Chapter 2

The woman being discussed in front of Renee’s child care center was, in fact, really nice looking - by almost anyone’s standards.

Erica Bradford stood at five feet, three inches, which was fairly short. That shortness was exaggerated by her breasts, which were, if not monumental, at least startlingly impressive. Seeming to float like two hot-air balloons above a waist kept narrow by a daily regimen of one hundred sit-ups, as well as a number of other callisthenic exercises, her breasts seemed so large as to make her look like she might fall forward any minute. Hips three inches smaller than her thirty-eight inch bust managed to keep the perspective of her overall appearance, but all that, perched on those short little legs of hers, also made her look like an impossibly over-developed teenage girl. A lush growth of auburn hair, with golden highlights scattered throughout it, and which fell to the middle of her back, only heightened the impression of youth when she wore it in a long, flowing ponytail, which was common, because it was easier to handle that way.

In short, Erica would have been welcomed with open arms at any Playboy club in the country, and she would have been a shoo-in for the centerfold pages of at least one issue.

Not that Erica Bradford would ever have considered setting foot in such a bastion of rampant male sexism. She characterized places like that as brothels, when she was trying to be polite. And though she had been unable to participate in any bra burnings - her vast expanse of breast flesh required that she wear a bra consistently - she would have gladly used a match to set Hugh Hefner’s mansion merrily aflame.

That attitude was in part because of growing up as the women’s liberation movement began to take off and get noticed. Her interest in women’s lib was engendered by the fact that her breasts began to develop when she was twelve, and had blossomed to staggering thirty-six inch maturity by the time she was fifteen. Nobody looked at her face. Not even women. Boys were impossible. Even her little brother leered at her.

Not wearing makeup didn’t help. College was the same way. She’d hoped as males matured their response to her would, as well, but her breasts grew another two inches and that poked a stick in the spokes of her hopes. Her professors drooled as much as her male peers. Girls even came onto her. She spent so much time avoiding sexual situations that it became habit.

She’d expected her first job as a teacher to set her free ... to allow her to show that she was more than a pair of breasts. She had naturally gravitated toward social studies. She wanted to explore - and correct - certain social phenomenon, not the least of which was the sexism that seemed to infuse every facet of society, American or otherwise.

Where better to begin her task than with the teenagers who were forming the sexual attitudes that would remain with them throughout life? She’d gotten a job at a big school in Chicago, and gone forth to slay dragons.

It didn’t take her long to rue the day she’d chosen to major in high school social studies. Her high school students acted like ... high school students. The boys went glassy-eyed, if they were halfway polite, and were transparently rude otherwise. The girls hated her if they had boyfriends in her class. The female teachers shunned her, and the men were as bad as the boys, staring at her. Male heads went together often, while the eyes in those heads glanced at her. The men snickered as much as the boys.

Three years of that had been all she could force herself to stomach. Big city culture was too hard a nut to crack. So she had gone in search of someplace smaller, more provincial. Not that she wanted something backwards, or restrictive ... just someplace where people might have a little of that old fashioned politeness. It didn’t occur to her that there was quite a bit of irony in a modern, hard-charging woman seeking out someplace that was likely to retain old fashioned attitudes toward women as well.

Now, three months into her new job in Granger, Kansas, Erica had experienced an epiphany of sorts. She had come to the conclusion that boys were boys, and men were men - wherever they were.

Oh, they weren’t as bald-faced about ogling her in Granger, that was true. And at least some of them - both boys and men - had the decency to blush when they stared at her chest. But the change in scenery, which she had to admit had been a breath of clean air, didn’t seem to include a change in how males reacted to her. Perhaps that was because as she breathed in that fresh, clean air, her breasts strained against the front of whatever she was wearing.

And then there was this drama nonsense! She’d only had to see one or two musicals in her own high school to understand that they were predictably sexist. The woman always swooned over the man, who called the shots, and was forgiven his blunders and insensitivity, always in the name of love. She’d shunned that kind of crap after that.

