3

“When the power failure happened,” Karen Sloan said from her wheelchair, “Josie and I were on our way home in Humperdinck.”

“Humperdinck?” Nim was puzzled.

Karen gave him one of her warm, glowing smiles. “Humperdinck is my beautiful, beautiful van. I love it so much I just couldn’t call it ‘van,’ so I gave it a name.”

They were in the living room of Karen’s apartment and it was early evening in the first week of November. Nim had accepted—after several postponements because of pressures of work—an invitation from Karen to join her for dinner. Josie, Karen’s aide-housekeeper, was in the kitchen preparing the meal.

The small apartment was softly lighted, warm and comfortable. Outside, in contrast, most of northern California was enduring a Pacific gale, now in its third day, which had brought strong winds and torrential rain. As they talked, rain pounded against the windows.

Other sounds merged softly; the steady hum of the respirator mechanism which kept Karen breathing, and an accompanying hiss of air, inward and out; small clatters of dishes, the noise of a cupboard door opening, then closing, from the kitchen.

“About the power failure,” Karen resumed. “I’d been to a movie, at a theater where they have facilities for wheelchairs—I can do so many things now with Humperdinck that I couldn’t before—and, while Josie was driving, all the street lights, and lights in buildings, went out.”

“Almost one hundred square miles,” Nim said with a sigh. “Everything went. Everything.”

“Well, we didn’t know that then. But we could see it was widespread, so Josie drove directly to Redwood Grove Hospital, which is where I go if I ever have problems. They have an emergency generator. The staff took care of me, and I stayed at the hospital for three days until the power was back on here.”

“Actually,” Nim told her, “I already knew most of that. As soon as I could after those explosions and the blackout, I phoned your number. I was at the office; I’d been called in from home. When there was no answer I had someone contact the hospital, which is listed on your info sheet. They told us you were there, so I stopped worrying because there was lots to do that night.”

“It was an awful thing, Nimrod. Not just the blackout, but those two men murdered.”

“Yes, they were old-timers,” Nim said, “pensioners who were brought back in because we were short of experienced security help. Unfortunately their experience belonged to another era and we found out later that the worst they’d ever dealt with was an occasional trespasser or small-time thief. They were no match for a killer.”

“Whoever did it hasn’t been caught yet?”

Nim shook his head. “It’s someone we, and the police, have been looking for for a long time. The worst thing is, we still haven’t the slightest idea who he is or where he operates from.”

“But isn’t it a group—Friends of Freedom?”

“Yes. But the police believe the group is small, probably no more than a half-dozen people, and that one man is the brains and leader. They say there are similarities in all the incidents so far which point to that—like a personal handwriting. Whoever he is, the man’s a homicidal maniac.”

Nim spoke feelingly. The effect of the latest bombing on the GSP & L system had been far worse than any other preceding it. Over an unusually wide area, homes, businesses and factories had been deprived of electric power for three to four days in many cases, a week in others, reminding Nim of Harry London’s observation several weeks earlier that, “Those crazies are getting smart.”

Only by a massive, costly effort which required bringing in all of GSP & L’s spare transformers, borrowing some from other utilities, and diverting all available personnel to effect repairs, had power been restored as quickly as it was. Even so, GSP & L was being criticized for failure to protect its installations adequately. “The public is entitled to ask,” the California Examiner pontificated in an editorial, “if Golden State Power & Light is doing all it can to prevent a recurrence. Judging by available evidence, the answer is ‘no.’” However, the newspaper offered no suggestion as to how the enormous, widespread GSP & L network could be protected everywhere twenty-four hours a day.

Equally depressing was the absence of any immediately usable clues. True, the law enforcement agencies had obtained another voice print, matching earlier ones, from the bombastic tape recording received by a radio station the day after the bombings. As well, there were some threads of denim material snagged on a cut wire near the site of the double murder, almost certainly from a garment worn by the attacker. The same wire also revealed dried blood which had been typed and found to differ from the blood of both dead guards. But, as a senior police detective told Nim in a moment of frankness, “Those things can be useful when we have someone or something to match them with. Right now we’re no nearer to having that than we were before.”

“Nimrod,” Karen said, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s been almost two months since we were together. I’ve truly missed you.”

