Larry Schliessmann

It is easy to be brave from a safe distance.

Aseop

Chapter 1
Benjamin Charteret

A mockingbird appeared in my backyard. He was hefty for his

species, and seemed particularly interested in what I did
whenever we shared what he must have considered his territory.
Nothing too unusual, I supposed at the time.
His timing interested me since he showed up weeks after a
tourist walking the beach discovered the body of my closet and
oldest friend.
Someone had savagely murdered Alan. The killer or killers
dismembered him one limb at a time. However, that was not the
worst of what the sonofabitch did to him. After severing a limb,
he cauterized the wound to keep Alan alive. After repeating this
four times, he placed Alan’s torso on his stacked limbs just below
the high tide mark, and then left his wallet balanced on his
abdomen.
However, the tide did not come in enough to wash him out
into the Atlantic Ocean. Instead, the cop who responded to a
tourist's 911 call found my name in Alan’s wallet and later told
me that the coroner concluded that Alan had died from shock and
fear.
Unfortunately, the murderer escaped and now three weeks
later, he seemed to have disappeared completely. Alan Paltrow
was about to become a cold case file.
I never knew all of Alan’s activities. Whoever does even with
the closest of friends?
After the funeral, which was mercifully brief, his ex-wife
approached me. She had not shed a tear during the ceremony, and
then when she stood near enough for me to examine her face, I
saw the grief she had withheld earlier. She smelled like perfume
one might buy in a store such as J C Penney or Kohl's. The scent
was not unpleasant just ordinary unlike his ex-wife.
Patti was a tall blonde who carried some extra weight on her
hips, but still looked as terrific as when Alan first introduced me

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 Whence the Mockingbird

to her after he met her at some kind of luncheon. The loose black
dress she wore looked expensive, hung to just above her knees
and got me thinking she should have worn something more
conservative. Her large blue eyes demanded attention. The rest of
her face complimented them in a way that guaranteed that the
viewer would not ignore her.
“This is for you,” she told me, dug an envelope from her
shoulder bag, and held it out like an offering.
Reluctant to accept the large brown manila package, I did
after I saw my name in Alan’s hand printed on the front. The
envelope was heavy enough to tell me that what he’d put inside
was more than a single page letter.
“Thanks,” I said and wondered why I had since it felt so
inappropriate, and watched Patti as she walked to her car,
climbed behind the wheel, and drove off without lifting her hand
in a wave.
When seated in my Honda, I ripped open the envelope and
discovered the deed to his cabin in Western North Carolina, a
letter from his attorney explaining the transfer of ownership and
title, and a note from Alan.
In the note, he wrote, "This is yours when I’m dead. Take it
and shut the hell up about it. You deserve ownership since you’ve
been the only person who was always there for me. The only
person I've ever trusted.
“If it’s at all possible, I’ll return in my next life to drive you
to drink.
“Best wishes, Alan.”
Who besides you wants another life? I'd thought and stared
out the car window at the workers covering his grave with wet
earth.
Built like a football center, Alan Paltrow would not have been
a man I expected to be easily overcome by anything less than
three assailants. He worked out regularly, and razzed me
constantly about not doing the same. Most women seemed to
think he was attractive. He had dark brown brooding eyes and
kept his brown hair trimmed short. He face was long but
symmetrical. His five foot ten inch frame, broad shoulders and
barrel chest, made him a man to respect. However, he was one of

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 Larry Schliessmann

those bears with a warm heart, and would stop the car to allow a
squirrel right of way, or risk getting run down by jumping out
and racing into traffic to rescue a slow moving turtle.
Two days after reading his letter, I arrived at his cabin and
had concluded that I would move there permanently, which I did
the next week after closing out my life in Coastal South Carolina.
I was sick of tourists anyway.
The following day, the Mockingbird appeared to welcome
dawn with a herald-like barrage of bird songs.
Okay, it’s weird to believe a bird might prove to be a
reincarnated friend, but I began to wonder as time progressed.
Whenever I went out, he sat there watching. He allowed me
to approach until I would reach about ten feet from where he
perched, and then with what could be misconstrued as a shrug,
flew off to put distance between us.
After three days of this, I decided to follow him. We played a
game of tag-like hide-and-seek constantly moving uphill deeper
and deeper into the heavy forest behind the cabin.
Most of the morning and early afternoon passed and then his
behavior changed radically. The bird landed on a small mound of
leaves and pine needles and let me get close enough to touch him.
His small dark eyes showed remarkable intelligence while he
stared at me. Then he looked down and pecked the ground as if
hunting a bug for a snack. He kicked at the forest debris until
bare earth showed, and then flew into the nearest tree as if to
await my reaction.
Curiosity burned a hole into my thoughts. I dropped onto my
knees, brushed the leaves and needles aside, and found a small
bronze plaque. On it was the inscription “Here it is.”
An iced feeling of dread ran down my spine. All I could do at
that moment was to place my hand on the cool bronze surface as
I wondered at the sequence of events that had transpired to lead
me to that particular place, starting with Alan's brutal murder.
I sat and looked for the Mockingbird. When I found him, he
went into his herald’s birdsong repertoire.
The voice in my head warned me to forget about what
happened, sell the cabin, return to the coast, and get on with my
life.

