Flash! Flash! Flash!  Lightning all around . . . total darkness . . . people talking like machines, maybe fast forward with the volume up . . . then again nothing.  For how long he didn’t know.

He could sense his eyes constantly half open, with something dripping into them, but he couldn’t blink.  Through a massive blur he could make out a woman leaning over him.  Long dark hair and a rope of fuzzy pearls swung close.

She sat down, took his hand, and turned it over in hers.  He could sense it, though it felt distant and unclear.  Again she leaned over him, much closer to his face.  The pearls stopped swinging.  They must be on my chest, he thought.

“Pauley!” she whispered.  “Tell me you love me.”

Pauley! Charlie thought, Who’s Pauley?  And who is this woman? 

All at once it occurred to him that he was lying in a hospital bed.  White blurs, green blurs . . . doctors and nurses, of course . . . beeps and tubes . . . ye gods!  Why can’t I move?  My body’s not doing anything I tell it to.  Hey, I’m all strapped down! 

Centering his concentration in one hand and exercising every ounce of will, he moved it a tiny bit.  Helplessness overwhelmed him.  He felt the blank stare in his eyes.

“He doesn’t know me!  He doesn’t know me!” the woman sobbed.  Someone gently eased her away.

       Come on lady.  Why should I know you? he thought.  I’m Charlie Reich.  What the hell am I doing here?  Why doesn’t someone explain?  What do they think I am?  A vegetable!  Anger and frustration caught him up in a tight sensation that could have been pain in different circumstances.

     “Come quickly, Doctor Anderson!” someone said in a calm urgent voice.

The tight sensation evaporated and Charlie was flying.  Flying so fast.  Wow!  What freedom after that hospital scene.  Thank God I got out of there!  If they could see me now, they’d know I wasn’t a vegetable.  Great!  I can see again.  This is almost better than racing cars . . . weird place though, doesn’t feel like anywhere I’ve been before.  Who’s that dude down there?  He’s signaling.  Man!  He’s so white he almost glows!  

“What do you want?” Charlie asked.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Man!  If you’ve got the answers, have I got questions for you.”

“Yes, we hope to explain some things that will make it a little easier for you.  Not much, but at least a little.”

“Whew!  I’m glad somebody’s going to explain something; you’ve no idea what I’ve been going through.  You see I was in this . . .”                   

“Yes, yes I know, come with me, we have to go and meet with Agonski.  He will do the explaining.”

In a matter of moments they were on the steps of a Grecian temple built out of some iridescent blue material.

The pale young man waved an arm at it.  “Made out of concentrated air,” he said.

“Oh,” said Charlie, unimpressed.

They walked inside.  Charlie found himself in a large light space surrounded by Ionian pillars that didn’t appear to be supporting anything.  He felt as though he had walked into an illustration of ancient Greek ruins from a high school textbook.

A man dressed in some diaphanous white material sat cross-legged, his black beard curled in a heap in his lap.  Pale blue eyes, half concealed by bushy black brows that curled up on the outer ends, gave him a remarkably devilish appearance.  He was sitting in a heap of the same diaphanous material, with a slab of intricately carved white marble behind him.  To his right, a rose pink pitcher filled with some darker pink liquid rested beside a half-filled drinking vessel.  Shimmering flowers, the same blue as the temple, but paler, seemed to be in great abundance everywhere.  The young man waved his arm again.

“Made from air of a lesser concentration,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” said Charlie mechanically, not taking his eyes off the man in the heap of white stuff.

“Archangel Agonski! This is Charlie Reich,” said the pale young man, then he flew away.

Agonski motioned to Charlie to sit down.  “Charlie!” he said, “We think you deserve an explanation.  You see, our Earth companions have been carrying out some of their mad experiments again, as you may have read in the newspapers.”

“Never get further than the funnies,” said Charlie in a cocky voice.

Agonski ignored the remark and continued.  “We never really thought they’d manage it, so we’d stopped worrying. But with that incorrigible and persistent lunacy of theirs, they’ve successfully completed a head transplant.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” interrupted Charlie.

“Well, my friend, quite a lot.  You see it’s your head.”

“My head!  What do you mean?  You’re crazy!” said Charlie springing up in disbelief.  “I’m here!  Right here.  And here’s my head!  If this is some kind of joke it’s pathetic!”

“Calm yourself Charlie!  Calm yourself!  I know it’s a shock, but we’re trying to help you through this and we can’t if you’re going to lose your temper.  Please sit down and listen.  Charlie, you’re in your astral body, not your physical body, that’s why you can fly.”      

