Unconditional

When Elizabeth shot Edward, Henry died too. Neither man suffered. Edward's eyes widened in surprise when he saw her pull the revolver from her hand-stitched bag. When he realized her intent, he laughed at her. He was dead before he could insult her again.

Then she went to her knees and cradled his shattered head to her breast, his warm blood soaking the thin fabric of her silk blouse. She would probably have to burn it and her overcoat as well. She looked into Edward's empty eyes and wept for Henry.

Both men had loved Elizabeth in their own way. Henry was gentle. His strong arms would encircle her petite waist. She would rest her cheek against his shoulder and he would kiss the top of her head, smelling the lavender soap in her clean hair. She would wrap her arms around him and feel warm, her cheeks flushing, her heart beating faster. He would whisper her name into her auburn hair, feeling her tremble slightly.

Edward would beat her, tearing the bodice of her dress as she tumbled to the floor before he fell upon her and raped her.

But Elizabeth understood both men. She loved Henry, the man of science, the scholar. Dear, gentle Henry. They had met on a fall afternoon. She worked in the college library. He was a professor, newly transferred from Oxford. He had made an inquiry at her station and ended up taking her to dinner. Eventually she had quit her job and became his assistant, taking a room near his house and laboratories.

Ten months later she met Edward. He was exciting where Henry was unsure of himself. Edward took her to music halls and stage plays. Henry had her transcribe notes and measure compounds for his experiments. Edward dared to make love to her while Henry blushed when he accidentally brushed her bare wrist with his hand. At first, she loved both men.

Until Edward began taking what he wanted, when he wanted it. He no longer felt a need to woo her. To seek her favor. His only desire was to satisfy his ever growing lusts. He was always drunk. He insulted barkeeps and hansom drivers. And she submitted. Fearful of his beatings.

Henry asked her about her bruises and she lied to him, knowing he could not protect her from Edward, fearful of how he would react to her submission to the stronger man. She yearned for Henry to take her as Edward had so often done. She looked into his green eyes wanting to tell him. Afraid to reveal her shame. Then later that night, she would flinch from the intensity of Edward's brown eyes.

Her revulsion of Edward grew in proportion to her love for Henry until, one day, Henry declared his love for her, as well. Elizabeth could no longer keep her shame a secret. But she could not hurt Henry either. She would do whatever she needed to do to protect him, knowing his gentle spirit could not stand the truth.

In the end it broke her heart that the last eyes she had to look into belonged to Edward Hyde and that she would never again see the gentle, loving gaze of the kindest man she had ever known, Dr. Henry Jekyll

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The Thinker

A lot of my friends have been asking me why I do not post more frequently. To tell you the truth - it is the research. Research takes a lot of time. Most of my ideas come from silly conversations with silly people. Finding these things is time consuming and often requires copious amounts of adult beverages.

Remembering them is a complete other matter.

I honestly cannot tell you how many times I've sat around with several people, on the next day, and all we could remember was laughing. Not one of us could remember what we were laughing at. But we all remembered saying how blogworthy it would be.

I have scratched my head raw trying to remember ideas from the previous night. I may as well have been scratching my ass.

Which got me to thinking. The problem may be more solvable if I broke it down.

First is the subject matter. Which I can't seem to remember. Nor can anyone else. So, like, that doesn't help.

Second is the people. Most of them, apparently, have faulty memories that do not improve with the introduction of alcohol. No help there. Some of them are pretty funny in their own right. But looks and taste in who they date isn't everything. Also, I can't let most of them know how funny they are. It is the same principle that says every experiment is contaminated by the observer (which is bad enough). But what if the experiment were self-aware? Although... there is little chance of that in this case.

Third is the location. Which usually comes down to my place or theirs.

And, lastly, is the alcohol itself. I have tried every combination I can think of. Clear drinks, amber drinks, mixed drinks, straight up, on the rocks, high test, wine coolers, lite beers, dark beers, redheads, blonds, brunettes, is she big, is she small, is she short, is she tall, is she any kind of dreamboat at all...