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 Whence the Mockingbird

I did not. Planning to return the next morning, I left after

covering the exposed dirt and plaque with leaves and other forest
debris so it appeared undisturbed.
The bird returned to the cabin with me, landed on the edge of
the rear porch roof, and seemed to wait expectantly to learn of
my plans.
I located a shovel on the porch and showed it to him, and then
went into the cabin to think. No, not to think about the bird. He
hadn’t even glanced at the shovel, and hell he was a bird.
Okay, I was not really convinced that something paranormal
had occurred and his lack of attention seemed to confirm my
thoughts about him. It had seemed as if he had led me into the
forest with the intention of showing me the bronze plaque, but he
also might have intended to eat at a favorite spot and the location
proved coincidental.
Besides, as far as I knew that night, there was nothing else to
find, or perhaps it was all someone’s idea of a prank. If I lifted
the plaque, I might have discovered it to be the lid to a bizarre
Jack-in-the-Box. Imagination is a good pastime, but also, too
often; it seemed like a warning device set off requiring me to
scrutinize my thoughts more thoroughly.
When I woke the following morning, I found the cabin
immersed in thick Blue Mountain fog. If someone stood on the
front porch, which was but fifteen feet deep, I would not have
known of their presence.
I wondered what birds did during such weather. Nothing, I
thought, and decided to toss out some of the birdseed I’d found in
a plastic container at the bottom of the kitchen pantry to learn if
my theory might prove true.
Opening the front door, I stepped into the fog and got an eerie
feeling that there was indeed someone standing now less than ten
feet away from me.
Hastily, I dumped some seeds on the floor of the porch
without watching where they fell, and went back inside.
Now, with nothing planned for the day, I logged onto the net
and ran a few stock transactions. I had done well enough over the
last five years that my accumulated wealth would provide me
with a comfortable retirement even though I was thirty-eight.

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 Larry Schliessmann

Weathering the recession proved trying, but I had held my own.

Two hours passed during which time, I grossed about eight
thousand. I shut down and when I looked outside discovered that
the sun shone brilliantly. The fog had melted under its heat.
This time before entering the forest, I fixed a quick energy
lunch to bring along with three bottle of Deer Park natural spring
water. I knew about the ongoing debate regarding bottled versus
tap water purity, but read a blogger who did these cool tests to
compare tap water to bottled water. She worked with a different
brand, one that used processed tap water from some God-awful
river around Newark, New Jersey. Reports showed that Deer
Park was hands down better than all of the other brands. The
blogger’s results, by the way, clearly demonstrated that tap water
was gross in comparison to what came in a bottle. The tap water
boiled down into a yellow soup; bottled boiled down clear.
Finally, outside, I grabbed the shovel, and stepped on
something that crunched underfoot. I looked down and saw the
husks of spent seeds. Somehow, the birds found their way
through the fog and ate all of them.
Getting lost on the side of a mountain in Western North
Carolina would prove unpleasant at best. Black bears do not
make for good companions even if they do not attack without
serious provocation. If you unexpectedly walked up on one, you
would understand fear in a rapid heartbeat. I found two before
locating the tree where the bronze plaque rested amongst its
roots.
After a quick food break, I jammed the blade of the shovel
into the earth alongside the plaque and hit a thick tree root. The
shock of it drilled up my arms.
Finding a better angle, I hoped, I tried again and managed to
succeed. The bronze plaque lifted and exposed bare earth. Ten
minutes passed before anything else happened and then I heard a
metal on metal thud and screech.
Tossing the shovel aside, I dropped to my knees and used my
fingers to expose the top of a small metal box about six by nine. I
wedged it free, sat, and opened the lid. Inside, I found a key to a
safe deposit box.
Holding it on my palm brought back a flood of forgotten