He told her contritely, “I’m sorry. I really am.”

Now that he was here, Nim wondered how he could have stayed away so long. Karen was as beautiful as he remembered her and, when they kissed a few minutes ago—a lingering kiss—her lips were loving, just as they had seemed before. It was as if, in a single instant, the gap in time had closed.

Something else Nim was aware of: In Karen’s company he experienced a sense of peace, as happened with few other people he knew. The feeling was hard to define, except perhaps that Karen, who had come to terms with the limitations of her own life, transmitted a tranquillity and wisdom suggesting that other problems, too, could be resolved.

“It’s been a difficult time for you,” she acknowledged. “I know because I read what the newspapers said about you, and saw reports on television.”

Nim grimaced. “The Tunipah hearings. I’ve been told I disgraced myself.”

Karen said sharply, “You don’t believe that, any more than I do. What you said was sensible, but most reports played that part down.”

“Any time you like, you can handle my public relations.”

She hesitated, then said, “After it happened I wrote some poetry for you. I was going to send it, then thought maybe you were tired of hearing from everybody, no matter what they said.”

“Not everybody. Just most people.” He asked, “Did you save it—the poem?”

“Yes.” Karen motioned with her head. “It’s over there. In the second drawer down.”

Nim rose from his seat and crossed to a bureau beneath bookshelves. Opening the drawer he had been told to, he saw a sheet of Karen’s blue stationery on top, which he took out, then read what was typewritten.

The moving finger sometimes does go back,

Not to rewrite but to reread;

And what was once dismissed, derided, mocked,

May, in the fullness of a moon or two,

Or even years,

Be hailed as wisdom,

Spoken forthrightly at that earlier time,

And having needed courage

To face the obloquy of others less perceptive,

Though burdened with invective.

Dear Nimrod!

Remind yourself: A prophet’s seldom praised

Before sunset

Of the day on which he first proclaimed

Unpalatable truths.

But if and when your truths

In time become self-evident,

Their author vindicated,

Be, at that harvest moment, forgiving, gracious,

Broad of mind, large-purposed,

Amused by life’s contrariness.

For not to all, only the few,

Are presbyopic gifts: long vision, clarity, sagacity,

By chance, through lottery at birth,

Bestowed by busy nature.

Silently, Nim read the words a second time. At length he said, “Karen, you never cease to surprise me. And whenever you do this I’m not sure of what to say, except I’m moved and grateful.”

At that moment, Josie—short and sturdy, her dark features beaming—marched in with a loaded tray. She announced, “Lady and gentleman, dinner is served.”

It was a simple but tasty meal. A Waldorf salad, followed by a chicken casserole, then lemon sherbet. Nim had brought wine—a hard-to-get Heitz Cellar Cabernet Sau-vignon—superb! As on the last occasion, Nim fed Karen, experiencing the same sense of sharing and intimacy that he had before.

Only once or twice did he remember with a trace of guilt the excuse he had used for not being at home tonight—an evening business engagement for GSP & L. But he rationalized that spending the time with Karen was different from other occasions when he had cheated and lied to Ruth, or tried to. Perhaps, even now, he thought, Ruth didn’t believe him, but if so she had given no indication when he left this morning. Also in his favor, Nim reminded himself: During the past four weeks there had been only one other occasion when he was not at home in time for family dinner, and then he genuinely had been working late.

Easily, leisurely, during their intensely personal dinner, Nim and Karen talked.

Josie had removed dishes and brought them coffee when, for a second time, the subject of Karen’s van came up. Humperdinck. The special van, adapted under Ray Paul-sen’s direction to convey a quadriplegic’s elaborate, powered wheelchair, and purchased from GSP & L by Karen’s parents.

“Something I haven’t explained,” Karen told him, “is that I don’t really own Humperdinck. I can’t afford to. It has to be registered to my father, even though I use it.”

Insurance was the reason. “Insurance rates for a disabled person are astronomical,” Karen said, “even though someone like me will never drive. With the van in my father’s name, the rates are lower, so that’s why I don’t own Humperdinck officially.”

