Saving Sadie

Chapter One

"Damn him. He wasn't supposed to be the first one to go. He promised me. He's really screwed it up, he has."

Sadie, jarred by the tone of Jan's voice, sat up on her haunches and nosed her head into her new mistress's hand. Without even realizing she'd done it, Jan stroked Sadie's head and behind an ear. Reassured, Sadie gave an "I wasn't really worried" yawn and settled back on the ground beside the folding chair Jan was sitting on. She lowered her muzzle to between her two extended forelegs and gave a little whine. She knew something was wrong, something was not complete. But she didn't know for sure what it was. Her master wasn't here, but there were times when he was gone and only this woman he mated was there. At least one of them was beside her, if not the preferred one. So, it must just be her imagination.

Sitting on the other side of Jan, Ann took the hand Jan hadn't been stroking Sadie with in hers and patted it with her other hand. She gave a little frown when she looked down and saw she had been lightly touching a couple of liver spots on the back of Jan's hand she'd never seen before. But then she hadn't seen Jan in the past three years, so, although seeing the signs of aging surprised her, there was no particular reason why they should.

"He wasn't supposed to be the first one to go. He promised me."

"I know," Ann murmured, looking furtively around to see if anyone else heard Jan—but the few that were there were standing off. And if they heard Jan, they were pretending they hadn't. "I know, Mom. You said that."

"Do you think I should have gone with the brown suit? I always thought that was one of his favorites. But I thought he looked better in the blue. Do you think I should have gone with the blue?"

"I think the brown was just right, Mom," Ann said. "He looked quite handsome."

"Thanks. He was, still young and handsome," Jan said. And she said it with such an emphatic tone that Ann looked up sharply, as if she'd said something wrong without intending to when she was doing her best to say just the right things—the things that wouldn't rock the boat. She had said wrong, unwelcome, and hurtful things three years earlier—asking her Jan why, if she liked the man so much, she hadn't married him rather than living as they had—as well as this not being the first time. But that had contributed greatly to the three years of strain between them, so Ann bit her tongue and didn't ask the question again. Since then she'd looked into the financial arrangements of Dennis's pension and understood Jan's decisions a bit better. Rick had just turned a deaf ear, though, when she had talked to him about that.

A grating noise caught the attention of both of them, and, in unison, they looked out toward the road. Sadie was disturbed by the noise too and lifted her muzzle and sniffed the breeze. Jan lowered her hand to Sadie's back and snaked her fingers into the dog's fur. Sadie gave a little "give me credit for hearing the signs of danger" growl, and then she settled down with a small whine.

"What's holding them up?"

"They apparently are having a bit of a problem with the hydraulics on the hearse, Mom. But the men working with it seem to know what they're doing. It shouldn't be long." Jan stiffened at that, though, and Ann once again felt she was on the cusp of saying the wrong thing. She certainly didn't want to leave the impression that she wanted to rush this. She decided to change the subject. "At least it's a beautiful day, isn't it? At least there's that."

A beautiful day. Yes it was that, Jan thought. It was a beautiful day too when she'd first met Greg. There in the park, on a day much like this one—and in a park much like this one, but without the depressing headstones. The stones, reminding Jan of where all end up—and how that was weighing heavily on her. Much more heavily than it should have weighed on Greg. Damn him, Jan thought. He wasn't supposed to be the first one to go. He'd promised. He'd known; he'd seen the signs. And we were always open with each other. We'd discussed it. It would be all right. He was going to be there. And then he wasn't.

So debonair and handsome, looking like he had the world by the tail. Walking briskly along, stacks of books precariously held in his arms, Sadie walking proudly at his side, like she had the best man in the world taking care of her. And she was right, Jan thought. Greg was the best man in the world. Even though it had all been messy, even though Jan thought her life was settled before that day in the park and wasn't looking for the best man in the world to stroll by her as she sat on the park bench reading her Sunday copy of the

New York Times

. Things were going just fine with Frank—well, they were going to get back to fine, Jan had been sure. Jan didn't need a Greg in her life. But sometimes we don't have much of a choice on the directions our lives go in.

