he murmured, “But I seriously doubt if one such as you could know exactly how it feels, Trevor.”

  Well aware of Bryan’s implication, Trevor responded, “Perhaps. Perhaps so, but surely it must be like going into battle. One takes some bumps, some bruises, and perhaps on occasion even a serious wounding. But, in the end, the watchword is survival. And each of those bumps and bruises better prepares one to stave off that death-dealing blow.”

  “I understand,” Bryan replied pensively, “In which case, I’m headed for survival, because I have sustained quite a few bumps, bruises, and even a fair number of wounds.”

  “Well, then, shall we drink to that, my friend?”

  Now showing signs of rejuvenation, Bryan replied, “Yes, of course.”

  Clinking their mugs together, the pair agreed in unison, “To survival.”

  Sensing their exchange had now reached its conclusion, Trevor volunteered, “The game is up with her, as they say, old boy. Time to move on. There’s plenty of more game in the forest, as I’m sure you know full well.”

  “Yeah, well, let me know if you come upon another one like her who fails to measure up for you, because at this point I am only partly battle-tested, and in desperate need of further wounding.”

  “I say, well said,” Trevor rejoined and, the pair rising, they made their departure.

  Late September

  Trevor placed a phone call to Rebecca, inquiring whether she might be interested in having dinner with him. As she was receptive, he arranged to take her out for a date the following weekend. On that Friday night he arrived at the sorority house in his Porsche, decked out in his best leather jacket. Observing her coming down the sweeping staircase to the lobby within, he offered, “Good evening, Miss Carey,” and, eyeing her nervously, he added, “May I say, you look quite lovely tonight.”

  “Thank you,” she replied pleasantly.

  “I say, am I quite late?”

  “Nope, right on time,” she responded and, taking his arm with her hand, she inquired politely, “Where to?”

  “Might you be familiar with a restaurant called The Courthouse? Tis south of town, heading towards Roanoke.”

  “No, I don’t get out much. Eating out is a luxury that I normally have neither time nor money to indulge in.”

  “Right then, as it turns out, it is seafood. Does that meet your approval?”

  “Sure, I like seafood.”

  “Excellent! I do believe that you shall like this restaurant,” he responded pleasantly.

  With the ice broken, they made their way to the parking lot, whereupon Rebecca stopped in her tracks, blurting, “Is THAT your car?”

  “Certainly,” he responded nonchalantly, “Tis a Porsche.”

  “I know it’s a Porsche,” Rebecca replied sarcastically. “I’ve never been in a Porsche before. Sooo, you must be rich, Trevor Sutherland.”

  “Let me simply say that my family is blessed with ample financial resources.”

  “My, that’s enigmatic” she responded. “What year is your car?”

  “Why, 1968 of course,” he replied self-assuredly, nevertheless wondering what she was getting at. As he did so, he opened the car door for her and she slid inside.

  Once he was seated on his side, she continued, inquiring indiscreetly, “Is the title in your name?”

  “Most assuredly, my father gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday,” he responded as he turned the key in the ignition.

  Speaking above the roar of the engine, Rebecca expounded, “Okay, so let me see if I can define rich for you, Mr. Trevor Sutherland. If you sold your Porsche 911S, you would have more money in your hands than most people make in three years in this country. Does that kind of give you a picture of where I’m coming from, mister poor little rich boy?”

  At this rather importune remark, Trevor jerked his around and glared at her. Had they not already been on the road, he would have been seriously tempted to take her back to her dorm room and drop her unceremoniously off. No one had ever insulted his affluence before. On the contrary, they were generally made more entranced by the site of his Porsche. This offensive young lady not only apparently considered affluence a sin, she’d managed to use such a ridiculous implication to infuriate him within five minutes of meeting for their first date.

  Attempting to change the subject to something less contentious, he volunteered good-naturedly, “I say, enough chatter about me. Perhaps you could tell me a bit about yourself.”

  “Like what?” she asked vacantly.

  “Right, nothing challenging. Let me think. Alright, what pray tell is your course of study?”

  “History,” she responded candidly.

  “History! History? What sort of person studies history? What can one do with that?” he queried with evident condescension.

  “I don’t know,” she responded defensively, “I’m going to college to try and understand the world. I’m not really thinking about a profession at this point, just the pursuit of knowledge.”