She went on, “Apart from the insurance, I was worried—still am a little—about Daddy borrowing the money to pay for Humperdinck. His bank said no, so he went to a loan company and they agreed, but at higher interest. I know it will be hard for him to make the loan payments because his business is not doing well, and he and Mother already help me with money when my allowances won’t stretch. But they insisted I shouldn’t concern myself, and to let them do the worrying.”

Nim said thoughtfully, “Maybe there’s something I could do. I could contribute a little money myself, then see if our company would donate …”

Karen cut in sharply, “No! Absolutely not! Nimrod, our friendship is wonderful and I cherish it. But I won’t take money from you—ever—and that includes your asking someone else. If my own family does something for me, that’s different and we work it out together, but that’s all. Besides, you already helped us enough with Humperdinck.” Her voice softened. “I’m a proud and independent person. I hope you understand.”

“Yes,” he said, “I understand, and I respect you.”

“Good! Respect is important. Now, Nimrod dearest, you’ll only believe what a difference Humperdinck has made to my life if you let me show you. May I ask you something bold?”

“Ask me anything.”

“Could we have a date outside—perhaps go to the symphony?”

He hesitated only momentarily. “Why not?”

Karen’s face lighted with a smile and she said enthusiastically, “You must tell me when you can be free and I’ll make arrangements. Oh, I’m so happy!” Then, impulsively: “Kiss me again, Nimrod.”

As he went to her, she tilted up her face, her mouth seeking his eagerly. He put a hand behind her head, running his fingers gently through her long blonde hair. She responded by pressing her lips closer. Nim found himself emotionally and sexually stirred and the thought came to him: How much promise the next few minutes might hold if Karen were whole in body instead of what she was. Then he dismissed the thought and broke off the kiss. For a moment he caressed her hair again, then returned to his chair.

“If I knew how,” Karen said, “I’d purr.”

Nim heard a discreet cough and turned his head to see Josie standing at the doorway. The aide-housekeeper had changed from the white uniform she wore while serving dinner to a brown wool dress. He wondered how long she had been there.

“Oh, Josie,” Karen said, “are you ready to go?” For Nim’s benefit she added, “Josie’s visiting her family tonight.”

“Yes, I’m ready,” the other woman acknowledged. “But shouldn’t I put you to bed before I go?”

“Well, I suppose so.” Karen stopped, a faint flush suffusing her cheeks. “Or perhaps, later on, Mr. Goldman wouldn’t mind …”

He said, “If you’ll tell me what to do, I’ll be glad to.”

“Well, then, that’s settled,” Josie said. “So I’ll be going, and good night.”

A few minutes later they heard the sound of the outer door closing.

When Karen spoke there seemed a nervousness in her voice. “Josie won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Normally I have a relief aide-housekeeper, but she’s not well, so my big sister is coming for the night.” She glanced at a wall clock. “Cynthia will be here in an hour and a half. Can you stay until then?”

“Of course.”

“If it’s inconvenient for you, Jiminy—he’s the janitor you met the first time—will come in for a while.”

Nim said firmly, “The hell with Jiminy! I’m here and I’m staying.”

“I’m glad.” Karen smiled. “There’s some wine left. Shall we kill the bottle?”

“Good idea.” Nim went into the kitchen, found glasses and the recorked Cabernet. Returning, he divided the remaining wine and held one of the glasses while Karen tipped.

“I feel a wonderful glow,” she said. “The wine helped, but that isn’t all of it.”

On impulse he leaned over, raised Karen’s face in his hand, and kissed her once more. She responded as ardently as the other times, except that the kiss was longer. At length, reluctantly, he moved back, though their faces remained close.

“Nimrod.” It was a whisper.

“Yes, Karen.”

“I think I’m ready to go to bed.”

He found his pulse beating faster. “Tell me what to do.”

“Unplug my wheelchair first.”

Nim went to the rear of the chair and did so. The power cord retracted into a housing as the battery on the chair took over.

A sudden smile of mischief flashed across Karen’s face. “Follow me!”

Using the electric wheelchair’s blow-sip tube control, and with a speed and dexterity which amazed him, Karen maneuvered herself from the living room, down a small hallway, and into a bedroom. There was a single bed, neatly turned down. Beside it a low-wattage light burned dimly. Karen swung her chair so it was at the foot of the bed, facing away.

“There!” She looked at Nim expectantly.

