Chapter 3: Changes ... Always Changes

When we finally returned home, the kids cleaned up Toy and put her away in her slip.

It was back to work for me. The twins went back to California. There was a 6-week summer course they wanted to take, to get a tough required class out of the way. They promised to be back before the fall term began. Actually it was Christmas before we saw them, but they wrote and phoned regularly.

Arvid Thorgesson migrated to southern California. Phoenix was just too arid. He didn't throw money around, but he lived in comfort. He never had trouble finding a bedmate for an evening, or even a few days. That worked when he needed his ashes hauled, or was bored out of his gourd...

It didn't replace his family.

More and more, he found himself leaving the first beer half in the glass, and walking out of bars. He wasn't much of a drinker, except for an occasional couple of shots when he couldn't get to sleep. And he was real tired of the people he met in saloons. He was real tired of restaurant meals and living in motels, too.

He stayed almost three weeks with a woman he didn't really like, just because of that ... She cooked and had him live in her apartment.

One Sunday, he was up and dressed, so he went to church. Other than Christmas and Easter, with his family, he hadn't been in church since he was a boy. Arvid wasn't getting religion; he was bored with his life and his meaningless existence. The small Lutheran church was friendly, and the service soothed him with the familiar liturgy, unchanged since his childhood.

Recognizing that he was a stranger, two couples approached him after the service and welcomed him. Before he knew what had happened, he was joining them for lunch at a local restaurant.

By the time lunch was over, his new friends knew all about his family tragedy and that he was a man at loose ends. One couple left right after lunch, to visit their son at college—a Sunday ritual. The other invited him over for an afternoon of football on the TV and a grilled steak by the backyard pool. Arvid would have begged off, but they wouldn't accept any answer but 'yes'.

Jim and Marty were friendly people, and their youngest, a son, had left for college that fall. They welcomed Arvid into their home and their circle of friends.

Soon Arvid found himself with his own apartment and a job as a troubleshooter in a very large machine shop. Arvid would spend some days helping machinists and their foremen work out better, faster, more precise ways of doing their work. He'd spend other days working with the sales staff soothing the ruffled feathers of customers who didn't get an order when they thought they should, or got it with mistakes.

It was a good job for him, since he didn't have a lot of pressure or responsibility, but could use what he'd learned running his own operation in the midwest. He lived comfortably on his salary and drew interest on his capital. In fact, none of his new friends or co-workers had any idea he was well off.

The Sunday afternoon and evening with Jim and Marty became a part of his routine, too. They became good friends and worked hard to help him heal.

One summer Sunday afternoon, a commercial showed a family with two pretty little blonde girls. Arvid couldn't help himself—the tears rolled freely down his face, while the enormity of his loss hit him once again.

Rachael didn't forget her promise. A couple of weeks after we got home, she took Leah to see the gynecologist. Rachael was due for a checkup anyway. But it was Leah's first.

At dinner that night, Leah wore a strange expression. She was somewhat subdued, yet seemed 'up', that she'd gotten through her first-ever gynecological exam. I guess she found the pelvic exam more humiliating than she'd expected—even though she knew what to expect. But she was a functional female in disgustingly good health. The doctor decided that the '3-month' shots would be the best form of birth control for her. In a few days, Leah would be a protected fully functional female.

Knowing that she would soon be after me to initiate her into the 'mysteries' of sex, I talked that night with Rachael. "How will we handle this?" I asked.

"She'll ask pretty soon. When she does, do her," was the matter-of-fact answer.

"Rachael, if I'm going to do this, I have to make love to her, not just stick it in her."

"Yeah. You're right ... I have an idea: How about we tell her, when she's feeling really horny, she can crawl in bed with us. Not every night, but when she really needs relief. You can stroke her, or even lick her, like you did on the boat. I'll pitch in—I still think she's the sexiest thing I've seen in a while. And some night, when she's ready, she can ask for it and you'll do it. That way it's kind of natural and nothing forced. Meanwhile, we will probably make love while she's with us. There won't be any surprises."

"I like it. I think it takes pressure to perform off me and a lot of stress off her."

"Yeah. I thought you'd like it. But what about the next time?"

"Huh?"

"You know, Al, darling, she's not going to settle for one time. Once she starts, she'll want to continue. And I'm realist enough to know you'll probably want to continue with her, too."