  “I see. That sin’t so bad perhaps, but I assume that you know that historians do in fact struggle to make a decent living.”

  “I have low aspirations,” she responded sarcastically, “Why, what’s your major?”

  “Mechanical engineering,” he replied pompously.

  “Wow!” she exclaimed with obvious incredulity. “You must be a whiz at math. I hear that engineers are good at math. I have trouble balancing my checkbook!”

  Pleased that she was beginning to show some admiration for his clearly superior intellect, he replied nonchalantly, “Yes, of course, I am able to do the math.”

  “So I’ll bet you can explain how this car runs,” she volunteered absurdly.

  “Of course - four speed manual transmission, 2.0 liter turbocharged flat six, 190 horsepower, rear engine, rear wheel drive. Nasty little beast.”

  “Y
ou talk like you think it’s your personal sex toy,” she blurted inadvisably.

  “Excellent notion, Rebecca!” he chuckled, then added, “Sex toys are endowed with certain pieces of entirely unique equipment, none of which can be found within my Porsche.”

  At this offensive rejoinder, Rebecca gaped at him in absolute horror.

  Observing her apparent offense, he responded, “I say, what is the problem? You yourself brought it up!” and for the moment he was unable to think of an alternative subject, thereby necessitating the spread of a discomforting silence between the two.

  Fortunately, they arrived at the restaurant shortly thereafter. The pair subsequently managed to complete dinner without further discord, at which point Rebecca politely expressed her gratitude to Trevor for buying her dinner.

  Mistaking her courtesy for interest, Trevor acknowledged her appreciation enthusiastically, immediately suggesting that they proceed forthwith to a bar near campus. At her concurrence, off they went to their next destination, Trevor nonetheless flummoxed by her distant attitude.

  Arriving at the bar, they found a seat, Trevor querying pointedly, “I say, Rebecca, what would you like to drink?”

  “I’ll have a Coke,” she responded unpretentiously.

  Eyeing her dubiously, Trevor blurted with noticeable exasperation, “A Coke it is. One Coke coming right up.”

  Still irritated, he returned in a moment with a Coke for her and a beer for himself. “At your service,” he volunteered, handing her the ineffectual drink.

  Noticing his choice of drink, she queried with apparent interest, “You like beer?”

  “Right,” he responded blandly, “Normally, I’d drink something stronger, but seeing as how you are not drinking, I decided to go easy.”

  “Don’t hold back on my account,” she replied equably.

  “Thanks ever so much. I say, I take it you do not drink at all?” he queried.

  “Nope,” she replied tersely.

  “Why ever for?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose that I haven’t really thought about it. I have better things to spend my precious little resources on.”

  “I say, how does one know, if one has never tried it?” he queried skeptically.

  “Well, I suppose that’s a good question,” she replied thoughtfully, “I guess I’m open to the concept in general, but I’m not about to try alcohol on a first date.”

  “I should think you need to loosen up a bit,” he suggested.

  “Just what exactly does that mean?”

  “I say, I’d lay odds that you’re still a virgin, Rebecca Carey!”

  Her face turning crimson, she blurted, “We can’t all be experienced.”

  “So you ARE a virgin!” he crowed.

  “Oh, shut up!” she exclaimed.

  “Bollocks! I was certain you were experienced,” he murmured.

  “What, like you?” she responded defensively.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he replied with feigned nonchalance.

  “Don’t play the fool with me, Trevor Sutherland, you’re playing both ends against the middle!”

  “I say, in what way, Rebecca,” he replied vacuously.

  “You’ve been dating my friend, Vanessa, and now you’ve gone around behind her back and invited me out. I’m ashamed of you, and I’m ashamed of myself.”

  “Why ever on earth for?”

  “Listen, you English prig, your behavior may be considered proper across the water, but in this country two-timing simply isn’t done, at least not by people of conviction.”

  “I say…I’m not quite sure I follow you, Rebecca…” he stammered in confusion.

  “Don’t play me for the fool! After you asked me out, I decided to make certain you weren’t still dating Vanessa. So, without informing her of our plans for this evening, I approached her and inquired offhandedly how things were progressing between the two of you. Well, surprise, surprise, she informed me that her relationship with you is going just swimmingly.”

  “What!” he exclaimed in shock, “I assure you, Vanessa and I are no longer dating one another, Rebecca.”

  “Yes, you are, you cad.”

