Chapter 5
Back from the Grave
Boston – Late August, 1945
Sloan stepped down from the train, his knees aching from the long flight home, not to mention the years in captivity. Although his weight was still down nearly forty pounds, the doctors had informed him before his discharge that he could be expected to make a full recovery.
Hailing a cab, he pondered the challenge ahead of him - millions of men were coming home from war, each and every one of them intent on making up for lost time. The future was thus daunting, but he surmised that nothing could ever compare to his experience of the past three years. All in all, he reckoned that he would somehow succeed, the immediate challenge being to reinitiate his studies at Harvard if at all possible.
The following day he visited the registrar’s office, re-enrolling after an eternity of four years. He wondered to himself - had his debilitating captivity somehow lessened his academic capabilities? Only time would tell.
Late September, 1945
Sloan sprawled languidly at his usual spot in the coffee shop and, his studies completely absorbing his attention, he sipped absently on a cup of hot tea. Such small things seemed like luxuries to him now.
Suddenly distracted by a shadowy figure nearby, he glanced up, only to recognize a familiar face. “Why, Isolde, Isolde Channing, what a surprise! It’s awfully good to see you!” and rising from his seat, he accepted her gentle embrace.
“Hullo, Sloan. How are you?” she replied tentatively.
“Never better,” he responded politely, “And you?”
“Just fine,” she responded sheepishly, and so saying, she pushed a small boy forward, he for his part, attempting to hide behind his mother’s skirt. “Sloan, I’d like you to meet my son, Robert,” she announced pointedly.
“Why, hello there,” Sloan said, bending to offer the child his hand.
“Shake the nice man’s hand, Robert,” Isolde instructed. “Go on, he won’t hurt you. He’s an old friend of mine.”
At this, the boy extended a tiny hand, gurgling doubtfully, “Hullo, sir.”
Sloan grasped the boy’s hand for a second and, releasing it, he observed, “My, he looks quite like you, Isolde. How old is he?”
“He’s three,” she replied, adding, “I’m married - to James.”
“Oh, I say, good for you, Isolde! I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Sloan replied in obvious embarrassment.
“To my knowledge, there is no way you could have known,” she replied knowingly.
“Just so, just so,” he responded thoughtfully. “At any rate, that is indeed wonderful news. How is James, anyway?”
“He’s just fine. He’s on the faculty now, you know.”
“Actually, I had indeed heard that. That is quite impressive. I trust you are doing well here in Boston?”
“Yes, now that the war is over, things seem to be returning to normalcy.”
“My, what a coincidence, meeting you here like this, after all these years,” he volunteered wistfully.
“Actually, it’s not a coincidence. I came looking for you, Sloan,” she responded. “I heard that you were back, so I checked with the registrar. They gave me your address, so I went by there, and your roommate told me where I could find you. Apparently, this coffee shop is your personal study hall.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you could say that. After three years in captivity, I cannot seem to function without a certain level of cacophony.”
“I heard you were a prisoner of war,” she volunteered complacently, “I’m so sorry, Sloan. Was it ever so bad?”
“Yes, well, I suppose that is indeed a story for another day,” he responded evasively, “After all, I managed to survive, unlike so many others. So here I am, back in school, the future looking quite encouraging.”
“That’s the spirit!” she said and, peering at him searchingly, she inquired with surprising directness, “Sloan, I was hoping that we could rekindle our friendship from the old days. Would that be possible?”
“Why, of course! I would in fact be quite grateful to you. It isn’t easy making new friends here, what with school and all.”
“Wonderful! Perhaps you could come round for dinner with James and me, say, on Friday night?”
“That would be splendid! Where shall I come?”
Handing him a tiny piece of paper, she said, “This is the address. How does seven P.M. sound to you?”
“Perfect. I shall see you then. Goodbye, Isolde.”
“Goodbye, Sloan. I’m ever so glad to see you home again, and in one piece.”
