The Heart Shaped Mosaic

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"Just like you and your brother Robert, who are the same distance in ages as Melissa and Ben are. . ."

"Yes, just like Bobby and I. That jerk tried to get me to waste a whole evening atThe Cardassian Clubtonight because he thought I was working to hard. The bum should get a real job."

"He'll be finishing his doctorate in Violin this year and will have to work for a living. Next summer he's getting married; he won't be so footloose after that."

"I guess you're right, Dad. It's my own fault that I blew my chance for a wild, carefree youth on a dangerous game my first year in college, even though the result was better than I could ever hope for."

During Sylvia's first semester of college, she got caught up in an old teenage sex game. Six to ten couples, who weren't necessarily dating, would meet in a large room. The .lights were turned out, the clothes came off, and the participants had sex with the first groper they met in the dark. It was exciting, it was dangerous, and it was sex without strings. After two months, Sylvia found herself pregnant by an unknown partner, decided to keep the baby, and struggled through her education with Melissa at her side. We helped her as much as we could with support and child care, and she was just now hitting her stride as an independent single mother with a real career. Melissa was a delightful child, and a favorite of my six grandchildren from her infancy.

"Sylvia, you shouldn't keep calling her 'Miss Shot-in-the-Dark.' You'll have to explain it someday to her, probably before you're ready, and she'll have a difficult time understanding it."

"I know, I know. The name helps me keep focused, and reminds me of my folly when things get difficult with her."

"That little angel difficult? Really?" A wry look was her response. "Oh, I see, she balances her halo on her horns very well, right?" A nod of agreement came quickly. "Like you used to do."

Her eyes shot lightning bolts at me before they changed to concern: "Dad, you look unusually pensive. What's up?"

It took me a moment to reply. "Sometimes I wonder if your mother and I did the right thing by you children. We set up this Bohemian household between two then three houses; your mother and I never married; your Aunt Morgan set herself up next door and gave you a half-brother and sister; your grandmother swooped in periodically to spoil you all rotten, shamelessly doting on you. From the outside looking in, it seems a bit bizarre even though we're all artists in our own way. What did you think when you went to school and found out what a normal family was like?"

"Dad, most of our friends had crazy families, too. I could tell you stories that would curl what's left of your hair. You're just from a generation too far back in the past. Nobody cared about our family arrangement, and neither did we."

"But I wonder if you would have had your troubles, if you kids would have been better adjusted, if we. . ."

"Stop it, Dad. I'm responsible for what happened in my life. I shouldn't have gotten into the blindfuck craze, but thanks to Melissa, I wouldn't go back and change it for the world. Elizabeth didn't have any problems at all, Eddie, Bobby, Sam, Will and Chris are all pretty normal, and oh my God, there's something happening with Emily, isn't there?" Her face collapsed into worry.

I stared out the window for a long moment, then gave her a small shake of my head. "Dad, whatever it is, it isn't your fault. Emily's always been headstrong like her mother Morgan, and more than a bit obsessive wanting to imitate her. She's always been different, but letting each other be different is a tradition in our family. She'll snap out of it, whatever it is. Just be patient."

It was several moments looking out the window before I could reply. Then I looked at her face: she had strawberry blond hair, bright blue eyes; she was the image of her mother at the same age. Indeed, Mallory was her age when Sylvia was born, a senior moment convinced me she was her mother, but I recovered quickly. "I heard there was a website," I murmured.

Her eyes went wide. "From whom?"

"Elizabeth," I said in a small voice. "I've put every permutation of Emily's name I can think of in the search engines this afternoon, but I can't find it. I'm afraid to confront her without the truth, and if I do, I'm afraid she'll have the same attitude her mother had about the whole thing and blow me off."

"Stop it, Dad. I remember Aunt Morgie very well; I spent a lot of time in her house up the hill playing with Bobby. She was extremely nice to me, like a second mother. From the stories I heard about her, I don't think Emily is very much like her at all, at least Emily doesn't have the ruthless entrepreneurial spirit her mother had. Emily is probably the only one going into the family business of poetry and literature, and her IQ is a lot higher than Aunt Morgan's was, from what I've heard."