  “How can I convince you that it is otherwise?”

  “Listen, Mr. High-and-Mighty mucky-muck, in this country the two of you are dating until she says you’re not dating!” she shrieked.

  “I say!” he exclaimed, now also speaking much too loudly himself, “It is quite apparent that you are some sort of prude, Rebecca Carey,” and it was now evident that all semblance of self-control had been lost between the pair.

  Rebecca screamed furiously, “Fuck you! You fucking bastard!” At this, she swung her arm as if to slap him in the face, but, thinking better of it, she halted her thrusting hand at the last moment.

  By now the entire clientele within the bar had turned to view the erupting spat, thereby compelling the bartender to saunter over and command sternly, “Okay, you two, time to take it outside. You’re out of here,” and, pointing toward the exit, he added menacingly, “Go on, get out of here until you’ve learned how to behave in a more civilized manner.”

  Frozen in shock, Trevor glared at Rebecca with obvious irritation, Rebecca sullenly returning his vehement stare. The silence stretched out, every patron frozen in morbid anticipation of the next outburst between the pair. But eventually Rebecca reached for her coat, the two subsequently heading silently for the exit without further conflict.

  By the time they reached the car Trevor had recovered enough to say, “I say, I am terribly sorry, Rebecca. I don’t know what got into me in there. Please accept my apology.”

  “Yeah, me too. I’m sorry, too. I don’t use words like that, but frankly, you infuriate me, Trevor Sutherland.”

  “I don’t mean to,” he responded defensively.

  “That may be, but the result is nevertheless not very pleasing, to say the least,” she observed morosely and, eyeing him despairingly, she suggested, “Look, I’m tired. Would you mind taking me home, please?”

  “What? Why? It’s only ten-thirty!” he blurted.

  “Look, I don’t feel very well. Please, could you just take me home?”

  “Alright, certainly,” he responded sullenly. “Yes, perhaps you are right, Rebecca. Perhaps we both need to cool off a bit.”

  They drove back to the dorm in telling silence and, on arriving she immediately reached for the car door, murmuring, “I can see my own way in from here. Goodnight, Trevor, and thanks again for dinner.”

  “Might I see you again?” he asked furtively, now resigned to the reality that she had slipped through his fingers, but somehow nevertheless unwilling to concede defeat.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, Trevor,” and at this she emerged forlornly from the car and made her solitary way toward the sorority house.

  My Father the God

  By

  D. Allen Henry

  Foreword

  In the interest of brevity, I shall endeavor to explain my part in this matter as simply as possible, so that you, the reader, may progress as expediently as possible to the events portrayed herein.

  My name is Robert Moorehead. I was born in 1942 in Boston. Shortly after the death of my wife’s father, his lawyer, Mr. James Dudley, contacted me, indicating that her father had made quite an unusual bequest to me. I admit that I prevaricated for close onto a year, but eventually, my curiosity getting the better of me, I determined to contact Mr. Dudley. Thus, on a frigid morning in February of 2004, I found myself being ushered into his law office at Squires, Dudley and Millhouse, located in downtown Boston.

  Upon grasping the outstretched hand of Mr. Dudley, a squat fiftyish looking man, I was offered a seat, he for his part, cocking his head in what I interpreted to be an inquisitive glance that portrayed mystification not unlike my own. After a few moments of mutual silence, he cleared his throat, emitting, “Ahem,” a sort of preamble, or so I presumed, and subsequently laun
ched into his carefully planned soliloquy, “Mr. Moorehead, I have been asked to provide you with a key - a key, I might add, that unlocks a safe deposit box at Boston National Bank, just down the street from my office. The contents of that box are not precisely known to me. However, given what I do know in this circumstance, I feel it only fair to forewarn you, sir, that the contents shall in all likelihood be quite earthshaking for you.”

  I recall staring pensively at Mr. Dudley and, entertaining not the slightest notion as to his meaning, I inquired doubtfully, “In what way, sir?”

  “Mr. Moorehead, I am honor-bound by my charge, though he is now deceased, to divulge nothing more to you on this subject at this time. My explicit duty is to hand the key over to you, thenceforth informing you that you shall find the deposit box in question listed under your name, the passcode being your initials, followed by the numeric sequence of your birth date.”