The Following Friday Evening
Sloan waited patiently on the porch, the door eventually opening to the interior of a stunning brownstone. Isolde appeared within, announcing over her shoulder, “He’s here, James!” and, turning back toward him, she added pleasantly, “Please, come in Sloan. It’so good of you to come.”
“Thanks,” Sloan responded doubtfully and, stepping within the two story entryway, he blurted rather inanely, “I say! What a place! This is indeed quite lovely, Isolde!”
“Thanks,” she replied politely and, gazing about dismissively, she added with apparent disdain, “When your husband doesn’t have to go off to war for four years, one can get ahead.”
“Well, it seems you and James have done quite well,” Sloan put in, following her into the living room, “There is certainly nothing wrong with that!”
“Ah, here you are! At long last!” James said with a smile as the pair entered the room, “How are you, Sloan? It’s been much too long.”
“Yes,” Sloan responded agreeably and, taking James’ outstretched hand, he added, “Almost exactly four years.”
Apparently assessing Sloan’s physical condition, James replied, “You look none the worse for wear. I hear you were a prisoner of war in Burma. There were even rumors you had died. Was it bad?”
“Quite so, but I was one of the fortunate survivors,” Sloan answered and, changing the subject, he volunteered, “So, it seems you are on the faculty at Harvard. I say, good show!”
“Thanks, it’s been a challenge, but it seems to be going well for me. What about you, Sloan?”
“Actually, I have veteran’s benefits, thereby affording me the opportunity to go back to school for a bit, just until I decide what I might want to do with myself.”
“Good idea. Isolde says you’re back at Harvard, majoring in chemistry. Is that right?”
“Yes, I might even end up taking a course from you.”
“You’ll do fine. You’re one of the most brilliant students I’ve ever met. You’ll get a Ph.D. in no time, if I’m any judge at all.”
“I doubt that, but we shall see,” Sloan responded wistfully.
“Well, if there is anything I can do for you, just let me know,” James offered pleasantly.
“Thanks, James. That is quite sporting of you. I may just take you up on it.”
“Stop by my office any time,” James replied empathetically.
The evening having gotten off to a good start, the three of them settled in for dinner, Isolde suggesting, “Shall we eat?”
“Of course,” Sloan responded, thenceforth following his hosts into the dining room.
“How was the food in the prisoner of war camp?” James inquired once they had found their seats.
“Let me put it this way,” Sloan replied, “I don’t ever want to see a bowl of rice again in my entire life!”
At this, the three of them laughed convivially, the formality built up from four years apart having been transcended quite effortlessly.
After dinner, the conversation turned to reminiscence of things past, Isolde inquiring of Sloan, “So, what have you heard from Sabrina?”
“Sabrina?” Sloan responded evasively, “Why, nothing, nothing at all. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” Isolde volunteered idly, “Did you correspond with her during the war?”
??
?No, not at all. The last time I saw Sabrina was the day before she left The Orchard Inn.”
“You mean you never even exchanged letters during all this time?”
“Correct,” he responded matter-of-factly.
“But…” Isolde murmured disconsolately.
“But what?” Sloan queried with furrowed brow.
“But you were in love with her!” she exclaimed.
“I wouldn’t go that far, Isolde. Let’s just say – I had a thing for her.”
“You got that right!” she exclaimed all too knowingly, “Any idea where she is now?”
“No, none at all,” he responded disinterestedly, “Why?”
“Sloan, unless I miss my guess,” she volunteered sympathetically, “You are still quite taken with her.”
“Why ever on earth would you think that, Isolde?”
“Look, I wasn’t in that prisoner of war camp,” she commenced, “But from everything I’ve heard, quite a lot of the soldiers who were taken prisoner claim to have survived by distracting themselves from the reality of their captivity.”
“Is that so?” Sloan mumbled evasively.
“So, our summer in New Hampshire was just about the last thing you enjoyed before going off to war. It stands to reason that you would have thought about it quite a lot during your captivity, especially Sabrina if my guess is correct.”