"I never should have gotten her into the University at age 15. I should have found a way to stop her from obsessing about her mother; found her some therapy."

"She was bored to tears in High School, and she was bound to obsess about a glamourous, successful mother she never knew. There's only one thing you have to be careful about: her friend Stuart is more than a friend and he's a real Rasputin type. Manipulatorpar excellance. I'll bet if she's up to anything she shouldn't be, he's pulling the strings."

That revelation sent a current through me. Just then, Melissa bounded back into the room and into my lap, eager to tell me about the program she just saw. As I tried to listen to the red headed moppet's account, I saw my dark headed girl in my mind's eye.

14.5.2009

I padded barefoot downstairs with two huge mugs of black coffee in my hands. My dearest Mallory was already at the computer reading her e-mail in the unnatural early morning quiet. It was the day after I traveled back from a literary conference in England, and by long experience my jet lag had been subverted by careful habits, quality rest, good nutrition, and lots of fine coffee. The radio forecast promised unseasonal heat and humidity, so I was dressed in an old t-shirt and shorts; Mal was wearing a bright yellow halter top and blue shorts as she perched on the computer chair.

She had kept the figure at age 30 after three children that she had when I awarded her the Heart-Shaped Pendant eleven years earlier: slightly pudgy, with strawberry blond hair, long graceful fingers, deep blue eyes. Her nipples poked up as sweetly as maraschino cherries through her halter top, generous dollops of vanilla ice cream peeked at me barely retrained by her top, and the dizzying swoop of her hips competed with them for attention. It was all I could do after being away from her three weeks to keep from throwing her off the chair and ravishing her on the cold concrete floor. As she heard my approach, she turned on her chair to rise and greet me with a lingering embrace and deep, wet kiss. "Welcome home, honey," she whispered huskily in my ear, "it's good to have you back."

"It's been too long, sweetheart," I whispered back. The embrace lasted two minutes and I never wanted it to end. I gave her another long kiss and set the coffee cups down on the table.

"You know so well what I like," she said, and let me sit on the computer chair, draping

her body over mine.

"I can't get over how light you are. How have you been able to stay in such good shape over the years?"

"Well, Morgan insists that I exercise with her every day, so that's the main reason. I've never developed the appetite that Mom or Grandmama did, either, and chasing the children helps as well. You should see Elizabeth and Sylvia try to imitate us working out in the Rec Room sometime, it's hysterical."

I gave her another kiss on the cheek. "I still wonder why you hang around an old, grey fat man of fifty-nine like me."

She gave me a withering look. "I thought you were over that. I wouldn't trade you for a dozen young studs and neither would Morgie. You just overwhelm me for the beautiful person you are inside, and you make me feel like a queen. Don't even think that you're ever getting away from me."

"Tilt. All right, my blood sugar is getting far too high. What's going on?"

"Not much since school got out last week. Edgar is at day camp with the Scouts, Elizabeth's at a sleepover at a classmate's house, Sylvia and Bobby are at Aunt Andrea's for the week, and Morgie's on a business trip to Houston. I've been working a new book and some new pictures for Morgie's website."

"Will she ever give up that bit of vanity? A woman her age shouldn't act like a nymphomanical eighteen year old, and she makes an obscene amount of money without it."

"Can't say I disagree with you, but she's proud of the fact she's been an Internet sweetheart for fifteen years, and she still looks pretty fantastic for a 39 year old."

"I remember the message she sent me the day after I discovered her website:

Uncle Charlie,

Glad you found my site; that means a lot of people will find it and I'll make a ton of money. Don't I look fantastic? Let me give you a free membership and password as a present: you can use me as an appetizer when you have Auntie Charlene for

dinner. USER: Uncle Charlie PASSWORD: appetizer

XOXO,

Morgie"

Mal chuckled and shook her head: "Modesty was never her problem." She closed her e-mail account and opened a sideshow program. "Let me run the latest pictures by you for reaction before we post them. It's always good to get a man's reaction to what works and what doesn't. I promised to get them online by noon today."

"Okay."