  Inexplicably intrigued by this pronouncement, I accepted the proffered key, inquiring insistently, “Is there no more that you can intimate to me, sir?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps, I can, sir, but not at this moment in time. At a later time, after you have had the opportunity to sufficiently digest the materials that await you, I may be able to fill you in somewhat.”

  “I see,” I mumbled self-consciously, meaning in fact exactly the opposite and, arising from my seat, I thrust my hand forward to him, saying, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Dudley. I shall say good day to you.”

  “Likewise,” he replied, solemnly taking my hand in turn.

  Upon departing his office, I made straight for the bank in question, whereupon I was promptly admitted to the vault. Exactly as had been described to me, I was forthwith led to the deposit box in question, thereby utilizing the proffered key to open it.

  Within, I found only a single item – an unbound manuscript, and though it was obviously well-worn, it was bound neatly with a piece of red ribbon, a bow gracing its frontispiece. Above the bow was the hand-written inscription – For Robert.

  Having no idea what was contained therein, I forthwith departed none the wiser. However, I must confess to you that the revelations secreted within would eventually turn my own world upside down and, although upon reading it I felt initially disinclined to publish the manuscript, the passage of time has altered my thinking, leading me to believe that there is something profound to be gleaned within these pages. Indeed, it has taken me close onto a decade to summon the fortitude to take the final step, the publication of this manuscript in fact being that penultimate step.

  The manuscript before you is exactly as it was received by me a decade since. There is, however, one small alteration, a change made by me. I took the liberty of assigning the title listed on the frontispiece, as the term For Robert was not in my view intended to be a title for the manuscript. And so, dear reader, I wish you a pleasant and enlightened read of My Father the God.

  Prologue

  I was born in Cambridge, England in 1920 and, although one could say that I am English by birth, I regard myself as a Scot, having been sired by that illustrious archeologist Sir Alastair Stewart, he who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1964.

  It could accurately be said that I was born in another century, perhaps even more provocatively, another millennium. But for me, it was nothing more than the time period that I was chosen by the gods to inhabit this earth and, the fact that you are reading this now being evidence that I have passed on, I can say this – though the ride was never simple, being on the contrary endlessly circuitous and complex, I am quite satisfied with the lot that has been my life. I have recorded herein the salient events of that life, as best I can remember. I have done this for you, Robert.

  You may wonder why I never attempted to relay this story to you during my lifetime. Certainly one could charge me with cowardice on this point, but I would argue to you that though this assertion may in fact be accurate, it has little to do with my motivation for choosing this method to inform you of the events portrayed herein. And while I cannot prove this to you, myself having now been laid to eternal rest, I would hope that you will believe me when I submit it to you in this way – I felt it best to leave sleeping matters lie so long as I lived, but, in your interest, to inform you of the revelations herein at such time that they might soothe your conscience without causing undue emotional harm.

  So now, let me presage my account with a short rumination, an account of my own father. He was quite the character, you see. Having somehow survived the horrors of The Great War despite the loss of a leg, he subsequently married my mother, Edwina Turnberry, whom he is said to have met at the funeral of her older sister Elizabeth, she having been taken at a quite young age by the flu pandemic of 1918.

  My father matriculated to Cambridge University, where he was an august member of the faculty of Trinity College for over forty years, in the process becoming a singularly famous archeologist. Due to his professional obligations, he was always off on trips to here and there about the world, indeed to anywhere that there was something quite ancient to be dug into. Unfortunately, I was not allowed to accompany him on these sojourns, being perhaps too mischievous for my own good. Thus, I grew up within the uniquely sterile atmosphere of the academic world.

  That is, until the summer of 1933, when I was afforded my very first opportunity to accompany my father on a dig. And, although I myself found it quite unexciting, what a dig it was. My father was ensconced at Amarna, two hundred miles up the Nile from Cairo, Egypt, at the site of the city built by the mysterious Pharaoh Akhenaten, he who had ruled around 1350 BCE.

  I don’t mind telling you that for a boy of twelve, the opportunity to escape his homeland on such a lengthy journey was in those days quite unprecedented. Indeed, it was only a decade earlier that Howard Carter had discovered the tomb of Akhenatan’s son Tutankhamun in the Valley of the Kings, some distance upriver from Amarna. Still, upon our arrival in the desert on a torpid day in early June, I was shocked by my first view of the vast wasteland before us, not to mention the unbearable heat.