“All right. What next?”

“You lift me out of the chair, then just pivot—the way you would if you were playing golf—and put me on the bed. When Josie does it we use a body sling that winds up like a crane. But you’re strong, Nimrod. You can lift me in your arms.”

He did so, gently but surely, aware of the warm softness of her body, and afterward followed instructions which Karen gave him about her breathing apparatus. He switched on a small Bantam respirator already at the bedside; at once he could hear it cycling—a dial showed fifteen pounds of pressure; the rate was eighteen breaths a minute. He put a tube from the respirator into Karen’s mouth; as she began breathing the pressure went to thirty. Now she could dispense with the pneumo-belt she had been wearing beneath her clothes.

“Later,” Karen said, “I’ll ask you to put a chest respirator on me. Not yet, though.”

She was horizontal on the bed, her long hair spread over the pillow. The sight, Nim thought, would have excited Botticelli.

He asked, “What do I do now?”

“Next …” she said, and in the soft, dim light he saw a blush bloom again on her cheeks. “Next, Nimrod, you undress me.”

Karen’s eyes were partly closed. Nim’s hands were shaking and he wondered if what he thought was happening could be true. Not long ago, he remembered, he had told himself that falling in love with Karen would involve love without sex—in contrast to sex without love which he had experienced so often before. Was he wrong? With Karen could there conceivably be love and sex? But if it happened, surely he would be despicable, taking brutish advantage of her helplessness. Could he? Should he? The ethical issues seemed a nightmare tangle of unanswered questions, a moral labyrinth.

He had unbuttoned Karen’s blouse. Now he raised her shoulders while he eased it from her arms. She wore no brassiere. Her small breasts were superbly shaped, the tiny nipples slightly raised.

“Touch me, Nimrod.” It was a soft command. Responding, he moved his hands lightly over her breasts, his fingertips caressing, then knelt and kissed them. At once he felt her nipples harden. Karen murmured, “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

A moment later she told him, “The skirt unfastens on the left side.” Still gentle, he unbuttoned and removed it.

When Karen was naked, doubts and anxiety still plagued him. But he moved his hands, slowly and with skillful sensuality, as he knew by now she wanted. Soft murmurings made her pleasure clear. After a while she whispered, “I want to tell you something.”

He whispered back, “I’m listening.”

“I’m not a virgin. There was a boy … it happened when I was fifteen, just before I …” She stopped, and he saw that tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“Karen, don’t!”

She shook her head. “I want to tell you. Because I want you to know there hasn’t been anyone else in all those years; no one, between then—and you.”

He waited, letting the purport of what she had said sink in before he asked, “Are you telling me …?”

“I want you, Nimrod. All the way. Now!”

“Oh Christ!” Nim breathed the words, aware that his own desires—never difficult to unleash—were making themselves known in urgent terms. Then he threw the complex equations overboard and started taking off his clothes.

Nim had wondered, like others he supposed, how it would be for an unimpaired man to make sexual love to a quadriplegic woman. Would someone like Karen be totally passive? Would the man make all the effort, obtaining no response? And in the end would there be pleasure for one, or both, or neither?

He was discovering the answers, and all were unexpected.

Karen was demanding, responsive, exciting, satisfying.

Yes, in one sense she was passive. Her body, other than her head, was unable to move. Yet Nim could feel the effect of their lovemaking transmitting itself through her skin, vagina, breasts, and most of all her passionate cries and kisses. It was not, he thought in a flash of whimsy, at all like having sex with a mannequin, as some might suppose. Nor was the pleasure brief. It was prolonged, as if neither wanted it to end. He had a sense, over and over, of glorious eroticism, of floating and soaring, of joy and loving, until at last, as always, the ending came: Attainment of a summit; climax of a symphony; the zenith of a dream. And for them both. Could a quadriplegic woman have an orgasm? Emphatically, yes!

And afterward … once more … a return to tenderness and kindly loving.

Nim lay still, carefully considerate of Karen, blissful, spent. He wondered what she was thinking and if, in the aftermath, she had regrets.

As if telepathy had delivered both questions, Karen stirred. She said drowsily but happily, “Nimrod, a mighty hunter of the Lord.” Then: “This day has been the best in all my life.”