*3*

When Debra invited him to spend the weekend at her parents' house in Connecticut, he thought it would be splendid variety.

"You'll like it there," Debra overtured. "It's really rural. A one street town, one stoplight, one store. Not even a post office: just boxes in a corner of the store."
"Cool," Bob replied.

So now they were driving. Autumn struck lustily that year - within a month, the leaves had turned, the air had become cool and dry. Within weeks the leaves had fallen and were strewn across the landscape in spectacular drifts. The air cooled pointedly; forecasts were for a long and bitter Winter. The masses of intertwined branches from the naked trees made the distance a scenic artist's crosshatched pencil rendering of rolling hills. The interplay of white birch, mottled maple and tan elm trunks screamed subtle insolence at the imminent snow, approaching from a month in the future.

Bob felt calmly placid, despite the never-ending frustrating pull of his sexual desires. Debra wasn't the most gorgeous woman in the world, but she had brains, style and a wonderful body. The weather and scenery were sublime. The sky had preposterous clouds, midway between white and puffy, and gray and rain-soaked. Patchy dirty autumn clouds over rolling gray hills. A glancing expanse of meadow, greenish brown. Classical music on the radio. Debra privately connecting with her parents' thoughts, beyond Bob's awareness.

The sprinkling of occasionally-seen houses slowly dwindled. The two-lane road made slow gracious swoops through empty rolling hills and meadows. The sun had set dispassionately behind purple-brown clouds.

"How do you like it out here?" Debra asked.
"It's quiet," Bob observed, "and terrific."

"Yeah," Debra concurred, "it's very quiet out here, especially at night. And dark."

They passed a small sign, Ashland. This was where her parents lived. In the late twilight, Bob could barely discern the silhouette of the rolling hills. The brighter constellation stars began to poke tiny dots through the clearing spaces between the clouds. Debra turned on the headlights.

"I used to be scared to drive at night out here," Debra said. She turned and smiled at Bob. "Sigh," she said. This was Debra's way of disengaging her present from her past. Bob smiled, lips pursed slightly, and raised his eyebrows. "It's hard going home," Debra said. Bob understood. Debra felt Bob's concordance, and lapsed back into silence.

The purple black hills rolled past his eyes, the headlights diffusing down the highway. Debra and Bob swapped packets of love and soul. Generations of parents battled high above: should they or should they not fall in love? Blue turtles struggling over lemons, rainbow colors raining, raindrop lemons on the backs of the blue turtles. The future urged them onward. The darkness, silence, and purple hills faded Bob's imagination like the broiling desert sun frazzling the empty Mojave soil a bleached tan.

Debra slowed the car and turned into her parents' driveway. Just like that. Maybe one other house had passed. Boy, talk about being in the middle of the boonies. Debra turned and smiled at Bob. "Here we are!" Debra's said with the anticipation of reuniting with her family. Bob suddenly felt quite empty. More than along for the ride and relaxation, Debra might have brought him here with hidden intentions. Debra deftly sucked the thought schwoop from Bob's brain.

Debra's father walked out the door, smiled at them both, and walked over to give Debra a hug. He wore khaki overalls and was somewhat portly, with the air of a manual laborer... no, maybe a supervisor.

"Hi babe," he said. He walked over to Bob and extended his hand for a handshake.
"Howdy," Bob said.

"How ya doin?" replied Debra's dad, pretty much expressionless. Bob and Debra's dad had both been beaten down by the vagaries and demands of the women in their lives; their eyes met in mutual recognition.

Debra's mom walked out, eyes inspired and sparkling, her body wearied by age, slender. She was wearing a floral patterned dress, no jewelry. She grabbed Bob's soul and gave it a quick twist to check its springiness, and then gave her full attentions to her daughter. They talked and chatted, but their mental communication wandered between school, boyfriends ... a background check on Bob. Debra's mom led them into the house.

Inside, the decor was a mixture of wood paneling and country furnishings. Almost traditional old-country, with hearts and cows, knickknacks, wooden ducks, but mixed with some brass and some white Braun appliances. The windows were painstakingly dressed, valence and fringes, tie-backs and lace sheer panels. The kitchen counter was a jumble of tins and ceramic jars, vegetables, dinner in progress. A mélange of smells, marinade and onions, greeted Bob.

Bob poked the soul, the feng-shui ... a blend of years of Love and sadness, waning at the edges, a marriage with a bit of pattern-baldness. Debra glanced over at Bob, saw his poke, sucked the soul-sample schwoop from Bob's brain, placed it back into the house.

"Here," Debra said to Bob, "put your stuff in the guest room." Debra motioned to Bob to follow him. She led him down a short hall and off to a small room on one side. Bob set his suitcase on the floor next to the a small dresser. "I'll give you a tour," Debra said. In the kitchen, Debra's parents inquisitively glanced at one another.

He might be...

No way ...