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 Whence the Mockingbird

memories.
“I have a secret,” Alan said one night between drinks. We
were halfway to smashed, which was the moment of the night
when either of us might decide he wanted to share something
outrageous.
“I’m not surprised to hear it,” I had replied as I lifted my half-
empty glass as I prepared to drain it.
Alan put his down, and lifted his briefcase from the floor
alongside his chair. He snapped the latches open and lifted out a
legal looking document. He placed it on the table after wiping the
surface with a napkin he snatched from the booth behind us.
“Don’t read this,” he said. “I want you to trust me and just
sign the line at the bottom.” Then, mysteriously, he covered the
rest of it with a manila folder and handed me an ink pen.
“I trust you,” I said. I was drunk enough not to care if it was a
prank, and signed my named, and then asked, “So to whom did I
just give all of my assets?”
He added mystery to mystery. “One day you’ll understand,
but until then you’ll have to continue to endure and trust me.”
“Is this about your secret?”
He nodded without speaking as if he did not intend to explain
more of the details.
“Okay,” I said. “Am I now in danger?”
Alan glanced at me as he slipped the sheet of paper into the
folder, put that in his briefcase, and snapped it shut.
With a broad disarming smile, he chuckled and said, “Not as
long as I’m still alive.”
With the key in hand, I suspected what I had signed was a
form to give me access to the box that I would need the key to
open.
I filled in the hole, replaced the bronze plaque, covered it
with leaves and pine needles, and returned to the cabin in time for
nightfall. When I washed my hands, I smelled the loamy earth.
Not once had I seen the Mockingbird that day.
After a shower, I began searching through the draws in the
bedroom, kitchen, and small office until I located a stack of bank
statements from a local bank. The total in the accounts was
minimal, but that was irrelevant.

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 Larry Schliessmann

Sitting in the small kitchen alcove with a line of bowed

windows surrounding two sides the round table and chairs, I
sipped freshly brewed coffee and read the local newspaper.
A loud rapping on the window glass scared the crap out of
me, but when I looked, I saw was the Mockingbird sitting on the
sill with one fathomless eye peering at me.
“So, you’ve been roaming around the forest all day and now
you demand attention. You know that I was almost eaten by bears
because of you. If you’d've guided me back to the tree, I
wouldn’t’ve gotten lost.”
He pecked the glass again, and I watched him snag the small
insect his activity had dislodged.
“I should’ve known you didn’t care, you self-interested bird,”
I said, turned back to the paper and was interrupted by a loud
repeated knock on the front door. The sound resonated through
the cabin.
Standing in front of the door, I couldn’t imagine who knew
that I lived there now, or why a stranger would appear just after
dark. The locals were friendly, but that friendly?
Instead of opening it, I grabbed a fireplace tool and called
out, “Yes?”
The response I heard was, “Benjamin, it’s me Patti. Would
you please let me come inside? It’s awful out here when I'm
alone.”
"Patti?" What the hell as you doing here? “You're alone?”
“Of course I’m alone, I just told you that. Now, please, Ben,
open up.”
“It’s unlocked, Patti, come on in.” I put the tool alongside my
leg and turned so she would not see it when she entered.
Patti’s entrance was both hurried and elegant. How she
managed that, I’ll never know but when she shut and locked the
door behind her after a quick furtive glance into the dark forest, I
stopped thinking about the way she entered the cabin.
“Thank, God,” she said as if she had suddenly found that
Jesus really was her personal Savior. Before that moment, the
only savior I knew that she would accept needed a strong
financial bottom line and a lot of cash flow.
I waited for her to cross herself, and when she failed to, I

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asked, “Why are you here?”