Charlie went quiet for a minute.  He thought of the hospital experience and what had happened since.  He got up on his feet.

“O.K.” he said, “where’s my body?  Is it still in that hospital?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Then where is it?”

“Buried, with two kidneys and the heart gone.”

Charlie’s eyes opened wide.  He sank to a squatting position, elbows on knees, hands dangling, and stared at the floor.

“Damn! I knew it.  I never should have signed that organ donor’s card.”

“Well, you know,” continued Agonski, “it’s not so bad.  You made a few people very happy.  A kidney in Talahassee, another in Sacramento, and your heart in Ponca City, Oklahoma.”

“Sounds like a great lyric.  Who’s going to write the music?  Seriously, Mr. Agonski, how can I get my body put together when it’s scattered all over the U.S.A.?”

“Oh no! No Charlie, you’re on the wrong track.  What you’re thinking is impossible from a practical standpoint, and totally against the laws of the universe.”

       Charlie stood up, and was silent for a while thinking.  “All right,” he said, “if I haven’t got my body, it seems to me I don’t have to be in that hospital anyway.  Right?  So what’s the big deal.  I like flying just fine.  By the way, as a matter of personal interest, how did I go?”

“All four wheels, right off the track into the grandstand the day before the races.  The car exploded and the whole thing was razed to the ground. 

“You know, you did an unwise thing.  You pressed the emergency seatbelt disconnect.  It’s true, it shouldn’t have worked while the car was in motion.  Nevertheless you did touch it, and it malfunctioned.  That’s why you were thrown out on the track before your car became airborne.  If you hadn’t done it there wouldn’t have been any body to salvage, and we would all have been spared this infernal situation.”  Agonski’s blue eyes glinted under his luxuriant brows.

“So!” said Charlie with a grin, “that’s how I went, huh!  Very interesting . . . burnt the whole thing down

. . . well, I’m glad I went out with a bit of a bang, gives people something to remember you by.  You’re right, it must have been some infernal situation.”

“No Charlie, the infernal situation I am referring to is the one concerning your head.  You see, I don’t think you’ve realized yet, but you have to go back.  Your head, complete with brain has been attached to the body of a man who goes by the name of Paul Revella.  The face is Mr. Revella’s.  They thought his wife wouldn’t be able to cope if he had your face, so they grafted his face onto your head.  She’s a very sensitive woman, and . . . “

“There you go again!” interrupted Charlie, “Everyone has been thought of but me.  I like my life the way it is. But now it seems I’m married to a woman I don’t even know.  Is she the one turning on the tears down there?”

“Yes.”

“And my face!  What’s wrong with my face?  I like my face.  A guy gets kind of used to his face you know.  Looks at it every morning in the mirror.  Where is it?  Did they throw it away, or graft it onto the skull of some other creep?”

“No! No! Charlie.”

“And that’s another thing.  What’s this guy’s face like?  Supposing I don’t like the look of it.  Would you like it if you had to spend the rest of your days shaving a face that wasn’t yours?  Would you?  No way!  If you think I’m going back down there, you’ve made one big mistake.  I’m staying right here!”

“Gently Charlie, gently, it’s not as bad as you think.  Your eyes will be looking out of Paul’s face.  They couldn’t re-connect the optic nerves without risking blindness; at least they showed some intelligence by not meddling with it.  That’s why you could see fairly well.  Your sight will be blurred for a while, but it should be much improved in a few weeks, you have excellent healing properties.

“Paul Revella is a very handsome man with a good body.  He suffered a brain aneurysm.  Things could be a lot worse.  He’s only thirty-one, seven years younger than you.”  Agonski paused and shot Charlie a knowing glance.  “And he has money.”

“So what?” said Charlie.  “I’ve got money too.”

“Not any more,” said Agonski.

“What do you mean.”

“Seems the I.R.S. took it.  You know how greedy they are.  And apparently you did owe considerable back taxes.”

“Damn!” said Charlie.  “How much has this Revella dude got?”

“I don’t think he even knew.  Money flowed so easily in his life I don’t think he ever thought much about it,” said Agonski, leaning back and relaxing, sensing the battle had been won.  “You see he made a vast fortune in cosmetics . . . you know, make-up, false eyelashes, hair dyes etc., he was a ladies man . . . he loved women.”

