To Sleep... Perchance to Die Read online

  Jake couldn’t resist saying, “So, you’re thinking of becoming a lesbian?”

  Caught off guard, Mai said, “No . . . Never . . . I was only . . . ” before she realized he was teasing. Taking his cue, “I mean . . . why, yes. I thought I would give it a try . . . see what it’s all about.”

  In his most sexy voice, “Would you be a Frankie or a Sara?”

  She answered in a murmuring, breathless voice, “Sara. I’d be a submissive Sara . . . very submissive.”

  “Then, I’ll be Frankie.”

  Pressing with all her strength against his body, she whispered, “Yes, you be Frankie. I’ll call you Frankie.”

  He turned her, placed a guiding arm around her back, and escorted her to the couch in the adjacent family room. “And I’ll call you Sara.”

  He unzipped and removed Mai’s shorts, and, to his pleasant surprise, she wore nothing under them. True to her word, Mai in the role of Sara was obedient and submissive. Jake’s rough beard rubbed against soft inner thighs. He felt the sweet shivering sensations that roamed her body.

  “Do you like this, Sara?”

  “Oh, Frankie, I like it very . . . very . . . much.”

  Jake continued his Wednesday jogs to Mai’s house. On this particular Wednesday, they were in an upstairs bedroom, and Mai was riding him like a bareback bronco rider. It was her favorite position. She relished the control.

  The bells attached to a leather strap nailed to the kitchen door chimed signaling the door was being opened.

  “Hi, hon,” Bret called, “I’m home.”

  “Oh my God,” Jake grabbed her hips, lifted her off, and was out of bed in a flash. “He must have left the office early and that fucking Corrie didn’t phone. He’s going to catch us.” Jake snatched his clothes from the floor and began to dress in a fumbling hurry. “I’m going to kill her.”

  Mai scooted off the bed and took her clothes from the chair they were on. “He won’t catch us,” she said in a calm voice. “I’ll go downstairs and keep him busy in the living room. In the meantime, hide in my closet and wait. When the coast is clear, come down and sneak out the back.”

  Jake was nervous, “Okay, but make sure he stays in the living room so he won’t see me.”

  Mai whispered, “I’ll handle it. Be careful, Frankie may be working in her yard. I’ll call when I can.” She kissed him on the cheek and went to the stairway. “Be right down,” she called.

  It wasn’t until the weekend that Mai got in touch with Jake. She said, “When he came in the door, he heard noise coming from upstairs and asked what I was doing, I told him I was exercising. Doing squats to tone my legs. He believed it. In a way, it wasn’t a lie.” They both chuckled.

  “How come Corrie didn’t call?” she said.

  Jake’s hangdog expression said it all. “My fault. I was at a hospital meeting that morning, and had put my phone on vibrate. She called several times, but it was in my pants pocket.”

  Mai teased, “Doofus.”

  “I know, I know,” Jake said. “We lucked out. If he caught us, it would have been the end of our so called well-laid plans.

  Mai was as relieved as Jake that Bret hadn’t discovered them. Thinking about their close call had put her in a giddy mood. “Well . . . they were almost well-laid. About as close as you can get.”

  “Very Funny,” he said, and added, “How come we didn’t hear him? The Firebird’s loud enough.”

  “Didn’t pull all the way into the driveway. Most of his afternoon patients cancelled, so he rescheduled the rest and left the office early. He had set-up a tennis match at the club and was just stopping by to change into his tennis clothes and get his racket. The front door was locked, and he didn’t have the key with him. Doesn’t like to carry a lot of keys. Walked around to the back door. After a moment, “By the way, were you in the closet when he was changing?

  “No, I ended up going out one of the windows onto the porch roof and shimmied down a pole. The bushes hid me.” Jake added, “My plan of jogging to your house saved us.”

  The first months of private practice proved to be a learning experience for Bret. Seeing patients who were not the property of a hospital required both technical prowess and a pleasant bedside manner. Ron Franks left for more exciting days. He accepted a position with an agency rescuing Thai children from cruel and perverted masters. Bret wished him luck in his new endeavor and hoped Ron would find the fulfillment he was seeking.