“Well, that may be…,” Sloan admitted but, realizing that his honesty was a nuisance in this circumstance, he added noncommittally, “But what of it?”
Isolde stared piercingly at him for several moments, eventually cajoling, “You don’t fool me for one second, Sloan Stewart. You simply must go find her!”
“What! Why?” he blubbered defensively.
“Just go see her, Sloan. Either there is something to it, or you’ll at least lay old wounds to rest.”
He regarded her for a moment and, realizing that she had him dead to rights, he suggested, “Perhaps I will, when the time is right. But I am quite tied up with my studies at the moment.”
“Good luck with that!” she expounded cynically.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I meant. I don’t see how you can concentrate on school until you’ve exorcized your demons.”
“Whatever,” he responded, and shortly thereafter he said his goodnights to his friends of old.
But as the weeks passed, Sloan realized more and more that his old friend Isolde had squarely struck the mark.
Pittsburgh – May, 1946
Sloan punched the doorbell to the small house, anxiously awaiting the response from within. After several moments an elderly woman pulled the door ajar, announcing imperiously, “Good morning, may I help you, sir?”
Doffing his hat reflexively, Sloan announced, “Good morning, madam, my name is Sloan Stewart. I am looking for Sabrina Dewhurst. I am given to believe that she lives here.”
“Ah, Sabrina. Would that it were so, Mister…what did you say your name was?”
“Stewart, Sloan Stewart,” he responded politely.
“Yes, of course, she spoke of you before she left.”
“I take it she isn’t here then?” he queried sadly.
Eyeing him suspiciously, the woman rejoined, “I’m afraid not, Mr. Stewart.”
“Might you know where I can find her?”
“Please, come in Mr. Stewart,” she responded with a palpable sigh, “I’m afraid there is no easy answer to that question.”
“Thank you, Madam,” he responded, subsequently following her inside.
Abruptly she turned to him and announced, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t introduce myself. I am Sandra Dewhurst. I am Sabrina’s mother,” and, guiding him into her parlor, she added, “Please, have a seat, sir. May I offer you a cup of tea?”
“Why, thank you. That would be quite nice,” he replied, taking the proffered seat.
Within minutes she was back, pouring a most welcome drink for him, as well as a cup for herself. Eventually seating herself opposite him, she suddenly accused, “So, I assume that you are the ‘nasty boy’, as she herself put it, who subjected her to such mistreatment that summer in New Hampshire.”
“Why, I’m afraid I do not know to what you are referring!” he exclaimed in utter shock and embarrassment.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Stewart, are you not the young man who tortured my daughter on the last night of her sojourn?”
“Torture? Why no, not at all, madam,” he responded in horror.
“I expect there are two sides to every story, Mr. Stewart,” she responded surprisingly serenely, “Suppose you tell me yours.”
“Well, er, I…” he mumbled.
“Out with it, young man!” she exclaimed unpleasantly. “If you expect my help, you shall have to be straightforward with me.”
“Right. I shall attempt it, if you will bear with me. So let me see…where to begin…” and so saying, he commenced haltingly, “Well…surely you know that I was quite taken with your daughter.”
“I know no such thing, sir, but given what I do know of the circumstances, I can’t say that I am surprised, although why you maneuvered to have her expelled from Bryn Mawr, I shall never understand, much less forgive,” she cajoled.
“What! What on earth are you talking about?”
“You, sir, reported her to student affairs at Bryn Mawr, thereby causing her to be expelled shortly after the commencement of the fall semester.”
“I assure you, I did no such thing!” he denied in utter confusion.
“Well, I’m sure I don’t believe you at all,” she murmured in obvious consternation.
“How may I convince you otherwise?”
“I’ve no idea, sir!” she exclaimed.