“Sounds like a real jerk,” said Charlie.  “But money, seems like I’m going to need some.  You can never have too much money.”  He thought for a moment.  “Eh! I don’t know if I want to go through all this stuff. Why can’t I just stay here?”

“No Charlie, it’s impossible, I told you, it’s against the law.”

“Law!  You mean you’ve got laws here too?  What do the cops look like?  Do they fly around in see-through white nighties like yours and give speeding tickets?  I can just . . . ”  Agonski was not smiling.  Charlie’s voice trailed away and he began to feel a bit silly.

“It’s against the law,” continued Agonski calmly, “we have no right to detain you now that you are part of a living body.  They’re having a little difficulty with the heart/brain-nerve/connection.  That’s why we took advantage of these few minutes to explain things, but they’ve almost solved the problem, and then you’ll have to go back.”

“Well, this isn’t really my kind of a place,” said Charlie reflectively, “all these flowers and temples and things.”

“Good, Charlie,” said Agonski.  “I’ll try to help you if I can, but you’ll need to use the heart to keep the mind open if I’m to make contact.  It’s a sensitive heart, but you will have to make the effort.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” said Charlie.  “Hey! Something’s pulling me!”

“That’s your signal to go back.  They’ve solved the problem.  All I can tell you is—flow with whatever situation you find yourself in.  Flow with it!” Agonski shouted after Charlie, as he was swept beyond the temple columns and disappeared in the distance. “Flow with it!”

Agonski’s words echoed in Charlie’s head as his consciousness snapped into the body on the hospital bed.

“Stabilized,” someone said.

No, trapped, thought Charlie to himself angrily.

“Respiration stabilized, pulse stabilized, B.P. stabilized, but higher than we’d hoped for,” continued the voice.

Charlie let out a silent scream.  Can’t lie like a log in a swamp, I’ll die of boredom.  Fueled by his anger he made a tremendous effort to clench the right fist.  He sensed the fingers moving slightly.

“Look!  Look!” a high-pitched male voice said excitedly.  “His hand is moving, Dr. Anderson!” 

Anderson’s portly figure came into vague focus.  Charlie repeated his marathon effort.

“You’re right Peters.  How very interesting.  The mind is already attempting to take control of the body.” 

Charlie made another gigantic effort to clench the hand.  If this is going to be my body, he thought, I’m going to make it move . . . somehow I am going to move it.

“Look, he’s doing it again.  What did this man do in life Peters?  Did he just race cars?” Anderson asked.  “What do you know about him?”

       “Well, I learned some things from the media, and I’ve spoken with some of his racing crew.  Charlie Reich was tough, or should I say, is tough.” 

       Yeah, Peters, don’t forget; unfortunately I’m still very much here.

       “He would probably have become the best race car driver of all time,” continued Peters, “. . . couldn’t bear to lose.  He drove the big ones.  He was killed on the Bergen track driving a Maserati that went out of control on an oil slick.  He held the record in that class.” 

       That’s right, you tell him Peters—you tell him what kind of a guy is making this hand move. 

“Some people reported they saw him trying to get out of his car.  It’s hard to believe that, or that the safety locking device could have failed in some way.  Anyhow he broke his neck when he was thrown on the track.  The car spun, missed him, hit the wall, and flew into the stands where it exploded.  The entire complex caught fire and was gutted.  It’s a miracle no one else was killed.  The few people that were there ran for their lives and got out.”

“Fascinating.  I think I saw the photo on the front page of The Herald.  Right?”

“Right Sir!”

Wow!  This gets more and more interesting, I made the front page.

“So, a tough guy huh . . . that’s very much to our advantage Peters,” said Dr. Anderson. “He needs a strong will to get the sympathetic nervous system in working order, otherwise he’ll only make a partial recovery, and I begin to wonder just how much I can have on my conscience. 

“Some part of me relishes the chance to do these long-shot experimental operations.  But, if it wasn’t for the generous federal funding, and the political pressure, the opportunity wouldn’t even be here you know.  I can’t see if it’s a curse or a blessing.

“Well, luck is on my side this time, Peters.  Reich’s brain seems to be just right for the job.  Look, his eyes are open wide.  We’ll have to be more careful what we say in front of him.”

Dr. Anderson leaned over Charlie’s bed.  “Hey! Fella!” he said in a loud voice, of the kind you might use to bring an errant dog to heel. “You’re doing all right!  Keep up the good work, we’re all rooting for you!” 

