Thank you to Paula Paolucci for proofing and advise. Brief m/f , adult situations, rated PG-13, and just for laughs. Standard copyright disclaimers, etc. Comments appreciated pro and con.
"It's your grandmother's fault, son. She raised you to be a monk."
"She did no such thing." Benton Fraser methodically folded a plaid shirt and stuffed it into a canvas bag. "And I am not a monk."
"You're taking this incident much too seriously." The ghost of Robert Fraser sat on the edge of his son's cot and watched him pack.
"Um," was Benton Fraser's noncommittal reply.
"You can't really blame Inspector Thatcher, son"
"I don't blame her, Dad. I'm really very busy now. Maybe we can have this talk some other time." Benton carefully added another plaid shirt. 'Relationships never run smoothly, son." Fraser Sr advised.
"Thank you for that piece of wisdom."
"Son," Robert Fraser paused and searched the braided rug beneath his boots for inspirational advise. "Women have certain...er...um..., appetites, if you will." Benton made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. "Appetites," he repeated "Dad, I don't want to have this conversation with you."
"Benton, a man has certain responsibilities to a woman. If you weren't satisfying her needs, you can't blame her for going elsewhere."
"Dad, that's enough. You weren't there, you don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, but, I was there, son. You just didn't notice me."
Fraser groaned. "I don't believe this. You were spying on her...us?"
" I wasn't spying. I overheard your neighbor say her call was an emergency, so naturally, I went along." After a moment Fraser Sr. added, "I go pretty much wherever you go, son. Since I died, I don't get around too well on my own."
Benton rolled his eyes heavenward and folded shirts faster. "I hope you aren't planning on coming with me on this trip. I need some time alone, Dad."
"Of course I won't come where I'm not wanted. But, son, a Fraser never runs away from a problem,"
"I am not running away." His voice was a little loud. Benton took a deep breath and continued in his usual well modulated manner. "I just need a little vacation." More to himself than to his father he added, "I don't want to face her until I can get those photographs out of my mind."
Ignoring his son's words, Fraser Sr advised, "Running away won't help. You need to march right back there now and confront her. Let her know you will be there when she feels the need for...er...well, whipped cream or whatever."
"Oh, Dad, do you ever listen to yourself?"
Fraser Sr ignored that question and tried another piece of advice. "Son, when your mother and I were."
"Stop!" Fraser interrupted. "I do not want to hear any sordid stories about you or my mother."
"The point is, son," Fraser Sr went on doggedly. "You will look back on this and laugh." He continued mumbling under his breath something that sounded like "after you die, you seem to alter your sense of humor."
Fraser was saved from further argument when the apartment door burst open and Ray Vecchio rushed in.
"Whatsa matter, Benny? Did the dragon lady fire you?"
"No, Ray, nothing is wrong. As I explained on the phone, I'm taking a little vacation."
"Come on, Benny. You call me at three a.m. and ask me to drive you to the airportand you tell me nothin's wrong."
"I had trouble booking a later flight," Fraser lied carefully avoiding eye contact with his friend. It didn't sound very convincing, but he had no intention of explainding the reason for his trip to Ray.
"Yeah, I know you, you always plan spur of the moment vacations at three o'clock in the morning. Tell me the truth, did they call you back on some secret mission?"
"No, Ray, I'm not going on a secret mission, I haven't been fired, and I'm not running away."
Fraser zipped the canvas bag. "I'm going on a short vacation. Why is that so hard to understand?"
"OK, so where you gonna be?" Ray sounded worried.
"I don't know. Somewhere where there are no phones, no women, and," he added for the wolf's benefit, "no junk food."
Diefenbaker whined. He didn't like the sound of this vacation one bit.
Bed roll and duffle in hand, Fraser walked to the door. Turning, he saw his dead father still sitting on the bed, staring at the pattern in the rug. "Let's go, Ray. The plane leaves at four." All the way to O'Hare Ray asked questions and got no answers.
*****
Later that day Fraser sat in a Cessna on the runway of the Little River airport. The flight was behind schedule waiting for the last passenger who was very late. Two other men shared the cramped compartment. Both appeared to be hunters, both were complaining about the delay. Fraser didn't care, it didn't really matter to him when he left or when he arrived. He opened a book and tried to lose himself in 'The Biography of James Murray'.
The Cessna rocked as it's last passenger came on board. The doors were closed, the engines revved. "Seat belts," the pilot barked over his shoulder as he started to taxi.
The passenger plopped down beside Fraser and fumbled to buckle herself in. "Hi," she flashed him a big smile. "I'm Matilda Matthews, everybody calls me Tillybut some people do call me Matty..my Grandma calls me Matilda...I like Tilly better. Boy you wouldn't believe the trouble I had getting here, that's why I'm late. Michael was supposed to drive me but he couldn't get off work early, ya know, so I called my sister, Patty, and she was staying with Mrs Simm's twins and they were taking a nap, so she didn't want to wake them up. Then I tried calling Derk, but his car was broke down, ya know, anyway, so I ended up calling Frank and he's so poky, ya know, so it took him forever...what's that you're reading? I love to read." She lifted the book from his lap. "James Murray, who the heck is James Murray? Looks dull, who wants to read about some dull old guy? What you need is something a little more exciting, ya know, and I have just the thing" She began digging through an oversized bag.