“I shall endeavor to do so, Madam Dewhurst, but in the meantime, if you will allow me, I shall do everything in my power to restore myself to your good graces. Might I be availed of such a possibility?”
“Well, I don’t know…” she mumbled doubtfully.
“I say, if you should find it in your heart to allow me such an opportunity, I promise you that I shall amply reward your generosity.”
“Well said, Mr. Stewart,” she replied, clearly impressed by his tenacity. But then, shifting hesitantly in her chair, she countered, “However, given what Sabrina has told me of you, I am nonetheless reticent.”
“Fair enough. Perhaps you would be willing to avail me of a test, one capable of restoring myself in your eyes.”
“A test? What sort of test?” she responded with palpable suspicion.
“Please, if you will, tell me where I might find Sabrina, and I promise you, I shall do everything in my power to restore her to your care. What say you to that?”
She eyed him doubtfully for a moment, subsequently responding noncommittally, “I can see no harm in that, sir.”
“Then perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me where she is.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied and giving way, she added, “I believe that she is in Las Vegas.”
“Las Vegas? Nevada? Why ever for?” he blurted in stupefaction.
“I’ve no idea why, Mister Stewart, but her letters to me, rare though they are, are postmarked from there.”
“Right,” he remarked and, resigning himself to the reality of it, he murmured to himself, “Then Las Vegas it is.”
“You’re not actually going to go there, are you?” she inquired in shock.
“Why, yes, of course I am. I’ve no place to be until the fall semester begins,” he ruminated, “I believe that I shall take a small vacation, perhaps even see a bit of the West along the way.”
“I see. Then I wish you good travels, sir. Here is the return address listed on her letters.”
“I say, thank you ever so much for the information, Madam Dewhurst. I shall not disappoint you,” and at this he arose to depart.
Las Vegas – A Week Later
Sloan had to confess that his deci
sion to purchase an automobile had been a good one, despite the expense of it. And while the drive west had been long and grueling, he felt fortunate to have been afforded the opportunity to see so much of America. Route 66 had been especially intriguing, along with the Grand Canyon and the Hoover Dam.
However, once he had arrived in Las Vegas, he had been quite disappointed. Having been informed that Sabrina’s return address was a post office box, he had naively gone to the post office in Las Vegas in the hope that she might often go by there to check her mail, but after several fruitless hours spent waiting, he had given up on that approach.
Las Vegas itself was quite a disappointment as well, being little more than a single boulevard in the desert lined with bars and casinos. After three days perched within several of them, he was at his wits’ end. Contemplating the situation, he realized that it was quite possible that Sabrina had moved on, perhaps even further west, to California.
Lounging at the bar in one of the casinos, he sat lamenting this possibility one evening, when he chanced to overhear the two men on his right engaged in a quite animated discussion.
“I’m tellin’ ya,” he heard one of them say to the other, “That woman is one fine piece of furniture. She’s got legs that go on forever, and when she begins to shower, it’s the damndest sight you’ve ever seen in your life!”
“Is she naked then?” the other guy queried with obvious interest.
“Oh, yeah, she’s naked as a jaybird. Of course, it ain’t legal to see all the goods, so they handle it real sneaky like, makin’ sure that no laws get broken.”
“How do they do that, Sam?”
“Well, here’s the thing. They got the stage set up real weird, so there’s a curtain draped all the way across, but there’s this big round hole in the middle.”
“What! What for?”
“Kindda gives you the feeling of a peep hole, you know. So when the show starts, the band begins playing some suggestive tune, and the curtain rises. She then struts onstage in this fabulous silver evening dress, a real sparkly thing – the perfect match for her long brown hair - and man is she gorgeous. She’s young, you know, and quite statuesque, with a body to die for.”
“What happens next?”
