A Woman with Mongrel Ch. 01

"I've never held a baby before."

"I thought as much," Carson said softly as someone else came to his bedside.

"Harry, this is Lydia's live-in nurse Sara."

"Hullo, Mr Truscott. Why aren't you handsome like Diomedes Mantell? I'm s-o-o-o much in love with him. Aunt Carson has stupendous admiration for Jessie Chicago and wants to be like her to help turn her life around."

Harry looked agog, expecting Carson to snap, 'That's enough Sara' but instead she just smiled at Lydia in her arms while darting glances at Sara and Harry.

"Carson is talking about you all the time; we're so excited that you are coming to live with us."

Harry looked at Carson who shrugged and fluttered her eyelids. She handed Lydia to the short and somewhat tubby Sara who looked to have unlimited energy.

"Take Lydia to the SUV, please Sara. I have no wish for her to be locked up for being in the ward after visiting hours. They weren't too keen about allowing her to come in anyway."

"Until you put your foot down," laughed Sara. "Goodbye Mr Truscott -- I know we've just met but in being used to farm animals I sense you are kind, despite some of those awful things you write about. No-one could look at Lydia like you did and not be a kind person with humility."

"That's kind of you to say that, Sara, but someone with a Big Book notes the lies we tell."

"They're not lies -- it's the truth, isn't it Aunt Carson?"

"Absolutely, I am prepared to plead your case when that Big Book is opened."

"You're kidding about that Big Book, aren't you?"

Sara's naturally pink face had turned red. Harry looked at Carson and they both nodded to Sara.

"Run along, Sara. I need to talk to Mr Truscott about our sleeping arrangements."

"Sleeping arrangements?" Sara responded, mouth remaining open.

"Um, I meant how we are going to accommodate Mr Truscott until he regains full use of his arm."

"Bye, Mr Truscott."

"Bye, Sara."

Harry was about to say goodbye to Lydia, but she was already asleep.

As Carson watched Harry watching them go, revealing a thinning spot developing in the crown of his unruly brown hair, she noticed his upright back and very square shoulders; she'd imagined career writers turned into hunchbacks from hours of working over typewriters or more latterly, keyboards. She stopped her romanticizing, realizing of course, the shoulder brace would be holding his posture.

Carson had initially thought of Harry as being self-centered -- well, he did live alone -- and would be a bit of a hard case what with booze and women of dubious backgrounds. The manner in which he periodically focused on her breasts was so typically unrefined male, not that she minded because she considered her breasts to be her second-best feature. Philip had called them 'sumptuous' and referred to them as her best feature, and they would argue happily when she contradicted him. She'd insist that her brain was her best asset and more often than not they would end that argument by both groping hungrily for brainless action.

Carson missed the sex, missed it terribly in fact, and knew that Harry would pound her into tomorrow the instant she gave him the glad eye -- although that arm brace might slow him down somewhat. Yes he almost fitted her definition of a scoundrel -- perhaps a lovable rogue might be better. After all, look how beautifully he described the sensual relationship between Diomedes Mantell and Jessie Chicago and the intelligent conversations they had when driving through mountain passes or thundering across plains in trains.

But now she was nonplussed. He appeared no longer suited for the tag lovable rogue after she's watched him with Lydia. Sara had defined it -- a kindness seemed to have leapt out of Harry; Carson had not expected that, especially not from a man completely inexperienced with babies. She'd brought Lydia in to Harry simply to see their reactions. She'd been pessimistic but Harry had blown her away, eliminating any uncertainty.

It was time to say come into my parlor Harry.

"Harry, I want you to come and live with us until you can manage perfectly once more with your right arm. I've spoken to the house surgeon who's cleared it with the medical registrar -- you can come with me within the hour if I can confirm this is what you wish. Otherwise you face going to a post-operative care center and then undergoing rehabilitation training before being discharged."

"Rehabilitation what?"

"Training, to ensure you can move about, cook, wash your bottom properly, shave, access public transport safely and know how to cope with a home helper who will be supplied by the hospital."

"I've only a gamey shoulder, Carson, I'm not a double amputee and my fucking brain remains intact."

"Don't be upset, Harry. This hospital is a responsible authority with procedures to follow. It has to be all done by the book."

"What's your alternative?"

"You come home with me and live as you wish."

"No rules?"

On the verge of saying no, Carson reconsidered, stroking her beautiful jaw line. "Just three: One, you don't make undue noise when Lydia is asleep; two you must be very kind to Sara who is a farm girl, my niece actually and three, you understand you don't get to sleep with me."

Harry grabbed his emergency bell and when Nurse Smith raced in he shouted, "Felicity, get my clothes -- I'm out of here."

There were papers to sign and Harry's clothes and commandeered items including a Silver Medallion presented by The International Detective Writers' Federation were handed back to him.

Harry's departure was quite moving, with the ward manager describing him as a model patient, Evan the male nurse confiding he'd fallen in love with Detective Diomedes causing the nurses to double up with laughter.

"Thank you Harry, you have been so educational for me," said student Nurse Felicity Smith, shaking his hand.

Everyone but Nurse Yung and Harry looked bewildered when Nurse Yung said seductively, "Always keep the gun loaded, Harry."

Ohmigod, thought Carson, watching Nurse Yung step away after kissing Harry, forming her mouth into a big 'O', That nurse has been giving Harry oral sex; Carson almost felt she'd have to sit down.