  Sandy Lizee, an LPN, replaced him. She had been employed by Windham Hospital and was looking for less stress and a work schedule that didn’t include weekends. She was competent in the skills needed for the office and was accepted by Pearlie and the gang.

  Giovanni Rossi’s leukemia was in remission, and he made an unannounced visit to the office. Handing Bret a bag with vegetables, he said, “You sava my life. I always remember. Feel bad I no pay.”

  Bret tried to dispel Giovanni’s feeling of indebtedness. “Making people well is my job. That’s reward enough for me. Besides, these vegetables are better than money.”

  The old man smiled.

  Giovanni made several unannounced visits to the office. They were welcome respites in Bret’s day. The staff, who handled the interruptions in the schedule, had a different opinion.

  The two men chatted in Bret’s private office. The eighty-one-year-old man was born and raised in Italy and came to America when in his thirties. Giovanni spoke of his youth in Umbria and of his reputation as the best mushroom picker in the region. He knew everything about mushrooms and at a glance could determine if one was poisonous.

  He enjoyed having his wife drive him to a favorite rural area to pick them. Giovanni would disappear into the solitude of the forest and go to a secret place he discovered. When Bret asked why he didn’t tell his wife about the spot, Giovanni said, “She lika to talk and tella her friends.”

  Bret stifled a laugh.

  Summer flew as Mai adjusted to life in Windham Center. A favorite pastime was tending to the vegetable, herb, and flower gardens she planted.

  On a Saturday morning in August Mai was weeding in the garden while Bret was on the porch sitting in a rocker and skimming a medical journal. He placed the journal on a wicker table and looked at his wife, “You’re unbearably cute when you put your hair in pigtails and wear old jeans.”

  Mai stopped working and straightened herself. Leaning on her hoe, she said, “I’m becoming an expert in handling gardening tools. Look at these plants. They’re huge with not a weed among them.”

  “I noticed. And I believe you’ve set a record for growing tomatoes and squash.”

  We can’t possibly eat all of them.”

  “Fortunately, being a good neighbor and friend, Frankie takes the overflow of vegetables although she has more than enough from her own garden.”

  “Yeah, I’m glad you and she have become such good friends.”

  Mai walked to the flower beds and worked with the hoe as she spoke, “Did you notice how well the herbs and flowers are doing? With my new interest in cooking, the ability to pick fresh herbs is nothing short of thrilling. And cuttings of my irises and roses look beautiful and perfume the house.”

  “Not enough to cover remnants of cigarette smoke. When I come home, I can tell if Frankie has been here by the odor. She seems to be a frequent visitor.”

  Mai stopped hoeing and challenged, “You’re not bothered by her visits, are you? You know, because she’s a lesbian?”

  “Not at all. I look forward to seeing her and listening to her unconventional thoughts on any subject that pops into her mind. Most people have a filter that limits what comes out of their mouths. Frankie doesn’t have one, or if she does, it’s broken. She marches to a different drummer.”

  Mai laughed, “You said a mouthful.”

  In September, Mai announced she had enrolled in a culinary class at the University of Connecticut. It gave her the excuse to spend Monday nights with Jake. She left her house minutes after Bret got home. Ther
e was time for a quick kiss goodbye as she rushed to her car.

  Autumn foliage painted the landscape in bright reds, oranges, and yellows. Cooler days required sweaters and jackets, and evenings were warmed by heat from furnaces. The community anticipated the first snow.

  Mai decided to display the cooking skills Jake had taught her by inviting Frankie and Jake to Thanksgiving dinner. Jake brought Molly Robinson, his current girlfriend. Having close friends present for her first attempt at preparing a major holiday meal lessened the pressure of the event. If she wasn’t ready for prime time, no one was going to be disappointed.

  “Not seeing Grace Putnam anymore?” Bret asked Jake when they were alone. Jake had not mentioned a breakup.

  The reply was vague, “Naw, it just didn’t work out. Corrie introduced me to Molly. She’s a substitute first grade teacher.”

