Chapter 7

Teresa Santiago eyed me as she hugged her cousin. Dinky broke away from her cousin, looking at me, then back at her cousin. The look of caution from Teresa was ‘interesting’, but not unexpected. Her expression vaulted to a more soft expression when I extracted Nyota from beneath my jacket and flannel shirt.

The little furball had been a good travel buddy. Dinky had attempted to stuff the kitten between her tits, but the fit was a bit too tight. I had envied the way that Nyota had traveled for that short period, squished into Dinky’s chest. A bit suffocating perhaps, but what a wonderful way to die.

“We’re on the lam, Terry. Only the FBI knows our location and eventual destination. We’ll be gone in a day or two.”

“On the lam? Please tell me you’re not in legal trouble, honey.”

If anyone would be in legal trouble, it would be my stupid ass. Dinky was, at least in legal terms, pure as the driven snow. She took her oaths with respect and was earnest as to both literal meanings and to the intent of the oath. As for any oath I had taken, the various respective American institutions administering the oath could shove their required mystical frat-boy pledges up their collective puckered asses. I was too cynical. Dinky was too believing.

“We’re both caught up in a fraud and corruption investigation involving government officials. The feds want us to hide away while they swoop in and do their stuff.”

“Both of you?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell you ‘bout it later. Couldn’t get mom or dad. They away?”

“Probably for two or three more days. They didn’t tell you?”

“Been down in the weeds with this investigation, and other things, for a few weeks.”

Ain’t that the truth, hot stuff. I’ve been down in your weeds more than once in the last few weeks. Shit, why is her cousin giving me the stink-eye? I’m toast if she’s doing a vulcan mind meld.

“Mark?”

“Huh ... wha?”

“I said, tell Terry the cat’s name that you gave her.”

“Oh, yeah ... Nyota Uhura.”

“Star Trek’s Uhura?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lady Theresa’s most royal and academic ladyship rolled her eyes at her cousin’s plebeian dork sidekick. Wait, that would be me. Shit, woman, you’re lucky Dinky likes you. Lady Theresa continued with her regal stink-eye. I had no idea why her ladyship thought me unworthy. I dunno, maybe I am unworthy of Dinky; don’t care, I’ll ride with her until she kicks my dumb ass to the curb. Whatever.

Many western Americans consider the mountains east of the big river to be a bit wimpy. I do not. They are just old and worn, and probably worthy of our respect; they are our stately and wrinkled elders. Conversely, these eastern mountains, unlike the western mountains, were claustrophobic. The trees were dense, tightly packed, and seemed ready to close over and smother. I tamped down my unfounded paranoia from the geography as we approached the end of the paved road. The geographical paranoia was replaced by another paranoic stressor.

Oh, unholy Lilith of Zohar, here we go to see the parental units. Shit, Why did my mind dredge up christian demon mythology? Don’t tank, dude. Keep it together. Doesn’t look like either one breathes fire or something.

“Mom, Dad ... This is Mark Watson. We’ve been living together for a few months.”

Damn woman. Why did ya tell them that? I’m toast. Maybe not. They don’t look pissed. Probably because I’m holding Nyota.

“Ma’am ... Sir...”

As I nodded to them at Dinky’s intro, I transfered the furball to my left hand, then shook Mr Santiago’s offered hand. He seemed somewhat amused. As Mrs Santiago offered her hand, I saw that same Mona Lisa smirk that would intermittely grace Dinky’s face. And looking at her parental units, it was obvious that Dinky had been destined to be the hot woman that she is.

“Get your bags and come in, sweety. Making stew. I have still have Penelope’s cat box.”

Penelope. Why the fuck would Dinky name her furbag ‘Penelope’? Damn, her mother walks with that same sway. Total fucking hotness. Shit, asshole. Quit perving on the mother. What the fuck is wrong with me?

These people were not inbred mountain folk. Their house bespoke (damn, I like that word) of culture and class. I am thinking that Dinky’s parents are mucho cool; they can bespoke of me any time they want. Dinky’s parents were also the classy side of the 1960s bohemian culture, without the persistent marijuana stench.

“Mark?”

“Wha...”

I looked at Dinky, but she pointed to her mother.

“Ma’am?”

Speaking of class, I’d better get my act together and pretend that I’m not the classless dolt that I am.

“What did you study?”

“Uh, I’m not going to school, ma’am.”

“That question was not stated in the present tense, Mark.”

Damn, a professional artist and shrink lady that gets uppity about the grammar. Interesting. She does remain cool in my book.

“Uh, electrical engineering.”

“How far along?”

“Just the basic stuff, four semesters.”

Dinky’s dad-unit laughed at my reply. As usual, I was without a clue as to the humor of the statement. Until his reply, that is.

“Dear, it should be known that the first three or four semesters of an engineering curiculum is all mathematics and physical sciences. It is by design; a gateway to the engineering guild.”

Now that’s fucking interesting, Mr Dinky’s Dad. Never thought of it like that. Observant and analytical. Just like his hot daughter. With the affluence and influence of two well-educated upper-mid class parents, why the fuck did Dinky not go directly to college? Why was she still a cop? Interesting. Or would Mister Spock consider this ‘fascinating’?

“Mark?”

“Wha...”

“Just a minute, mom. I need to bring him back to us...”