"Actually, the book I have is really..." Fraser took advantage of her momentary pause for breath and tried to retrieve his book. She refused to let go.
"Here it is. I just finished this." She handed Fraser a thick paperback. On the cover a half naked woman and a shirtless, long haired pirate embraced on a tropical beach. "This is a really good book! This pirate," she thumped the pirate's picture, " he's really an English nobleman, ya know, and he attacks this American ship and kidnaps this beautiful lady, she's running away from an arranged marriage, ya know, and at first she hates this pirate, but then he forces her to sleep with him and she begins to kinda like him, ya know, and then she gets kidnaped again by this Arabian Sheik and..." And she proceeded to recount the story for the next hour, seemingly without ever stopping to take a breath, well, you know.
Fraser was practicing selective-hearing-control so he didn't notice the sputtering engine until the plane started to lose altitude abruptly. Glancing out the window he could see the tree tops rushing up to meet the plane. "Very interesting," he observed. "The last Cessna I flew in crashed."
After a loud shriek, Matilda was finally silentin a dead faint.
*****
As airplane crashes go, this was not a bad one. The pilot had retained enough control to put them down in an open clearing. A few cuts and bruises, but everyone exited the plane on their own two feet, except Diefenbaker, of course, who trotted out on four. Everyone stood gazing at the broken plane, wondering how they had all managed to survive.
The two hunters looked stunned. They sat on a log and waited for the pilot to tell them what to do next. Matilda was talking again, something about broken fingernails, smashed makeup cases, important telephone calls, and a blind date. Fraser was getting good at hearing-control. "It's almost dark, I'll get a fire started," he announced to no one in particular. Turning he escaped into trees in search of firewood, leaving Matilda still mourning her fingernails loudly, the pilot mourning his wrecked plane, and the two hunters wondering if their cooler of beer had survived the fall.
Fraser built a large fire in the clearing, not far from the wreckage. It would help keep them warm on a night when temperatures were likely to drop to freezing. It would also signal the search planes who would be able to see it for miles. He stacked enough wood near the fire to keep it blazing all night. Finally, he could think of no more reasons to escape into the woods, so he sat down on a log beside the hunters.
The pilot was explaining that a search party would surely be along tomorrow to pick them up. After assuring everyone of eminent rescue, he went on to entertain the group with tales of fatal crashes, and stories where starving survivors had turned to cannibalism while waiting for rescue. One of the hunters passed Fraser a can of beer. "Lucky it wasn't bottles, eh?" he grinned happily.
Fraser nodded. The can was dented and when he pulled the tab, it sprayed the front of his shirt. The beer was warm, but it was wet and he was thirsty. Fraser chugged it. He accepted another. He stared moodily
into the fire and listened to the voices raise and fall around him. The pilot was still into his monologue about crashes, but Matilda frequently interrupted with questions about shower facilities, shampoo, and the possibility of attack by bands of roaming grizzly bears. The hunters remained silent but ready, rifles on knees, beer in a huge cooler at their feet.
This trip was not going at all as he'd planned it. He and the wolf should be alone right now at the site of his father's gutted cabin, watching the stars, listening to the silence, letting the stress seep from their bones. The voices around him faded and he could hear his father's words clearly. "It's your grandmother's fault, son. She raised you to be a monk" "Women have certain needs, appetites..." Fraser looked over his shoulder to make certain his father wasn't actually there. Turning back to the fire, he could see images of Inspector Thatcher and a man in western boots and spurs, frolicking in the flames. Fraser shook his head to clear it and reached for another beer. For a while he contemplated alcoholism as a profession.
******
In blankets, bed rolls, and seat cushions salvaged from the plane, everyone slept. The unaccustomed alcohol had dulled Fraser's otherwise sharp senses. He was sure it was a dream. A warm, soft body pressed close, lips and teeth nibbled at his chin and neck. A small hand guided his larger one to a soft, female breast.
"Ow!" Something grabbed his groin with the force of a bear trap. "What..." A tiny hand clamped across his mouth.
"Shhhh." A feminine giggle. The hand left his mouth and slid back down his chest, then lower still. This time, she was a little gentler.
Fraser squirmed and pulled back. "What are you doing? There are three men approximately ten feet from here."
Again the giggle. "I know, don't wake them."
"You're not supposed to...oh dear." Fraser stopped struggling. He lay perfectly still as her mouth slid down his chest where her nimble fingers were working on his shirt buttons.
A chorus of voices echoed through the beer induced fog in his mind. His father's "...she raised you to be a monk." and Margaret Thatcher "we were . . . wrestling. He fell out of bed and hit his head. I'm sorry." Fraser shook his head and the voices were silent. Was he actually contemplating having a casual sexual encounter with a woman no, with a girl he didn't know, to prove his manhood to his dead father? Or to spite Margaret Thatcher? Self-control firmly back in place he pushed aside the blankets and sat up.
"What's the matter, you some kinda monk or something?" Matilda pouted as she re-buttoned her shirt against the cold night air.
"No, it's just that...well, we hardly know...I mean..."
The steady beat of helicopter blades interrupted Fraser's explanation. "I think this is our ride," he said rising to wake the others. End
There is one more story in this series. "Chicago" brings Benton back to Chicago where yet another woman is waiting to complicate his life.
Marna sparrow21@juno.com