  Molly Robinson looked about five years younger than Jake. Tall and skinny, she tried to hide her height by slouching. Molly was not a user of cosmetics, and her eyeglasses were kept from falling by a chain attached to the earpieces. She was the type you might see every day, but couldn’t describe. To say she was unremarkable was to be kind. Bret was surprised Jake settled for someone as plain as she.

  It was conversing with Molly that brought you to the pinnacle of disappointment. Her most poignant opinions were agreements with whatever was being said put in the form of what sounded like “A-haw.” The most intellectual assessment she gave of anyone was, “He’s (she’s) so funny.”

  Boasting he had completed the university culinary class the prior year, Jake played the role of master chef. He hovered about Mai in the kitchen offering various cooking tips. “Remember, sausage and cheese have salt in them, so don’t add more to the stuffing mix.”

  Mai didn’t order him from her domain as some temperamental chefs would have. She thanked him for his advice and suggested he and Molly watch the Macy’s Parade on TV.

  During dinner, Frankie said to Mai, “I used to teach art, and a few of my friends have asked me to give them some pointers. I’m putting together a beginner’s group with a flexible schedule. Sort of a come when you can type of thing. Have you considered taking up painting?”

  Mai turned to her with a surprised look. The tongue in cheek response was, “I take it you’re not impressed with my cooking.”

  A blush covered Frankie’s light complexioned face that hid her freckles and accented her green eyes. She verbally retreated, “Oh, no. Gosh, you’re a fine cook. Today’s dinner proves it. I was only suggesting another outlet for your considerable talent.

  Mai chuckled. “Good comeback, Frankie.” Responding to the question. “I have to admit seeing what you’ve done has made me think about it.” After a moment of thought, “Sure, I’d love to join your class.”

  “Wonderful. It should be fun,” Frankie said.

  The next day Frankie and Mai visited a downtown Willimantic art supply shop. They returned with a variety of brushes, paints, canvases, palettes, an easel, cleaning supplies, and How To books.

  When he saw the cost of what were considered basic art supplies, Bret remarked, “No wonder they’re called starving artists.”

  Canvases in various stages of completion began to fill the family room. Several were covered with cloth. “Until I complete a painting, I don’t want anyone to see it,” Mai warned.

  One afternoon after work, Bret peeked under the cloth covering the largest of the paintings. Although incomplete, it was a painting of Mai lying naked on the living room couch. “What’s this?” he called to Mai who was in the kitchen, “Is Frankie painting a nude of you?”

  Mai came into the room and replaced the cloth. The chill in her voice was evident as she said, “Please don’t remove this again.”

  Bret stared at the covered painting as she returned to the kitchen.

  Knew curiosity would get the better of you. That’s why I painted it. Continue with: Are you wondering... Are you wondering why a lesbian is painting a nude of your woman? Sorry, Jake, had to do it.

  Mai rang in the New Year by losing interest in sex. Within weeks the condition progressed to a complete lack of desire for physical intimacy.

  “Why don’t you see Dr. Ross? She says she may be able to help us with our problem,” Bret said. Mai and he were sitting at the kitchen table after dinner. Bret was referring to Dr. Elaine Ross, a psychologist who specialized in treating sexual disorders. She had an office in Mansfield and was associated with a local psychiatric hospital.

  Mai looked at him with anger plastered on her face. “Don’t tell me you talked about me without my permission?”

  Bret backtracked. “No. I only spoke in general terms when we were sitting next to each other at a hospital staff meeting. I want you to feel better before we go to Las Vegas. Even though I’ll be tied up at the meeting a good deal of the time, it should be a fun getaway.”

  Mai calmed and said, “About the Vegas meeting,” she paused to insure Bret’s attention, “I’m not going with you. You should be spending all your time concentrating on passing your board certification examinations. I don’t want to distract you.”

  Bret spent a half hour trying to convince her to accompany him to Las Vegas. She wouldn’t budge, but promised to make an appointment to see Dr. Ross.