Enough of that garbage, thought Charlie, I’m not a football team to be pepped up.  Dr. Anderson beamed him a meaningless smile.  “Got to keep his spirits up,” he whispered loudly to Peters. 

And this moron is the one responsible for the mess I’m in?  You wait Anderson, Charlie thought, I’ll even the score just as soon as I’m able.

Dr. Anderson’s rubber soles squeaked as he and Peters  walked away across the polished composition floor. 

A severe looking nurse with gray hair pinned up in a tight little knot, came in and attended Charlie’s array of drips and electronic monitors.  She couldn’t have been any more than 4’ 10” and she didn’t speak, she never did. But efficiency was her best quality and moments later she was finished, and gone.

Where’s that woman?  That wife of mine I didn’t marry.  She’s better to have around than Anderson and his sidekick, even if she does call me Pauley.  Well, talk of angels, here she comes.

High heels clicked over the shiny floor to his bed.  She was accompanied by a nurse.

“Just ten minutes, Mrs. Revella.  He must be kept calm.  Call me immediately if there’s a change of any kind.”

“Yes, of course I will,” she said.  An American accent overlaid her predominantly foreign voice with a charming veneer. 

Today she was dressed in dazzling white, and Charlie noticed that she had a skin dark enough to be of Middle Eastern origin.  Long black hair, eyes like jet, and the same rope of pearls as before, were all he could register before she turned into a blur.  He wished she’d move back into that mid-field area where things were a bit clearer.  But instead, she moved even closer.

Oh yes, she’s a contrary critter just like the rest of them—I might have known.  He laughed to himself.

Come on woman, move back a bit, I want to take a look at you.  I suppose I can always get a divorce; I’ve certainly got grounds—or have I?  He began to consider.

She married Paul Revella, she didn’t marry me.  I’m just the brain.  But, the brain makes the rest function.  That makes me the kingpin.  But of course, if there were no body I wouldn’t be here.

Am I Charlie, or Paul? or, Charlie and Paul?  She only married one of us, which makes a weird situation.

She married Paul, but now he’s only a body.  There would be no point in getting married to a mind.  You could live together with a mind, and never get involved in all the complications that come about when bodies live together.  There’d be no need to marry . . . no sex . . . no children . . . no fathering. 

His thoughts took a right-angle turn.  He had become an unwilling husband, had he become an unwilling father too?  He had no way to find out.  He didn’t even know this woman’s name.

I’m just a curiosity, a thing to be played with and used as they like.  What an ugly trick of fate.  Important as an object, but no power, absolutely no power! Anger boiled up in him.  But this time he didn’t fly he remained strapped to the bed.   

The out–of-focus pearls dangled in front of his eyes, then dropped out of sight.  Her dark eyes were right in front of his. 

The sweet scent of her perfume filled his nostrils.  He was shocked.  It had been a long time since his nose had been able to smell anything but the oily stink of racing fuel and exhaust fumes.  It’s his nose, he realized . . . how strange.  And he hoped, and wondered, if it was capable of smelling anything as indelicate as the raunchy odor of a race car screaming into action.

He tried to focus and make the blur come clear.  It didn’t work.

“Pauley!” she whispered.  “It’s me, Annabelle!”

Well, thank you, I do like to know my wife’s name.  It’s going to be a while before you get to know what’s running through this mind, and when you do, perhaps you won’t like it very much.  I wonder if you’ll hang around that long. 

       “Pauley,” she said very slowly, “I know you have a different brain.  And you probably think it’s silly for me to keep asking if you love me.  But you love me with your heart, and it’s still your heart, so I shall keep asking.” 

       Her voice broke at the end of the sentence, and something wet splashed on Charlie’s cheek.

Oh, why do women cry all the time?  It’s so useless.

Annabelle took a tissue from the box beside the bed and with a feather-light touch, blotted the wetness from his cheek.  He could feel it in some vague disconnected way, but he knew what she was doing.  Then she dried her own eyes and stood up.  He could see her a little better.  Annabelle was quite a looker.

“Please think about what I said.  I’ll come back tomorrow when I’m calmer.  It’s all too confusing.”

You’re right about that, thought Charlie.

*          *          *

More weeks crawled by in agonizing boredom for Charlie.  No one thought to play music or audio-tapes for him.  No one on the hospital staff even considered what he might need to keep himself sane as he sank further and further into revengeful despondency.  He couldn’t feel charitable toward those who attended his bodily needs, it was such an embarrassing indignity.  And his disgruntled attitude toward Dr. Anderson blossomed into a fervent loathing, for the man only came to see how his experiment was progressing. 