“So she struts around for a bit, making like she’s going to take a glove off or somethin’, but mostly just grinning at the audience, and boy does she have a dazzling smile. So then, the curtain starts comin’ down real slow-like, and that’s when you notice this big round peep hole right in the middle of it. Of course, she moves over where you can see her through it, and that’s when she starts takin’ stuff off. First her gloves, then her dress, and finally, her underthings, whatever they’re called. She’s kindda usin’ the hole to hide the juicy parts, but you still get a pretty good view of everything. Eventually, she gets right up to the peep hole, the bottom of which reaches right down to the top of her crotch and this shower comes on over her head.”
“You gotta be kiddin’!” his companion exclaimed at this revelation.
“Nope! Damndest thing you ever saw. I’m tellin’ you, Jimmy, she’s totally naked, and she starts latherin’ up, just like a woman would do in the shower.”
“How would you know how a woman lathers up in the shower, Sam?” Jimmy queried doubtfully.
“Well, I’m sure I’ve no idea, I’m just supposin’. Besides, it don’t matter whether it’s realistic or not, the fact is, by then your privates will be bustin’ right outta the corral, I guarantee it!”
“So what else?” Jimmy queried excitedly.
“Well, she turns around at one point, gets right up to the peep hole, and that’s when I notice – you can’t see down too far, but far enough so’s you can tell her triangle’s been shaved!”
“What! You gotta be kiddin’ me!” Jimmy responded in awe, an enormous grin spreading across his features.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Jimmy, she ain’t got a blade of hair on her below the neck, not a single lock nowhere, at least not that I could see!”
Overhearing this, Sloan lurched halfway from his stool, spilling his beer on the bar.
“Sorry,” he announced to the two gentlemen, “I apologize. I overheard the two of you talking. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, it ain’t no secret,” the first man said, his inebriated grin spreading from ear to ear.
At this, Sloan stood, leaned forward and, holding out his hand, he said, “Name’s Sloan, Sloan Stewart. Mind if I listen in?”
“Say, you sound like a foreigner, mister,” the first man replied sheepishly.
“Right, I’m Scottish,” he responded politely.
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” the man replied.
“All the way from across the sea? Was you in the war?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I was,” he responded.
“Jimmy here was in the Pacific, and I was in Europe. Where were you?”
“North Africa and Burma,” Sloan responded, subsequently shaking the second man’s hand as well.
“Geez, was it bad?” Jimmy inquired.
“I suppose so,” Sloan responded laconically, “Wasn’t it all?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” the first man said, “I’m Sam Wilson. This here is Jimmy Clark. We’re here in Vegas making a new life for ourselves. How ‘bout you, Sloan?”
“I’m just vacationing.”
“Ah, visiting! Well, I was just tellin’ Jimmy here about the perfect show. You just gotta see it before you leave Vegas.”
“Yes, I overheard, and to tell the truth, I’m quite interested. Please, carry on.”
“Sure, so where was I? Oh, yeah, this gorgeous stripper, now completely naked, starts takin’ a damn shower right in front of the entire audience, as if she don’t even notice or care if the whole damn world is watchin’ her.”
“Damn! I gotta see this show!” Jimmy responded, “I’m about to bust my load just hearin’ about it. Anything else?”
“Yes, the big finale.”
“What finale?”
“At the very end, she’s totally naked, and the curtain rises, givin’ the entire audience the full treatment.”
“Wow! And is she facing the audience?”
“Naw. She’d get arrested for that. She’s got her back to the audience, and she’s just standin’ up there, showerin’ away, like there’s no audience gawking at her naked ass or nothin’.”
“Dang!” Jimmy exclaimed.
“I never seen nothin’ like it in my entire life!” Sam exclaimed.
“So where might one see this show?” Sloan asked with feigned nonchalance.
“At the Flamingo Club. Just opened recently. Take my advice, Sloan. You gotta see that show before you head out of Vegas.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that,” Sloan responded as he rose and, tossing a twenty on the bar, he said, “Thanks guys, I think I’ll turn in for the night.”
“Yeah, right. You don’t fool me. You’re headed straight for the Flamingo!” Sam chortled accusingly.