Still, it had been clearly stated that she would have to take on the drama productions if she wanted the job. And she had agreed to it, because she just had to get out of Chicago. And, by and large, she actually liked Granger. The pace was much slower. People were more polite, with a few exceptions, even if most people just ignored her. That was fine with her. She felt like being ignored might not be such a bad thing.

Especially since her life threatened to be completely overwhelmed by the latest development.

That development was William, her little brother. There wasn’t supposed to be a development involving her brother. She had thought that was all taken care of back in 1968.

He had been seventeen in 1968, and she eighteen, when their parents were killed in a car crash. She had been preparing to go off to college, to become a teacher. Suddenly, she was her brother’s guardian, and college looked like it wasn’t going to happen.

Will wasn’t impressed with the idea that his older sister was in charge of him. His argument to get her to sign enlistment papers had seemed to solve everything. She got to go to college. He went off to be in the Army, after which he’d have money to start whatever kind of life he wanted to when he got out.

Neither of them thought that three years later he’d end up in a far off foreign land, riddled with shrapnel and burned to the degree that it would take literally years and dozens of surgeries to bring him as far back into the real world as they could get him. She was aware that he was injured, having been notified by infrequently received letters some nurse or volunteer had written for him. She knew it was bad, and when he’d told her not to visit him in the hospital, it had been easy for her to honor that request. Well ... not easy exactly. She felt guilty for not going to him. But he was in far off Washington D.C. at Walter Reed Hospital. She heard the pain in his voice as he told her on the phone that he was fine and for her not to worry about him. And he had been very insistent that she not come to visit him. Somehow not visiting him became the standard. They talked on the phone occasionally and exchanged a few letters, but that was it.

A month ago, though, another letter had come ... one of the first she had received at her little two bedroom frame house on Walnut street in Granger, Kansas. That letter said they had done all they could for him. He had a medical pension, but he needed a place to live. He’d added that he was in a wheelchair. “I hate to ask for this,” he had written, “but I don’t really have any other options.”

She had agreed, of course. There was no way to say “No,” even had she felt like it. She knew things had been impossibly tough for him. And he was all the family she had left, not counting an uncle and aunt who lived in North Dakota, and a few cousins, none of whom she had seen since she was ten.

Now, with all the other upheavals in her life, he was due to arrive on a plane in Wichita in a week. She hadn’t been to Wichita yet, but that didn’t worry her. She was a modern, capable woman. What worried her was that while she was in shape, she had no idea how much help he’d need to get into the car and into the house. She didn’t know how much stuff he’d bring with him, or whether it would all fit into her modern and stylish AMC Pacer, the one thing she had splurged on, because she thought it announced how forward-thinking she was.

But that was a week away. Right now, she had a class to teach, and, after school, play practice. That was more than enough to deal with today.

It was lunchtime when Ted Brandywine approached her. He was one of the few men she’d met who seemed not to become tongue tied around her. It was disconcerting talking to him, though. He didn’t stare at her breasts, but he also had a tendency to look past her while he was talking to her.

“I saw Bobby this morning,” he said, without preamble. “He said he’d be happy to talk to you about building sets. He doesn’t know how much help he can be in the art department, though.”

“I think that’s okay,” she said. “Several of the kids insist they know how to build sets and paint them. I’ve just been so afraid they’ll get hurt. There are all these saws, and tools, and sharp things involved in all that. All I really need is somebody I can trust to kind of keep an eye on them, or direct them or something.”

Ted handed her a piece of paper.

“Here’s his number,” he said, looking past her right ear.

“Thank you, Ted,” she said.

“Sure.” He turned to hurry away.

“Ted?”

He stopped, but only turned half way around.

“How do you know this man?”

“He’s my brother-in-law,” said Ted. “He’s a wizard at fixing just about anything.”

“Oh,” said Erica. “Okay.”