Her answer proved to be innocuous and meaningless. “I
wanted to see if everything worked out for you. I knew you left
the beach, but I needed to know if you made it here safely.”
Why in God’s name would you give a damn about my safety
all of a sudden?
“Really?” I asked, watched her nod, and added, “There’s
fresh coffee in the kitchen. Go on and help yourself. I’ll be there
in a second.”
Patti shed her jacket, dropped it on the sofa without a word or
a glance over her shoulder, and walked through the doorway into
the kitchen, which alerted me to the fact that she'd been in the
cabin sometime in the past maybe more than once.
That should not have surprised me, but briefly, it did and I
shook it off. I put away the fireplace tool, locked the front door,
picked up her jacket, and draped it on the arm of the side chair by
the wall. I did not want Alan's ex feeling as if she had some
preferential right to visit my new home.
She was sitting at the table by the window. A glance outside,
told me that the Mockingbird had left the area where light from
the kitchen illuminated the grounds.
Off to hunt more bugs, I suspected and sat across from my
seriously unwanted guest.
"How did you get here?" I asked and hoped she would
understand the inference of my question.
"I drove of course. You know there isn't any public
transportation out here." She sipped coffee and watched me over
the rim.
"You could've had a cab bring you up here." I looked at my
coffee. The cup was empty, so I went to the counter and filled it.
She did not respond, but I hadn't expected her to.
After sitting, I studied her face. A minute passed in silence,
and she finally spoke, which was good since I had no plan to say
anything before she talked.
"I know you're wondering why I'm really here, Benjamin."
She stopped as if expecting a response. When she didn't get one,
she shook her head and smiled wryly as if she wanted me to
know she understood what I'd done, which made me feel slightly

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emasculated.
You think?
"Alan told me he planned to give the cabin to you and I
agreed. I thought it was best under the circumstances." She lifted
her mug.
"And you just thought you'd drive for six or seven hours to
tell me that face to face? Come on, Patti, you think I'm stupid or
what?"
"No, I don't and no I didn't drive up here to tell you that. It's
just that you're making me so nervous. Can't we have a
conversation like acquaintances at least?" She placed her mug on
the table without taking another sip and stared out the window.
"I think I know who killed Alan, but not why." She spoke
very softly.
She had my attention. "Who?"
"A guy named Steuern, Thomas Steuern. He used to be a
psychiatrist back home. The bastard developed an emotional
harem of married women, and several unmarried ones, of
course." Patti placed her folded hands on the table. She appeared
serious, but who knew with her?
"What did this shrink have to do with killing Alan?"
She shook her head. "Nothing directly, but I believe he hired
someone to do it."
"A Board Certified psychiatrist? You are joking right? I mean
how much does the bastard make for his feel good gibberish?"
She shrugged as if helpless to explain the man's motives to
another man. "I paid him $250.00 an hour."
"You saw him? For how long if I might ask."
"About six months." She appeared uncomfortable, and I
considered dropping it, but not if Steuern had a hand in Alan's
death. Hell, law enforcement had yet to punish anyone for the
crime. Someone needed to eat shit for it soon.
"None of this makes much sense to me, Patti. I think you
need some evidence to at least make it plausible, don't you?"
"If I was planning to go to the police, I would, but that's why
I didn't go to the police. They wouldn't've believed me with what
little I know. Besides, Steuern knows everyone who is important
on the island. Especially the women in his emotional harem.

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 Whence the Mockingbird

There're a lot of them." She leaned back, a button at the top of her
blouse popped loose, which, since the two above were opened
previously, exposed the tops of her breasts. Well, a guy notices
these things.
When she did nothing to cover herself, or button her blouse, I
thought, Now, what is this about? Distraction or accidental?
Hell, she was never shy about her physical attributes as Alan
found out one night a local club.
He went out with a couple friends he worked with, and after
several rounds, they decided to try the newest strip joint, which is
where he found his wife dancing in a string thong, nothing on
top, with a pole between her legs. Oh, I forgot, she was upside
down and humping the pole as if she wanted to reach climax with
an audience of drooling men from every walk of life who threw
fistfuls of cash her way.
Alan never told me if she succeeded, or how he reacted when
his friends asked him what she was doing there and did he know
about her dancing? Is that why he brought them to that club? He
confronted her still on stage, but by then without the thong.
Hell of a thing, I thought at the time, seeing your wife nude
and filmed in sweat before a crowd of men who would use the
memory of the occasion when they arrived home.
Divorce was imminent and happened uncontested three-
months later.
Alan had been grateful they did not have children, but I
always believed there was something more he felt that he would
never reveal even to me. Like, I said, everyone has secrets.
Patti had been talking and I missed every word of it due to
distraction.
"You still work at the club?" I blurted unexpectedly as a
connection between her, Alan, and the bullshit doctor formed in
my head.
"Alan told you about that?" she asked without sounding
offended by my question, but colored slightly.
I nodded and watched her again.
She grinned and raised an eyebrow as she shrugged.
"Weekends the pay is real good. I make six hundred a night. If
there's a convention in town I might earn a grand for pole