Wait a second! How did I drift into the theme song from Dobie Gillis?

Obviously, this problem is going to require more research with exhaustive overtime and late night sessions with several of my female interns. After which I should return refreshed and somewhat relaxed. Scratching my ass and wondering what the hell was so funny last night...


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Everything I know I learned from Richard Kimble

The Fugitive was Dr. Richard Kimble, an innocent victim of blind justice, falsely convicted for the murder of his wife, reprieved by fate when a train wreck freed him en route to the death house; freed him to hide in lonely desperation, to change his identity, to toil at many jobs; freed him to search for a one-armed man he saw leave the scene of the crime; freed him to run before the relentless pursuit of the police lieutenant obsessed with his capture.

I first met Richard Kimble in 1964. I was twelve years old and he was working as a handyman for my father. My dad owned several apartment buildings. Kimble would cut the grass, empty the trash, unclog the drains. He used to deliver babies until his wife, Helen, was killed. Now he ran errands for my dad and kept his head down.

Later, after he had to leave, I found out who he was and what he was accused of. From what I knew of him at the time, I didn't believed it. My mother was horrified that we had had a killer in our midst. My father thought he was a hard worker and a pretty good guy. I just remembered his eyes. They were kind and sort of bewildered looking. When we would talk, he would never look at me for long before his eyes would flick sideways at a creaking floorboard or some sound in the street. Then he would give me that little twitch of a smile, as if apologizing for the interruption.

Eventually we heard that Kimble found Fred Johnson, the one armed man, and almost fried anyway when Gerard shot Johnson after he confessed to Kimble. Fortunately, a witness to Helen's murder, who was being blackmailed by Johnson, finally came forward when the one armed man was killed; ending Richard Kimble's long nightmare.

I'm not sure why all of this has had such an impact on my life. I wasn't that old at the time and I only knew Kimble for about six weeks. Maybe it was because I lived in a small town and any brush with fame (or infamy) was notable and long remembered. Maybe it was because of my age. Maybe it was Kimble, himself.

He had a gentle patience when other men would have raged at life's injustice. He was willing to work honestly when he was already on the wrong side of the law. He was willing to put his fate in the hands of strangers even though another stranger had ruined his life. He believed in people.

Along the way he made a lot of friends. People who were willing to protect him after knowing him only a short time. People who believed in his innocence. People who saw something in those haunted and hunted eyes. People like me.

He changed our lives by being who he was. An everyman. A guy who needed a break and still took the time to help others. He never let his ordeal change who or what he was and he never gave up.

By the time I heard he had died of a heart attack on February 13, 1980, I was twenty-eight years old. I was working hard at a job I enjoyed and looked people in the eye when I talked with them. Sometimes I would see Kimble, or at least someone like him, looking back.

I've heard about a lot of people over the years who claimed to have had a close encounter with Richard Kimble. A number of them have written books about their experiences - cashing in. Few of them describe the man I knew so I'm not too sure of their veracity. A smaller number of them got it right. Most of those people mention his eyes.

I had a small problem during those six weeks; a kid's problem, really. It doesn't even matter what it was. But Richard Kimble took the time to notice a kid with a problem and he gave me a hand. In the end, when Gerard was coming in the front door and we were at the back door he didn't even have to ask. Our eyes met briefly before his flicked sideways towards the back yard and the tree line. He looked back and gave me that twitchy, apologetic smile and was gone.

A moment later, Gerard came running down the hall shouting questions at me. My eyes flicked sideways to the basement stairs and I said I hadn't seen him. Gerard hesitated, glancing out the back door, then turned, flung open the basement door and shouted, "Kimble!"

I watched him ease down the first few steps, wasting time, and a slight, twitchy smile flashed quickly across my lips.

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