Bobby came in the house knowing his mother wasn’t there, because her car was gone. He smelled food cooking and stuck his head in the kitchen. Matilda was standing at the stove with a spatula in her hand. He walked over and put his arms around her, cupping her breasts.

“Smells good.”

“Stop that!” she said, almost angrily. She pushed his hands off her breasts.

“Sorry,” he said, stepping back. “Tough day?”

“Just don’t touch me,” she said, ignoring him.

Bobby frowned and looked at his sister’s back. This wasn’t like her at all. Usually, she was frisky when their mother wasn’t around. Both of them were.

“Where’s Betty?” he asked.

“Don’t touch her either,” said Matilda, her voice hard-edged.

He knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t talk until she calmed down, whatever was bothering her.

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when you want to talk about it. You cooking for me too, or just you?”

“Just me,” she said, still not looking at him.

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll get something when you’re done.”

He went looking for Betty, and found her in the living room. The TV was on.

“What’s wrong with Matilda?” he asked.

Betty looked up at him. “Nothing,” she said. “Why?”

“She just about bit my head off,” he said.

“Oh,” she said and turned back to the TV.

Bobby shook his head. She was obviously off her feed too. He was about to go take a shower when her voice stopped him.

“You have two phone messages,” she said.

“Who from?” he asked.

“Misty and some woman I’ve never heard of,” said Betty, still watching the tube.

It was the disinterested note in her voice that made alarm bells go off in his head. Both of the twins had been ecstatic about Misty, almost pests when she was staying with them. For her to say “Misty” in such a lackluster voice was proof that something was really wrong. He knew, though, that neither of them would talk until they were ready, so he told Betty the same thing he’d told Matilda.

“Whenever you’re ready to talk about it, let me know,” he said.

“What?” She looked over at him.

“Whatever’s bothering you right now,” he said.

“Nothing’s bothering me,” she said, but there was no heat in her voice then either.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said, and then left.

He went to the little table in the hallway where a pad of paper was beside the phone. One piece of paper just said “Misty” and listed a phone number. The other said “Erica Bradford” and had a local number below that. He remembered Ted’s discussion about the woman from that morning.

He picked up the phone and called Erica’s number. There was no answer. He looked at his watch. It was six-thirty. School should be long over for the day. He left the paper there. He’d try again later. He decided to wait until after his shower to call Misty. Who knew what she wanted, but he wanted to have the time to talk a while, if that was necessary.

After he got out of the shower, the twins were in their room, with the door closed, so he fixed something to eat and then called Misty.

“Hey,” he said, when she picked up the phone.

“Bobby!“ she squealed loudly. He held the phone away from his ear.

“You don’t have to yell,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice lower. “I need a favor ... a huge favor.”

“If I can,” he said.

“There’s an awards banquet in two weeks. I got nominated for best new artist. I need an escort.”

“In Nashville?” he said, incredulously.

“Of course,” she said. “Will you do it?”

“I can’t just come to Nashville,” he said.

“Of course you can,” she said. “I’ll have the tickets ready for you, and you can stay at my house. I’ll even pay you for your precious lost work time.”

“Misty,” he said. “Be reasonable. There have to be a hundred guys in Nashville who’d love to have you on their arm at some fancy thing like that.”

“Of course there are,” said Misty. “But I want you.”

“Come on, Misty.”

“No, you come on,” she said. “You practically robbed me of my virtue, Bobby Dalton. You owe me! And besides, I want to create a mystery here. Nobody will know who you are. We won’t tell them where you came from or anything. You’ll just be the handsome stud on whose arm I drape my delicate hand. The photographers will eat it up. I might even win, Bobby!”

“I didn’t rob you of anything,” he snorted. “You hated me, and then suddenly you didn’t hate me, and then you had your way with me, and then left me all alone.” He tried to make his voice sound sad.

“Don’t give me that,” she laughed. “You’ve never been alone unless you wanted to be. Besides, if you’re nice to me while you’re here, I might have my way with you again. You never know.”