  My memory of that summer is most likely badly tainted by the lengthy passage of time. As I recall, I was prone to run about untethered, spending my days chasing after nothingness, boredom ever my staunchest ally, as my father was constantly engaged in digging obsessively for things that were simply beyond me. Still, there is one event that occurred during that sojourn that has remained vivid and fresh in my mind for nigh onto seventy years.

  As memory serves me, my father’s assistant came trotting my way, signaling that I should follow him forthwith. Intrigued by such a rare circumstance, I immediately dropped the handful of pebbles that I had been deploying as artillery for my imaginary army, and fell into step with him. Arriving at my father’s side moments later, I halted abruptly, querying incongruously, “Father, you sent for me?”

  “Aye, son, indeed Ah did,” and, so saying, he took my hand and, dragging me forward, he impatiently tugged me as hastily as he could some thirty yards distant. Then, suddenly stopping at an entirely unremarkable spot, and pointing enigmatically at the abundant Egyptian sand, he announced serendipitously in that endearing Scottish accent of his, “Ye simply main see thes!”

  Peering downward at the appointed spot, I searched in vain for the presumably ancient discovery my father referred to and, spying nothing whatsoever, I responded doubtfully, “Uhm, Ah dorn’t see anythin’ a’tall, father.”

  “Reit, boot bide a moment,” he cajoled, displaying a rare smile of anticipation. Following his command, I leaned forward, at length perceiving a tiny circular hole in the ground.

  “Ye mean that wee hole there?” I inquired, pointing to the innocuous and nearly invisible shaft.

  “Precisely,” he responded, “Noow, simply observe,” and at this he bent forward, placing his hands on his knees. Sure enough, within moments, a beetle appeared, clearly intent on some mysterious mission. “Ah, thaur he be, son!”

  I stared
doubtfully and, subsequently turning back toward my father, I announced acrimoniously, “Dad, Ah’m a bit auld fur bugs.”

  “Aye,” he replied jovially, “But when ye hear why Ah sent fur ye, ye shall be fascinated with thes a body.”

  “Reit,” I responded doubtfully, “Whit’s it all aboot?”

  Pointing at the beetle yet again, he pronounced, “That, mah son, be a god!”

  I peered non-plussed at the innocuous insect, responding, “Ye cannae be serioos.”

  “Och, but Ah am – Ah most certainly am. It be a dung beetle, and in Egyptian times, it was indeed quite a god.”

  “Why ever on earth fur?” I replied in confusion.

  “The dung beetle be the ultimate survivor. It subsists wholly oan dung.”

  “Och,” I sneered in revulsion, “Dinnae sound godly tae me!”

  “Aye, but bide an’ watch. Haur he comes, an’ examine if ye will exactly whit he is draggin’ alang with heem.”

  “Looks loch some sort ay wee ball,” I responded.

  “Reit. It be a dung ball. An’ watch, he’ll be draggin’ it intae his den.”

  “Ugh! That be indeed nasty,” I recall remarking in disgust.

  “Reit, boot quite soon he shall complete his ministrations, an’ at that point, he shall seal himself within his den, to all appearances entombin’ hisself forever. Boot bide a few days, an’ suddenly a horde ay newborn beetles shall burst forth frae the selfsame spot.”

  “Och, I say, noow that do soond interesting,” and, subsequently mumbling to myself, I added inanely, “An’ quite strange as well.” Then, on further contemplation, I added, “Hoo does he dae it, father?”

  “Simple – he be a god!”

  “Reit,” I murmured cynically.

  “Seriously, the ancient Egyptians coods see nae other reason fur sech a mystery than that the dung beetle coods produce offspring frae the excrement ay other animals. The dung beetle is therefore one ay the greatest gods frae Egyptian antiquity.”

  “Interestin’,” I said, still pondering, “But whit be the significance ay it all?”

  “Guid question,” he replied. “Let’s jist say, the warld be mysterious, an’ sometimes stoatin things can come seemingly frae wee or naethin’, in this case – dung. The dung beetle lives its life in filth, solely fur the benefit ay its progeny.”

  I peered at my father doubtfully, having no earthly idea what he was insinuating, but for some reason, that event stuck in my mind. Indeed, it has remained with me for a lifetime, and little did I know then, but one day, I would begin to understand the significance of the lesson that he taught me that day.

  And now, without further delay, here within these pages is that lesson.