"There, I think they are making progress," Ann said. "It shouldn't be long now. But it's nice enough out here, isn't it, Mom? It's a nice day, if we have to be . . ." Ann let her voice trail off, sensing there was no good way to end the thought. And to cover, she rushed into the next one. "Rick is really sorry he couldn't come up for this, Mom. He would have—"

"Yes, I'm just sure he is," Jan cut in. Her voice had turned testy, and Ann shrank from her. Jan reached out and took her hand, though. She smoothed the skin on the back of Ann's hand with her fingers. She liked the feel of her daughter-in-law's hands and was comforted that Ann was there at her side—and Jan wanted Ann to know that. No liver spots there. Ann didn't want this to hurt her daughter-in-law. She had come; her daughter-in-law had come, even if her son hadn't. Jan was grateful for that. Ann had always been understanding—well, most of the time―at least to Jan's face. She'd been a real trouper, prepared to accept and not to carp.

Jan didn't want to hurt Ann over this. She had never wanted to hurt anyone. She hadn't even wanted to hurt Frank—especially Frank. And the memory of Dennis too. But, of course, she had. She was a woman with needs. Women didn't just stop needing it when they reached fifty—or the day their husband died.

"Thank you for coming, Ann," she whispered. "That means a lot to me. You have no idea how much it means to me to have family here."

Ann shuddered, and when Jan turned, she thought Ann had a tear in her eye. Jan wouldn't say more. She knew what a struggle this was—to be standing between a woman and her own son on something like this. Jan wouldn't hurt Ann for the world, if she could avoid it. Rick hadn't come. But Ann did, and, under the circumstances—with how on edge, how devastated and unprepared for this Jan was, it was probably for the best that Rick hadn't come.

They surely would have argued over something innocent one of them said, and under these circumstances, a simple jarring statement could lead to a bitter fight. Jan wasn't unaware how carefully Ann had been trying to choose her words today.

Jan had all of the time in the world now to reconcile with Rick. And it was her move to make; she could understand what a blow it had been to Rick. There wasn't all that much time, but there was time to try to heal what was between them with Rick. But time was quickly running out on her connection to her lover and companion, Greg.

"Do you think the brown suit was the right choice?" Jan asked.

Ann turned and gave Jan a concerned look, which, mercifully Jan didn't catch. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Greg was wearing brown that first day, in the park, Jan thought. And he was looking good that day. He dropped a book and hadn't noticed doing so as he passed the bench Jan was sitting on. Jan was in the park so that she could think. The park soothed her, and she had to review in her mind her relationship with Frank and the tiff they had had before Frank left town—on the surface described as an out-of-town trial running of his play, but both knowing it meant so much more―leaving Jan to wonder if Frank would be coming back to her.

And then, when he had come back, it was Jan who was gone.

Jan had barely noticed the young man walking toward her on the park path. She'd heard the book hit the ground, though, and had looked up. Greg apparently hadn't noticed, however, and had just walked on. Sadie had both heard and seen the book drop, and she turned and looked at it, and then at Jan, and then back at the book. She was wagging her tail, and Jan laughed, getting the image that the dog was telling her to get her butt off the bench and pick up the book and give it back to her caretaker—as if maybe Jan had been the one to make the book drop in the first place.

Amused, Jan had risen from the bench, picked up the book, and called after the young man.

It's certainly strange, Jan thought, how the momentous turning points of one's life history could hinge on something as simple as a book falling out of a young man's hands. She'd have to think more on that. Jan quickly ran the names of writers from the Romance era over in her mind to see if she could readily pick out such turning points in their lives—ones the biographers hadn't worked over already, at least from the perspective of what they subsequently wrote. Jan knew there must be some unmined material there, but she couldn't think of any possibilities at the moment. She filed that away to think about later. There was a vast "later" stretching out before her now. But maybe not all that vast. And maybe that was a blessing.

Then, back at the graveside, Jan felt Sadie nudging her hand with her muzzle and she gave the pooch the petting she asked for. But what about Sadie, she asked herself. She wasn't young either. But what about Sadie in the new circumstances? She decided not to think about that just now.

Greg had thanked Jan for saving his book, saying that he would have started out his new class at the university behind the eight-ball with the professor if he'd shown up without that book. That he'd heard the professor was a real bitch and must really be egotistical, because she'd assigned one of her own books—this one—as required reading.