The bulge in my shorts was already anticipating the end of enforced celibacy, but Mal was all business and I knew we had to take care of that before pleasure. She put her hand on my crotch and pulled it away immediately. "Well, lover, I'm glad you're glad to see me, but we need to start from the relaxed position to measure the effects of the pictures. All right, close your eyes and picture this. Imagine Gandalf the White. Imagine him greeting Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli in the forest of Entwood. Imagine him throwing off his cloak and all you see is his old, white wrinkled skin, all of his old, white wrinkled skin shining at his companions, his ancient forked radish dangling oddly and dancing before their eyes, his eyes insatiable with lust. Imagine the nausea spewing forth from the three runners as they retch violently on the ground. . .oh, that did it; now we can start."

I smacked her bottom sharply. "That's not fair, corrupting a classic that way. You should be spanked thoroughly for that."

"Later, Charlie." She hit the start button and a series of pictures featuring her cousin Morgan processed across the screen. It began with her dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, wearing a blue and white checked dress and a pure white apron under the red hood, with sheer white stocking and red shoes on her feet and she carried a picnic basket. The setting was a woodland scene; in fact, it was the woods near my lake cabin. I recognized the trail that led to a small cave on the far end of the property. Gradually, Morgan's excellently sculpted and tanned form emerged from her clothing, torn from her by a werewolf, until she at last wore nothing but the shoes and stockings. Morgan had always been able to stir my prurient interest, and today's response to her exquisite naked body emerged slowly but surely as her clothing was torn away. The conclusion was of her tied to a tree, stark naked and frightened, as a werewolf threatened her from several directions, pawing her generous breasts to her obvious delight in the finale.

"Those are great shots, Mal. Who did them?"

She whacked me on the shoulder. "I did. You know I've been doing the photography since Bobby was born."

"Well, Robert may be quite embarrassed someday to see his mother running around like this on the Internet." I kissed her shoulder. "You've become a poet with the digital camera, my love. Where did you get the werewolf?"

"CGI. It's amazing what you can do with cutting and pasting these days. Morgie is a great model as well; she did all those terrified looks on her own. I was able to get a nice werewolf program I could make do anything.

"What's next for Morgie's Bod, Incorporated."

She looked at me with a sly grin. "Kitchen fun and games. A hockey-masked chef terrorizes my star with ordinary kitchen utensils."

"I didn't know Morgie had that much imagination."

"She doesn't; the scenario is mine, just like this series. I'm enjoying shooting the videos and editing them as well."

"My little pornographer. Someday you should make movies of your mainline stories."

"I hope to. Give me a few years and some backers."

"Morgan's paying you for this?"

"Oh, yes. Very well."

I chuckled and looked through the series again, Morgan's familiar luscious curves working their magic with my libido. "How's Morgan doing otherwise? Any progress on. . ."

"No, unfortunately. Her period came on schedule again this month. You two will have to try again before long."

Morgan had decided to have children alone around five years ago, and recruited me to help her. It was a difficult transition for me, but we three worked through it. She moved into the house behind Mal's and my houses, tore down the back fence, and became part of our little community. Robert was welcomed as warmly as Mal's children, and Morgan had been desperate for a second child. We had been trying for a year without results. It felt like cheating, even though it was most men's dream to sleep with two women and done with Mal's express permission and help.

My glumness passed and the story Mallory presented tweaked my fancy, but a problem tickled at the edge of my consciousness. "This sounds like fun, but where are you going to get a CGI for the monster chef?"

"Not planning to. We have a master, monster chef right here."

My eyes bugged wide open at the thought. I helped Morgan shoot of couple of bondage stills a few months ago, playing her evil tormentor, on the condition that my face or head could not be seen. Mal's eyes danced with mischief and she handed me a script. I looked it over: my attitude toward giving Morgan pain for her pleasure had modified over the years, but this was farther than I ever thought I'd go. Mal leaned over and began to lick my ear, adding heat to the story I saw on the page before me. After a few moments I couldn't see the words, so I put the script down. "All right, I guess I can give this a try. But I'm concerned about my face being shown: with the PicFinder programs out there, I could be linked to all this and that would be a major embarrassment to our literary careers, not to mention our children."

Mal brought her face next to mine, our foreheads touching and our eyes were at point blank range. "You'll wear a hockey goalie's mask the entire time, as well as rubber gloves, with your chef's outfit. I'll dub in your lines from an artificial source; you'll be safe."