  Bret told her, “At the staff meeting she recommended I masturbate . . . you too . . . until we solve the problem of your loss of libido. Psychologists recommend it when couples are having problems.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t intend to follow her advice, either.”

  Bret arrived in Las Vegas on a clear, crisp February day. Although the city is located in a desert, it is a high desert, and winters are cold. He had never been to Vegas and based on its geographical location assumed it would be warm if not hot. He had packed light summer clothes and had to visit to a local clothing store to get warmer things. The challenge was to avoid looking like a cowboy from Montana.

  A bellman named Sal escorted Bret to his room. After reviewing the room’s features, Sal said with a raspy accent, “Not for nothing, but there ain’t nobody here wich you. I’m right, no?”

  Bret wondered why the leer and the question. He nodded.

  “You need or want anything . . . anything . . . give me a shout.” To make certain Bret got his unsubtle meaning, the second anything was spoken as if it was a piece of taffy being pulled to its limits. He handed Bret a hotel card on which Sal and a telephone number were handwritten. With one hand cupping the side of his mouth, he repeated, “All’s it takes is a call.” and slinked out of the room.

  Bret rolled the card between his thumb and fingers and wondered if the management knew Sal, the bellman, had a side business at the hotel. He assumed they did but turned a blind eye. Sal was giving the customer what he wanted. The card deserved to be thrown in the trash or flushed. He placed it in the top drawer of one of the nightstands next to the bed.

  The first day of the conference proved long and boring and resulted in an eyestrain headache. Eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen and a double shot of scotch was his preferred method of treatment. The hotel bar didn’t carry Glenrothes so he ordered Johnny Walker Black, the designated and capable pinch hitter. He downed the ibuprofen with the Black before returning to his room. A room service dinner was on his agenda.

  After finishing his meal, he called Mai. The phone rang several times.

  “Hi, it’s me,” he said, trying to sound upbeat.

  There was a pause, “Oh, I didn’t recognize your voice.” After another moment of silence, “How’s the conference?”

  “Agony. I feel like coming home.”

  “Don’t do that,” she advised. “The course is only for a few days. You’d feel guilty if you left before it was over.”

  “Ahh, did you make an appointment with Dr. Ross?” he said.

  “Not yet, I haven’t gotten around to it.” Mai yawned into the phone.

  “Tired?”

  “A little. Reme
mber, its three hours later here. It’s after eleven, and I was set to go to bed.”

  They spoke for another five minutes. The coolness in her voice chilled him. He reflected on their conversation and became angry. She should have encouraged me to come home. We could spend a few days together before I have to go back to work. Take a sort of minivacation. Maybe even go to New York and see a show. Pisses me off that she doesn’t want me home, and that she didn’t schedule an appointment with Ross.

  Had Mai stopped loving him? He feared the answer. He had been doing all he could to help Mai with her depression, but it’d been close to a month without sex. I’m not going to waste my time jerking-off while she’s done nothing to help herself. He made a decision. Opening the night table drawer, he found the bellman’s card. After calling room service for a double shot of Mr. Black, Bret dialed Sal’s number.

  Nervous sweat covered him. He had never needed the services of a prostitute and hadn’t the faintest idea about dealing with one. He’d give it three rings.

  Before the second ring, he heard, “This is Sal.”

  Caught off guard by the prompt and abrupt answer, Bret hesitated.

  “I said, this is Sal,” louder and less friendly.

  “Uh, hi . . . um . . . this is Bret Manley . . . in room 510. You gave me your card yesterday when I checked in.”

  “What’s it you want?”

  Has he forgotten giving me the card? “Well, as I said, you . . . ”

  Interrupting, “Look, what I got to know is what kind of broad you want? Or if you want more than one? White, Black, Asian, I’ve got them all. What’s your kink?”

  Words failed Bret.

  “Ahh, now, I remember you. You’re into the kinky stuff, right? Man, have I got someone you’ll like. She’ll handcuff you to the bed and use whips and sticks like you ain’t never gonna forget. Whatever you need, I got it. Long as you’re willing to pay.”