Jan's eyes had sparkled when she looked at the book and saw that it was her own—the one she herself had written, although she hadn't assigned it for the class to read.

"Perhaps the professor isn't quite the bitch you imagine," she had said to the young man. "Perhaps the professor's teaching assistant established the booklist for the class. And perhaps the teaching assistant was doing a little brown nosing."

Greg had been beyond embarrassment when they introduced themselves to each other and he discovered Jan's name matched that on the book cover, and Jan had invited the young man to join her on the bench for a few minutes so that she could meet a new student. They had hit it off swimmingly, and Greg had invited Jan for coffee. Over their coffee they had discussed the course subject and then much more than that, not noticing the darkness descending on them outside the coffeehouse window—or that their hands had been touching and their eyes had exchanged similar thoughts of need and desire.

Seeing how late it was, Jan had asked Greg if he would join her for dinner, and then, later in the evening Greg, now knowing Jan fully—more fully than Jan had realized he had revealed—and always having been an open and straightforward—and confident—young man invited Jan to share a bed with him. And, smitten, Jan had uncharacteristically accepted.

She didn't even think about Greg's age—especially in relationship to hers. She only thought about how strong he was between her thighs. How they both laughed innocently and lustily together as they clumsily adjusted their bodies to each other—him in overconcern for her comfort, she because she had never done this before at such a whim and with such a beautifully built young man. How deeply he reached into her, how easily he found what sent her into ecstasy and how lovingly he made love to that, carrying her over the edge as no one else had. And the stamina of youth that enabled him to do it again, taking her to new heights of release. And then, in the early dawn once more, Jan taking command now and riding him as he lay on his back and looked lovingly into her eyes. Jan never having had intended to stay the night, but now never wanting to leave Greg's bed again.

Another quirk of fate, Jan thought with a slight pang in her heart. Frank, the actor who Jan was living with at the time, on an out-of-town trial run of a play. And, worse, those bitter words they had spoken of his ease with his leading lady when he left, with Jan surprised even at herself for her flash of jealousy and for feeling that the younger Frank was being too controlling. Jan normally wouldn't have given any thought to doing this to Frank. She and Frank were perfect for each other. They had been together for ten years at that point, having found each other less than a year after Jan's Dennis had died. Frank had saved Jan from a deep spiral into depression. Frank and she had been everything to each other. They were perfect together.

But, at the time, under the specific set of circumstances, Greg was even more perfect.

Rick hadn't understood and approved of Greg any more than he had Frank. "My god, mother, are you going to pluck them younger and younger? This last one isn't much older than I am. Have you no consideration for the memory of Dad? Do you really need to grasp at sex all that much?"

"There, they have it fixed now," Ann said. "It won't be long now."

No, it won't be long now, Jan thought. I'll be gone soon too—in mind if not physically, which, perhaps, the worse possible way to fade out. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He wasn't supposed to go first. He promised.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, the insidious thought sliced into Jan's mind. Where would she be buried? There was a plot beside Dennis for her. But this was a double plot too. Would she be buried beside Dennis or Greg? She felt herself trembling, breaking down, never more confused or desolate in her life as now. She began to cry. Ann encased her mother-in-law in both of her arms, having no idea what had set Jan's tears off. Sadie sat up and nudged her nose into Jan's lap.

"There, there, Mom," Ann murmured. "Just a bit more. Be brave. You've been doing so well."

"Rick is going to have to decide. I can't . . . I couldn't possibly," Jan was softly blubbering. Happily, the meaning of this went right over Ann's head.

"Please, Mom, please don't cry. Rick wanted to be here. He just couldn't get away. You'll have to come down and stay with us a bit after you are feeling better. Courage now, Mom, they are about to begin the ceremony."

The burial ceremony was mercifully short. While a minister Jan didn't know was speaking reverently but irrelevantly about the life of a young man he didn't know, couldn't possibly fully appreciate, Jan started to look around at who had come. It wasn't so much that she was curious about who was there as that she couldn't bring herself to look at the coffin, now positioned over the grave site. She didn't want to remember anything about this part. She didn't want to see this in her mind when she thought of Greg—so beautiful and vibrant and alive—so strong, moving inside her. Rick no doubt thought her a whore. But she wasn't too old to live life. There was no reason that her natural urges should have died with Rick's father. Her body's needs didn't die with him. It was hardly her fault if younger men found her attractive, desirable, still.