The twisted appeal of the scenario began to my warped sense of humor. "Okay, it'll be amusing to play in the kitchen with Morgie," I said at last. "Maybe that will get baby number two going for her." Mal began to give me light, flicking kisses on the lips as she changed her position to put her damp crotch next to mine. "You did say that all the children are gone and not expected back soon?"

"Yes." She resumed licking my ear while grinding her hips into mine. I undid her halter and flung it aside to knead her breasts, gently squeezing her hardening buds between the fingers splayed on her mounds. I stood up and carried her upstairs with her legs wrapped tightly around my waist and her arms around my neck. When we got to the bedroom, I threw her on the bed, roughly tore off her shorts, quickly pulled off mine, and tied her wrists to the bedposts. Her lips were quivering and her eyes bright with desire as I impaled myself in her sweet, slick channel, and we spent the day and the night in carnal oblivion, with a brief pause before noon to upload the pictures.

Nine months later, Samuel Beckett Fredrickson was born.

11-12.10.2030 (late evening-early morning)

The rest of the evening with Sylvia and Melissa was enjoyable enough on the surface, but a cloud hung over my heart while I entertained my darling granddaughter. Around 8:30PM, they left and my thoughts were running wild. Sylvia didn't any other inspirations, so I called my son Robert, Emily's full brother. He wasn't current with what his sister might be doing, but wanted to talk.

"Dad, I made the first big step in my career. I'm concertmaster of the Plains City Orchestra, the youngest they've ever had. It's a stepping stone for young artists: the past three concertmasters went to the same job in Chicago, Philadelphia and St. Louis. Lots of good students to teach, and lots of chances to make money playing individual gigs. And Uncle Justin's going to see if he can get me some solo dates in Europe playing the Mendelssohn and Brahms Concerti."

"That's nice. How's Jennifer?"

"She's moving to town next month. We'll go house hunting, then tie the knot. Ready for another wedding?"

"Sure, son. Anytime. Be sure and send Mal a note so we can all be there."

"Thanks, Dad. The news about Emily sounds scary to me. If you need me to talk with her, or anything else, say the word and I'm there in three hours."

"Thanks, son. Love you."

"Love you, Dad. Bye."

Emily wasn't answering her cell phone. My speed dial connected me with Samuel and the twins. The boys were at their mother Mallory's house next door, immersed in a game of Mexican Train dominoes, and disappointed their little sister hadn't shown up for supper. They offered to go look for her, but I asked them to stay home in case this was a tempest in a teapot. Emily was due next morning to help me up if needed and work with me on my latest poetry book, and she had always lived up to that commitment. All I had to do is wait patiently for her to come back, as if that would be easy.

A call to Mallory eased my spirits a little. She was immersed in principal photography of her third movie as writer/producer/director, shooting had moved from Honduras to Vancouver. I caught her at the dinner break, and she filled me in about the status of the project. "I should be done in another ten days: we'll wrap and I'll come home to work on the editing. The only bad thing is that the window for reshoots is the same time as your deification in New York on your birthday."

I snorted at her sarcasm. "Well, you'll just have to get it right the first time, won't you?"

"Very funny, Methuselah, very funny. How's Emily doing?"

"I'm worried, babe. There's a rumor that she has a website, but I haven't been able to find it. She's been flitting in and out of the house a lot, and a good part of the time she's off the radar: not home, not on campus and not answering her cell. It's circumstantial, but I'm worried about the worst case scenario would be, and don't know what I'll do when I find out."

"You'll be fine, sweetheart. Do you have the PicMatch software on your laptop?"

"No."

"I think Eddie has it, get him to bring it over to you. That will get you to the site: find out what's really there and then you can cope with whatever you find."

"Thanks, babe. I should have thought of that sooner. Senility is working very well today."

"Bullshit. I haven't spotted trouble with her lately either; guess I'm losing my maternal touch. Haven't been able to IM with her this week." There was a pause as she took a deep breath. "Only Sylvia ever got into this much trouble."

"Don't say that."

"Sorry. I miss you, Charlie. I wish I was there."

"I miss you, too, sweetheart. Can't wait until you're home."

"Love you, need you."