“Perhaps, but could you fault me for it, after such a colorful description?” Sloan tossed back over his shoulder, the pair laughing in raucous agreement as he hurriedly made his way to the door.
The Flamingo Club – Two Hours Later
Sloan noticed from his watch that it was now considerably past midnight, but there was no way that he was going to tear himself away from the theatre until he had seen the entire show. Up to that point it had been almost entirely vaudeville, punctuated by slapstick comedy, most of it actually quite boring in his view, but the theatre was nonetheless packed, mostly by males. Eventually, a woman came onstage, performing a lewd fan dance, slowly discarding her entire wardrobe but for pasties and a tiny pair of panties. Although quite titillating, hers was clearly not the act that had been described to him by Sam. The show having now ended, Sloan was forced to give up, returning to his hotel room for the night.
The following day he fretted about tow
n, eventually finding himself drawn back to the Flamingo Club. Wandering about within the lobby, he located photos of the various acts, and there, within the display, he found a photo of what appeared to be the shower act described by Sam. And although it was impossible to make out the woman in the tiny photo, he determined to see the show yet again. Stepping up to the ticket window, he inquired as to whether the shower act would be performed that night and, having been informed that it indeed would be, he immediately purchased a ticket for a front-row seat.
When the curtain rose for the shower act that night, he was perched tensely in front of the stage and, exactly as Sam had described it to him, a woman strutted onto the stage as the music commenced, immediately knocking the wind from his lungs. Dressed in a fabulous silver evening gown, her hair shimmering in the spotlight, she appeared somehow different, perhaps older, but he couldn’t be certain because of the sequined mask she wore. As she strutted seductively across the stage to and fro, he thought of all those days and nights in the prisoner of war camp, the memories of her sustaining his will to live. But somehow, something didn’t quite seem right to him. And then, toward the end of her opening number, she removed her mask, at which he suddenly realized that it was not Sabrina at all. Sabrina had always had a look of innocence about her. To his eye, this woman appeared quite the opposite.
The remainder of the show was a blur to Sloan as, going back over the events of the previous few days, he wondered where he had gone wrong. When it was all over, the audience making their collective way to the exits, he sat motionless within his seat, unable to fathom the import of it all. Eventually, determining that something must be done, he made his way outside to the street and, for lack of anything better to do, he awaited near the backstage door in the vain hope that she might eventually appear.
Around three in the morning she came out and, dressed rather covertly, she was presumably disguised as a means of self-protection. Fearful that he might surprise her, he remained hidden, thenceforth following her unobtrusively. She walked a couple of blocks and, getting into a car, she subsequently drove away. Hastily taking down her license plate number, he rushed to his car, hoping to catch up to her.
Reaching his car, he hopped in, driving in the general direction from whence he had observed her departure. Perhaps a mile on, he noticed an all-night diner and, it being the only business open at this hour, he pulled into the parking lot, immediately recognizing her car.
He stalled for a few moments, uncertain exactly how to proceed. Peering toward the interior, he saw her, the only patron within, sitting in a booth, apparently perusing something or other. Suddenly, he decided to throw caution to the wind and, emerging from his car, he strode to the door of the diner and entered.
Completely engrossed in reading a newspaper, she failed to notice him coming towards her, but when he halted within a few feet, she glanced up. Not wanting to alarm her unnecessarily, he said simply, “Hi.”
Gazing suspiciously at him, she took a drag from her coffee and responded, “Okay, buddy, what’s your line?”
“Line? What line?” he replied vacuously.
“Right,” she murmured, adding, “Unless you can do better than that, get lost, you creep!”
“Er,” he tried again, “Look here, miss, I’m sorry to interrupt your morning coffee, but this is important to me. I just have a couple of questions, and I promise I shall leave you alone.”
“So, you saw the show, right?” she exclaimed accusingly.
“Yes, I did in fact see it, but I am not here to bother you in any way.”