Sadie was getting restless now too, and as Jan looked around at the few little groups of mourners standing around in clumps, she reached down to touch the dog with a reassuring hand. Jan didn't want Sadie to act up, but she also wanted her here. She was the closest family she had now—and she had been Greg's dog. She deserved to be here more than anyone else did.

That had been Jan's one testy moment with Ann that morning. Ann had thought it very inappropriate to bring a dog to a burial and had tried to convince Jan to leave Sadie home. Jan had been snappish with her, saying that if Sadie couldn't go, she wouldn't go either. But Ann had given right in. Ann always tried to avoid confrontation, was always trying to make everyone feel comfortable and wanted. So Sadie was here.

As Jan looked around, her eyes were arrested by the figure of a man, at the edge of the semicircle of mourners, by himself, not seeming to be part of any of the clumps of people dressed in black. He looked familiar, but Jan couldn't place him, and he was standing too far away for her to focus on his features. By his stance, he looked too old to be one of Greg's friends. The mourners could be divided into two groups by age. There were Greg's friends, those in their early thirties. And then there were Jan's few friends who didn't want to ignore this relationship altogether, most of whom were in their sixties or older. There had always been this divide, and this had occasioned Rick's most cutting remark when he had heard about Greg for the first time.

"You are going to do this again, Mom?" he had said in an incredulous voice. "And with one of your students this time? Aren't you even too old for sex anymore?"

How little Rick knew about the rhythms of life.

This man standing over there by himself didn't fit into either of those two groups. He was somewhere in the middle.

And Jan felt like she should know him, but, for the life of her, she couldn't place what little she could discern of the face. She searched her brain, but without result. And it was this,

this

that panicked her the most—why she resented so much that Greg had gone before her. With each passing day, when Jan searched her brain, she was finding less and less memory to search. Her past was closing down on her. Her thoughts went to her father and how he had slowly faded out of life in his mind, quicker than his physical deterioration. The possibility of this happening to her had always frightened Jan whenever it gripped her thoughts. And now she was increasingly aware that it was happening to her. She didn't even want to think of the future. All she had wanted was a present—with Greg.

Searching her brain, all Jan could come up with at that moment was that maybe Greg wasn't wearing brown that first day they met in the park. Maybe he was wearing blue.

She turned to Ann and asked, "Do you think the brown suit was the right choice?"

Ann opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment Sadie, who had stood up and was sniffing the breeze again, suddenly realized what was wrong, what was missing, and she began a mournful howl. And Jan had to reach down and grab her collar to stop her from racing toward the coffin that was now being lowered into the ground.

Chapter Two

"Well, at least think about it, Mom. No, that's not enough. Plan on it, Mom."

Jan had been straining her ears, trying to listen to the announcement over the public address. She didn't want Ann to miss her plane, to be forced to stay here even one more day, and she still had to go through security. It was a bother that they wouldn't let people go to the gates anymore to see their loved ones off. She didn't want Ann to miss her flight.

"What does Rick say about it?" she asked.

Jan could see by the expression on Ann's face that Rick didn't even know about it.

"It will be great with Rick. He wants to see you again. It's been too long. He would have come to the funeral, you know, if he didn't have to—"

"Yes, that's what you said," Jan cut in. She didn't want Ann doing this. She didn't want Ann lying to try to cover up this thing that existed between her and her son. It wasn't Ann's fault—or responsibility—and of it. It wasn't really Rick's fault either. Jan knew it was all her fault. A betrayal of Rick's father—at least that's the way Rick had every right to see it. Not just finding another man—no two—but finding ones significantly younger than she was. Making no bones that she done so for the sex rather than the companionship, signaled by show no sign of wanting or needing to marry them. Although that was a little harsh. She'd found companionship with both Frank and Greg that she hadn't found with Rick's father, Dennis. But she could hardly tell Rick that.