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dancing."
Naked pole dancing, I thought. Wow.
"How does this come into play with the shrink and Alan's
death?" I asked as calmly as possible.
"I was seeing Steuern for therapy when we started clubbing,
and asked him if he thought I should try out as a dancer. He said I
should and that I also needed to put some distance between me
and Alan."
"Tell me about his emotional harem. What did you mean by
that?"
"Well, you know most psychiatric patients come to love their
doctor, or develop strong bonds that are more dependency than
healthy. Usually, the psychiatrist sets up boundaries. Steuern
exploited the bonds instead. Many of his married patients are
divorced because of his recommendations. I know for a fact that
he's slept with several."
"And you know that because?"
"After I started working at the club, before Alan caught me,
Steuern came to watch my performance. The next time I had an
appointment, he told me I needed to strip for him, and that it
would be exactly the kind of therapy I needed to move beyond
the constraints of an overbearing husband and failing marriage.
"I trusted him and did it. Afterwards, he had me stay naked
and before I knew it, we were having sex. I didn't mind because I
trusted him, and to be honest, some part of me loved him. He'd
helped me free my inner self and I became stronger. The next
day, I realized what he had done was seduce me emotionally into
allowing him to have me. It felt like emotional rape."
"And Alan?"
"Alan never knew, but I began talking to other patients.
Several were close friends. All of them acted as if Steuern was
God on earth, or a secret lover. One friend's daughter asked her
mother if she had been sleeping with Steuern, which she denied
of course, but she had been and wanted to continue it as part of
her therapy to improve her sex life.
"I recorded all of my conversations and turned the bastard in.
He lost his license, was sued by several former and current
patients, and ended up ruined."

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 Whence the Mockingbird

"And that's why he had someone kill Alan?" It made good

sense on the face of it, but still, evidence needed plausibility.
"I think so," she said. However, Patti did not sound as if she
really cared as much as I thought a woman in her situation should
care.
Then I had a real revelation. "You enjoyed sex with the
doctor didn't you? How many times did you fuck him, Patti?"
Damn it girl you were married to Alan at the time. My frown
must have relayed my feelings.
She tried to look in my eyes, but her gaze kept sliding off as
if she stood on an oil slick and needed to check the floor.
"You believe that your decision to be a pole dancing stripper
is the real cause of his death." I was close to shouting hated the
raw rage that throbbed in my head.
Patti nodded, and looked both meek and defeated, which in
turn made me fell like a total shit.
I couldn't decide who I loathed more just then, her or me and
concluded either way I'd been wrong with at least my
presentation.
"Listen," I started, and saw tears in her eyes. "Sorry, I
shouldn't've been so crude."
"No, you were right, but I don't want to live life being
punished by you or anyone else. None of us is that perfect, Ben,
not even you. I made a lot of mistakes."
"Then why did you lie to me? Does fabricating truth help
justify your actions then or now?" I struggled against the
annoyance I felt knowing that at least in part it was due to the
knowledge that she was correct. My expectations of other people
was often too damn high, a fact I frequently failed to realize until
I was too late to change the results. I rubbed my eyes with my
fingers and glanced up at her.
She glared at me, but I could see in her eyes that she would
not answer the single question that would have ended my
suspicions.
Oh, to hell with it. To each his own, I thought and drained my
mug. I did not feel like talking with her for another second. She
had lied about her actions back then and her lie might have cost
Alan his life. Why should I care enough to believe anything else

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 Larry Schliessmann

she said?
"You can let yourself out," I told her in an expressionless
monotone, and quietly left the kitchen.
"But wait--"
"No, Patti. There's nothing to wait for." I had reached the hall
when she called out.
"If you don't mind, I really don't like driving around up here
in the dark. I would get lost and drive off the road. Can I use your
guest room?"
I turned to deny her, and found myself three feet away from
her. She had slipped off her shoes, followed me, and almost
stopped my heart. I despise being startled.
My instant reaction was to shake my head, but I squeezed my
hands into fists. "Sure, Patti. There're towels and linens in the
closet at the end of the hall. See you tomorrow."
This time, I made it into the bedroom, shut the door, and sat
on the edge of my bed. My heart still raced and sweat beaded my
brow more from the effort to control my reaction than her
unexpected presence. Usually, I get a feeling when someone is
close, but this time my inner warning system had failed.
Moreover, I hated being angry, which was something Alan
always found to be a source of personal entertainment. He often
pushed me to the limit and then stood back to watch me spiral out
of control. The memory made me grin.
"Damn woman," I muttered and shut off the light, but twenty
minutes later, she knocked on my door.
I rolled out of bed, slipped a robe over my shoulders, belted
it, and opened the door. Beyond her, the lights were off, but
enough moonlight seeped into the cabin for her silhouette to be
clearly visible. She had a towel around her torso. The terry cloth
ended high on her thighs. Her bare legs looked better than I had
pictured them a few times, years back. Patti might have carried a
few extra pounds on her hips, but not on her legs. They seemed
athletically trim and she smelled like soap and clean female.
"Do you need something else?" I asked, pleased my voice
sounded a bit groggy as if she'd awakened me, and not as if I'd
taken inventory of her body.
"I didn't bring any clothing with me except what I wore and I