“I’ve heard that line before,” she mumbled suspiciously.
Seeing that she was beginning to soften, he continued forward and, taking a seat opposite her, he announced, “See here, I’m looking for a young lady, someone that is very dear to me. Something about your act tonight reminds me of her, and I’m wondering if you might be able to help me to locate her.”
“Wait a minute,” she responded doubtfully, “You’re not hitting on me?”
“No, madam, I am most definitely NOT hitting on you. I am simply in need of some information.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” she mumbled and, taking another long drag on her coffee, she glanced toward the kitchen and called loudly, “Lucy, bring this creep who says he’s NOT hitting on me a cup of coffee!” and then, turning back toward him, she exclaimed, “Please continue. I gotta hear this. So far it’s the best line I’ve ever encountered.”
And so he did, telling her how he had endured three years in captivity, three years during which his only solace was the memory of a young lady he had met in the summer of 1941. And when he had finished, she eyed him suspiciously, suggesting, “That’s quite a story. And if even half of it is true, you gotta be one messed up dude, if you ask me.”
“What? Why?” he blurted out in confusion.
“Listen, soldier boy, I’ve seen my share of your type in my time, and each and every one of your type is pining over the one that got away. I don’t know what that war did to you, but it sure as hell messed up an entire generation of males in this lousy world.”
“I say, you have it precisely,” was all he could think of to say.
“So you say she just disappeared after you tortured her in the shower that night,” she volunteered.
“I didn’t torture…” he began.
“Right, whatever,” she interrupted, “I was just checking on one thing, and now I’ve got my answer, I am certain you’re head over heels for this woman. And if I am any sort of a judge of men, I’d say she did exactly the right thing.”
“Right thing? What is that?” he responded in confusion.
“She got the hell outta Dodge, you fool!”
“But why? Why on earth would she do such a thing?”
“If you ask me, soldier boy, you are one hell of a perverted scum bag. But then, most men are…”
Eyeing her forlornly, he pondered a moment and added in sudden realization, “Right, that may be…Oh, bollocks! Perhaps I am a pervert. Bloody hell, I’ve no idea. But the fact remains, I simply must find her. Can you help me?”
“Help you! How in hell can I help you find someone I never met in my life?”
“For starters, who gave you the idea for your act?”
“Idea! Listen, soldier boy, it’s my act, and mine alone!” she exclaimed with bristling umbrage.
“Sorry,” he rejoined, “I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that, it’s so reminiscent of what happened that night in the shower. I just thought someone might have done something, maybe said something to you that gave you the idea for your act.”
“Not a chance!” she denied emphatically, “It’s all mine, and in case you’re thinking there’s something unique about it, all women shower the same way,” and, narrowing her eyes at him in accusation, she added the coup de grace, “So any woman who showers every day could have conjured up the same act. But as it happens, I’m the first ever to actually act it out in front of a live audience. So there, soldier boy. Now, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here, get on with your life, and stop obsessing over your misbegotten fantasies.”
Staring at her in disbelief, at length he responded in apparent resignation, “Yes, you’re right,” and, acceptance suddenly sweeping over him, he added disconsolately, “Yes, of course you are. I’ve come across an entire continent for no reason at all. I simply must pull myself together and get on with it.”
“You said it. I didn’t,” she exclaimed with obvious detachment, “Now, get going, soldier boy. Get in your car and go back to Boston, where you belong!”
“Yes, well…” he mumbled and, rising from his seat, he murmured in frustration, “Thanks for your help,” and so saying he turned and departed.
The Following Morning
Sloan awakened with a start, and momentarily disoriented, he suddenly realized that he was nearly three thousand miles from home but, worse than that, he was
no closer to sorting out where his life was heading. And, with school starting in three weeks, he knew that it was time to get back to Boston. Accordingly, he paid the bill, packed up his car, and, on the 9th of August, 1946, he pulled out of the parking lot, heading eastward.