*       *       *

As the weeks toiled slowly away Charlie’s eyesight improved.  His bed was angled at a ten-degree slant, giving him a limited visual field that included the ceiling and tops of the windows; they were not interesting.  The angle couldn’t be increased until the surgical wounds were better healed.

Needing, above all, to communicate, he battled each day for his voice.  His brain produced the thoughts, and he tried to make the vocal chords construct the appropriate sounds.  But somewhere in between things got distorted and he managed only grunts and squeaks.  It seemed Paul’s mouth refused to make more than a mockery of what he, Charlie, wanted to say. 

Crude as it was, the nurses were excited by this new development and sent the news to Dr. Anderson.  The good doctor came, with his understudy Peters almost treading on his heels, both eager to hear this latest accomplishment of the prize experiment.

They stood by Charlie’s bed.  Anderson’s face loomed large as he moved close.  Charlie was surprised how clearly he could see the bags under Anderson’s eyes, and the small lumps of dried yellow mucus that clung to his lashes.  The doctor smiled, and Charlie found himself staring at super white dentures and a Hitler moustache. 

“Glad to hear you’re beginning to talk, fella!” he said in a loud voice. 

Charlie remained silent as he had planned.  But he was not prepared for the cloud of foul breath that violated his newly sensitive nose. 

Unable to move out of range, he swore at Anderson; his eyes saying all that his mouth could not.  After more fruitless efforts encouraging their prize experiment to talk, the doctors left disappointed.

The next day Dr. Anderson took time out of his busy day and hurried to Charlie’s bedside, alone.  “You’re doing well, fella,” he began.  “We’re going to make history—you and me.  Big history.  What do you say about that?”

Silent as a dead bird, Charlie bored hate into Anderson with his steely blue eyes.

“I know you haven’t really got the sounds together yet,” Anderson prattled on, “but there’s no need for you to feel embarrassed trying to talk in front of me.” 

Silence. 

“We’re in this together you know, you and me—buddies!” 

More silence.

“You’ll be up and walking in a few months, you’ll see.”  Dr. Anderson’s voice rose in a crescendo of irritation.  “Now isn’t that exciting?”

Continued silence.

Well, I’ve got to go.  But I’ll be back.  Hey! fella?”

Silence.

Anderson got up, turned on his heel, and with anger in every step, squeaked across the floor.

Charlie was delighted.  From here on, Dr. Anderson’s visits became deeply satisfying events in Charlie’s day.

*       *       *

Annabelle came often during the tedious weeks.  Charlie appreciated her loyalty, and thought she was very beautiful, but they had nothing in common.  She was an elegant romantic unable to relate to him as anyone other than her precious Pauley. 

Charlie found himself trying to rationalize an existence with her just because of the circumstances.  He couldn’t see any other possibility of supporting himself—at least not for a long time.

For her part, Annabelle couldn’t stop looking for signs of the love that had existed between Paul and her.  One afternoon she let it all out.

 “Pauley,” she said in a low voice.  “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’ve no one to share with, and it haunts me all the time.  God knows I’ve tried to get past it, (here she broke down) it’s too much for me—I need to tell you.  You see, your beautiful brown eyes that were always so full of love for me—they’re not there any more. Your new eyes are pale blue . . . and they’re cold . . . the love doesn’t show any more.” She sobbed into her hands.

What’s she talking about?  Women always love my blue eyes.  What does she mean?  Cold.  Why doesn’t she stop crying?  I hate it. 

Reacting in an effort to stop her tears, he reached out and tentatively touched her hand as it searched for a tissue on the bedcover.  She latched on, lovingly squeezing his fingers and burst into another storm of tears. 

Well, that obviously wasn’t anything I should have done, thought Charlie.  How embarrassing.

The silent severe nurse, the one with gray hair strained into a knot on top of her head, came marching up to the bed.

“Mrs. Revella.  My patient must not be upset or over-stimulated.  I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave.”

*        *        *

More weeks dragged by; Charlie practiced talking when he was alone, which was most of the time, but not one sound did he utter when Anderson was in the room. 

By now Dr. Anderson realized that the pale blue eyes staring at him, belonged to someone who withheld his speech for strong negative reasons. 