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 Whence the Mockingbird

can't sleep in that it's too damn dirty."

I considered her statement, decided it was reasonable, and
nodded. "Okay hold on a minute." I turned and went to my
dresser, again did not know she'd followed until a small flashlight
illuminated the drawer I slid open.
"I keep it in my purse for emergencies," she said as if needing
to explain why she carried the light.
Right, in case you get stuck on the side of the road driving up
the mountain at night. There was always something going on
with her, some plan or maneuver.
She aimed the beam so it lit her manicured nails, highlighted
the drawer's contents, my underwear, and said, "Those will do."
"Take them." I watched her lift out a pair of red boxers. She
passed me the light, which I took now as curious as a cat seeing
an eagle walking across the yard thinking, hey, a bird is a bird, I
can take this one.
I did not point the light away from the dresser, but did see her
pull my boxers on, saw a tantalizing glimpse of flesh maybe I
shouldn't've seen, but felt she wanted me to see it and okay, I
wanted me to.
"How about a t-shirt?" she asked smiling as if to let me know
that she had worked me, and knew I'd reacted to her flash of
exposure as she had wished I would.
Score one for you, I thought grimly. She was making self-
control difficult.
After opening the second drawer, I said, "Pick one, and no I
don't have a red one to match the boxers."
The light ran over the neatly arrayed piles, and stopped on
one of my favorites. Printed across the front was "Cancel my
subscription; I don't need your issues anymore."
This time when I looked at her face, I saw her watching me.
Again, I reacted, as she had desired.
Where the hell is this going?
"Could you hold the light again?" I accepted it when she
handed the flashlight over. I really wanted to illuminate her body
completely while she pulled on the t-shirt. What the hell. We
were consenting adults.
This woman is a nut case, pal be careful what you ask for.

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 Larry Schliessmann

However, I could not force myself to look away as the towel

dropped and she lifted the t-shirt over her head. She turned just
enough to give me a full profile, show me her firm breasts, hard
nipples, and I fought down the wave of desire that threatened
common sense.
I'm telling you, ace, don't go there, I thought, do not cross the
line with this one.
For some reason, she needed to shake her torso slightly as she
pulled the shirt over her head, and finally, I turned away, found
the window, and stared into the moonlit yard. I felt sweat trickle
down my spine.
The Mockingbird sat on the windowsill as if he too wanted to
watch her show.
"Thanks," Patti said and put her fingers on the back of my
hand as if she meant to hold it and guide my fingers to touch her
body.
I slipped the flashlight against her palm. "Anything else you
want?" Please don't answer that.
She shined the light down so it lit her from breasts to feet,
squatted, and picked up the towel.
"I'll need something to wear in the morning while I wash my
clothing. You do have a laundry room?" She did not sound like
herself, but more like a woman attracted by my rejection and
knew she would overcome an obvious male weakness with time
and, well exposure.
"Washer and dryer," I said. "They're in the closet in the
kitchen alongside the pantry. I'll show you in the morning." Alan
didn't show you?
"Thank you, Ben," she said and left the room after switching
off her light.
I waited until I heard her close the guest room door, closed
mine and sat on the edge of the bed, saw the Mockingbird, and
said softly, "Now what the hell do you make of that, pal?"
The bird seemed to examine my eyes, pecked the glass,
snatched a small moth attracted by Patti's flashlight, and flew off
into the darkness.
Yes, I wanted to go to her. Yes, I wanted to remove what
she'd just put on and see and touch what was special about her,

15
 Whence the Mockingbird

what had driven Alan to marrying her when he was having

second and third thoughts.
But hell a body isn't everything, I attempted to convince myself.
A healthy functional mind is a lot more important, I added
facetiously, climbed under the sheet with the knowledge that I
needed to get her to leave, or the part of me driven to desire the
physical over sanity, might just win the argument. Not every
brain cell agreed with the mind over body thing.

16