With that cryptic declaration, Dinky pulled me into her face for an indeterminate interval of wet smooching. Aha, for once Dinky is wrong. I was not brought ‘back’. I was engulfed in that small space that only she and I could inhabit.

“You with us Mark?”

“Not any more...”

Dinky’s dad laughed at our machinations. I should have been embarresed, but neither of Dinky’s parents seemed to care one way or the other. I will assume that Dinky’s retained latch on my arm was to ensure that my mind did not wander much further.

“Mom said that you are one of those that live within yourself, within your head. And that your internal dialogue is continuous.”

“Yeah? What’s that mean?”

“Literally that. You use this to...”

Dinky was interrupted when Nyota clawed her way up my leg as a route to settle in and snuggle between Dinky’s tits. Lucky kitty.

Whatever it was that Dinky was about to say was lost to watching the little furball’s repose. We joined Nyota’s relaxed silence, to waste what remained of the day swilling her dad’s whiskey, watching the forming winter clouds, observing the occasional contrail across the sky, and listening to the breeze blowing through the trees. I had been able to identify oak, ash, sycamore, poplar, and elm. To me, these dense eastern forests were claustrophobic, but my fascination of the many different tree species crammed in together, and Dinky’s close presence, tamped down my paranoia.

When the sun did its daily post meridiem horizon smash, the temperature dropped quickly. Dinky was wearing my heavy flannel shirt, and the furball was still on her chest. Dinky was warm, I was not. Dinky was serene, I was not. Whatever Dinky was, I was not. Yinyang?. Fuck, now I’m doing both Buddhism and Taoism shit.

“Need to move my ass, lady. Gettin cold. Gonna walk.”

I grabbed my coat and walked away from the lights of the veranda seeking the dark. I needed to minimize external inputs, my mind was reel with serial weirdness.

So why does a woman choose a certain man? How does she choose her mate? Is this a case of being attracted to your opposite? No, fuck that. I’m not her opposite; I’m similar in many ways. But we are very different. She is a person of class, and she does not feel my burn and hate.

What the fuck? I’m at the tree line. Why the fuck not, into Hansel and Gretel’s Black Forest, or some shit like that. What was that Buddha shit that Dave had said?

That the buddhist monk will not send his troops where there is no suffering. Yeah, because the place would have no joy or peace. We cannot know nirvana without knowing suffering. Who thinks up this sick and weird-ass philosophic shit?

Ouch! Fuck me. Fuckin tree branches in the dark. So I’m stupid. Wait, there’s a clearing ahead. Good place to stop and contemplate my navel. Navy? I’d rather contemplate tits. Oh yeah, what Dave said about the zen shitastic of suffering and learning how to free oneself from suffering.

Yeah, that’s gotta be one of the craptastic-statements of all time, ‘learning how to suffer well’. How to turn suffering into peace, joy, love, and understanding. Geez, give me a break. Does Dave really believe that shit? So we cannot know happiness without knowing suffering? Bullshit. Dinky is a happy camper and she sure as shit does not do any major suffering. And I’m always getting freaked out and slammed over everything.

And what’s the mommy shit about living in my head? What the fuck, over? I’m supposed to live outside of my head? How the fuck do I live outside of my head?

Wow. Listen to that guy. That owl is yelling at the top of his lungs. Holy shit, he just landed on the branch above me. I wonder if owls are into Tao? Nah, an owl would probably be a Confuscious guy; and definitely not any pansy Buddhism. I’ll sit here and listen a while...

“Mark?”

Damn. Get the light outa my face, Mister Santiago ... Yeah? What’s up?”

“Damn, son. We’re all out searching for you.”

“Why?...”

“Find him, dad?”

“Over here...”

“Mark? Why are you sitting here?”

“Huh? Because I not sitting anywhere else? What’s up, lady?”

“I fell asleep after you walked away. I freaked a bit when I could not find you in the house.”

“Geez, sorry.”

“Mark, is this too much for you?”

“What do ya mean by too much? Just walking around.”

I paused stuffing wood into the small pot-belly stove, sitting in the bedroom corner. Dinky’s concerned frown and piercing glaze did not feel good to me. Maybe it was all ‘too much’. What if Dave’s Buddha shit is right? Am I am her suffering so that she can achieve happiness? That would be total fucking dogshit. But Dinky always knew what to do.

“Okay. Here, let’s just read.”

Dinky set a Pournelle book next to me. While she lay on the bed to read a book. Reading with Dinky; this was good stuff. Although not as good as my hands on her perfect tits. We read until about 2300, when she stood, in an orderly and disciplined and systematic manner, removed her clothes. I stood to shove more wood in the stove, removed my clothes, mirroring Dinky. I watched the furball watch us, discovering that Nyota was a voyeur. Whatever.

After pulling on my clothes and stuffing more wood into the stove, I admired the hot lady in the bed. Damn, the woman is beautiful. Pulling the blanket over her body, I may have said something, I dunno, but she did react with a soft smile in her sleep. I think that, sometimes, the stuff in my mind unintentionally leaks out of my mouth.

After making coffee and giving chow to the little furbag, I headed out to chop wood. Two extra bodies in the house was consuming fuel at a higher rate. So I re-built the wood pile as I chopped wood. I like anything that takes a methodical approach that can be incrementally improved via physical principles. Focusing on wood placement, blade impact points, controlled axe swings, and precisely stacking the wood was good for my simple mind. And the physical efforts did feel good. Not nearly as good as Dinky’s tits.