               *           *              *

Anderson’s day had been difficult; his patience had been stretched thinner than a dried out eardrum.  Miserable wretch, he thought, as he looked at Charlie.  This man would be nothing but a fading memory, if I hadn’t accepted the responsibility of near impossible surgery, and triumphed.  He sighed a deep sigh.  After all I’ve done for him, how dare he treat me like this.

He moved in close to his patient’s right ear.  His putrid breath enveloped Charlie as he unloaded his feelings. In a voice full of ire, he spoke only loud enough for both of them to hear—or so it seemed. 

 “Listen fella,” he snarled.  “I know what you’re doing.  Don’t forget I’m god around here.  Unless there’s a little more co-operation on your part, the vital connections up here, (he pointed at the monitors for Charlie to see), just might disconnect and send you back to oblivion, where you were headed before I decided to save you.  D’you understand?  I’ll give you just, one week.”

He didn’t see the shocked look on the face of the severe little gray haired nurse. She had started to enter the doorway behind him, but had backed out silently, moments later, realizing she had heard something she was not privvy to hear.

 Dr. Anderson straightened up, gave Charlie a long withering look, then turned on his squeaky heels and left the room.

Charlie smiled to himself.  He was not at all sure he had anything worth living for, and he knew a man like Anderson would never destroy an experiment that brought him worldwide recognition.  If he, Charlie, could have disconnected the tubes himself, he would have done it ages ago.  Death no longer held any fear for him, he knew what it was all about and reasoned there had to be other places besides Agonski’s marble halls and pillars.

*         *         *

The next week Charlie’s head was released from its vice-like contraption, and fitted with something a little more flexible.  He discovered his head was inert with the weight of a stone and found it impossible to believe he would ever be able to move it.  Cold depression dragged him down with its icy fingers into an even grayer world.

*         *         *

Two more weeks passed.  As Charlie anticipated, Dr Anderson had not made good on his threat, but foolishly invented new ones, which ensured his patient’s continued silence.

Charlie dreaded Annabelle’s visits.  Sooner or later she always burst into tears, asking impossible questions like: why did he never say he loved her? and, why did he never try to hold her hand like he had that once?  Charlie found her very upsetting.  Then one morning he had a surprise visitor.

A blonde with a familiar face swaggered in, her voluptuous body straining a baby pink sweater to its limits.  She wore bright red lipstick drawn into a cupid’s bow that had nothing to do with the lines of her mouth, and rhinestones sparkled on her ears and the buckle of her hip belted jeans.

“Well,” she said as she got to his bed, “I finally made it.  They’re tighter than a virgin down there.  They don’t let nobody in, Charlie.”  The sound of his own name on her lips was pure delight.

“So I told a pack of lies about me bein’ your sister from Arizona.  Then I had to prove it . . . took me weeks, and some you know what, to get forged papers—I hope you ‘ppreciate it.  Jeez!  I was sure you’d gone fer good when I saw the photo in the newspaper.”

“Jan-ice,” Charlie managed to get out.

“Great! You remember me.  That’s some good-lookin’ face you got yerself—not that I didn’t like yours better.  And those eyes, those beautiful blue peepers of yours, I’d know ‘em anywhere.  But, if it wasn’t fer them I wouldn’t a recognized you.  An’ they’ve got Revella written all over your papers—man, you don’t exist anymore.”  Janice rambled on hardly stopping for a breath. 

“They buried you, y’know.  Big funeral.  I was so upset.  An’ it was weeks before I found out what they really done to you.  No wonder they had a closed casket.     Jeez man, what a mess! 

“People was sad you didn’t have any family to mourn you; but everyone else came—hundreds of people I never seen before.  Bands playin’, things said about you you wouldn’t hardly believe.  You’d a loved the publicity—but o’ course it won’t do you no good now.” Janice paused and sighed sympathetically, then her face brightened again.

“You think you were a bit famous before? Well, now you’re big-time famous.  You know how people used to badmouth you?  Well, at the funeral they had nothin’ but nice things to say; you’d a loved it.  I cried buckets.” 

     Janice shone a wide beam of a smile at him.  Charlie instinctively tried to smile back, but only the corners of his mouth twitched. 

A nurse appeared in the background.  “Visiting time is over,” she announced.  Charlie opened his mouth, and spoke with great effort, halting between each word.

“Jan-ice,” he said, “you’re-a-win-ner.  Come-back-soon.”

“Tomorrow!  I’ll come earlier,” she said in a delighted voice.  Charlie wanted to tell her not to come when Annabelle was there, but he couldn’t get the words out as she quickly kissed him and left.

(continued...)