"Nurse Yung, your patient care extended beyond the call of duty -- you nurse in the tradition of Florence Nightingale."

I very much doubt that, you dirty old man, thought Carson, but had to smile. He'd simply taken advantage of available resources.

A day earlier Carson had discussed with Sara her intention of asking Harry to come to stay for a while and was pleased that her niece thought that was "Okay". She'd bit her bottom lip, having expected Sara to be more enthusiastic but perhaps Sara concerned that this male might come between then.

"I'll tell you what, Sara. I'm taking Lydia with me when I visit him tomorrow to test her reaction to him. She's probably too young to produce an indicative response. But look, you come as well, just come in at 3:55 and take Lydia from me. Just chat with this Harry for a couple of minutes -- you ought to gain at least a shallow impression in that time. But if you definitely don't like him give me the eye and I'll not invite him to stay with us."

"Why do you want him here?"

"Remorse, I suppose. I did turn his car into scrap and put him into hospital and temporarily have stunted his writing career."

"Yep, that's fine Aunt Carson. I'll do it, it's no big deal."

Well, obviously Sara had quite taken to Harry -- partly because he was charmed by Lydia, spoke to Sara as if she were an adult and projected himself as an interesting person. Sara was on to Harry's fourth book and revealed to Carson that Harry had already made her fall for the charismatic detective despite his vulnerabilities. It also fascinated that Diomedes and the awesome Jessie seemed to make even sharing a sandwich over a cup of coffee seem like sex.

That analysis surprised Carson, as Sara tended to think and express herself in the simplified manner of rural people and yet had just spoken as presenting a resume in a Stage One English paper at university. She hadn't even heard Sara present a concept like character vulnerability or use a word like charismatic, though perhaps that was a little unfair as Sara may well be quite fluent in conversing in complicated language.

Carson's elder sister Bronwyn had brought Sara to live with Carson within hours of the news of the fatal accident, explaining that the eighteen-year-old was marking time for a year before going to university; she needed time-out to acquire some maturity.

"I know of no other more mature person than you, dear sister," Bronwyn had said to the widow dressed in black.

It had occurred to Carson, meeting the brash and probably quite unscrupulous Mr Truscott for the first time and learning he was a very successful second-rate author, that some of his attitudes and utterances might rub off on to Sara, making her aware that good solid country values were not necessary alive and well in the city.

"You'll not to allow him to touch you Sara."

"Good God no," said the teenager, turning crimson. "He's an old man, probably a dirty old man when it comes to sex, judging at the way he writes about it."

Carson had gone to the bookcase and flicked open the back inside leaf of the dust cover of Harry's eleventh novel.

Well, well -- a BA majoring in English Lit. but dropped out of teacher training. Drove trucks on inner-city deliveries for a time, worked as an assistant to a professional photographer supplementing his income working as a relief barman, became assistant manger of a night club, entered and won a short story contest and etc, etc. She found his age -- 44. That made him eight years older than she was, so in what category in the aging tree would Sara place her? Maturing aunt perhaps?

Carson knew her motives for taking in a male stranger would be ignored by her friends and family. He mother would be aghast, especially when finding out who his was ('Oh, he writes grubby detective stories, does he?'). Well, after a couple of weeks it would be buried, and she would either be on the outer socially or her girl friends would be clamoring to host for dinner this man who could describe parts of the female anatomy in such detail as to leave them speechless and then go into uncontrollable giggles in hearing his descriptions of how a woman being held in the arms of a male reacts under genital stimulation.

My God, it's hot in this room, she'd thought, going out on to the deck that was catching a sea breeze while waiting till it was time to leave for the hospital to pick up her house guest. She said to the breeze, "This would rank among the dozen most daring things I've done in my life, poor timid little me. I really do need to let fly a bit; it's what writers call the need to discover one's true self. How am I going to do that, huh? Harry will help -- oh yeah."

The telephone went -- it was Peter Doig, her lawyer, inviting her to a meeting at the company at 2:00 on Thursday. The partners were ready to make her an offer.

A feeling of relief swept through Carson -- just a few quick decisions, taking advice of course, and it would be all over Rover.

Harry was aware women are good for a few things but until this moment personally had not had this experience; he watched Carson sweep through into the room, big smile in place and with determination hinted in her expression. He was being rescued, by a woman. His mom must have rescued him repeatedly when he was a boy, that's the thing mothers do. That's why Jessie Chicago knew how to rescue Diomedes when he had his back to the wall, but this was different. This was a real life rescue, the first he could recall by a woman other than his mother. Once his mother failed him, or so he'd thought when through brimming eyes he watched his mom walk away, leaving him at Hell on Earth which had the alternative name of boarding school.

Carson had kissed him on the cheek, an arm around his good shoulder. Harry's muddy eyes turned tarnished bronze with joy; never had he felt so safe yet so vulnerable. He'd open his heart to his rescuer.

Carson watched intently as the charge nurse showed her how to remove the shoulder immobilizer to allow Harry to take a shower and demonstrated how Harry must brace that unrestrained arm against his chest.

Carson was conscious that Harry was looking at her intently, not at her breasts, but at her face. She remained slightly flushed throughout the demonstration and the flush deepened momentarily when learning she'd not have to wash his private parts during showering, that Harry had learned to do that himself. She was conscious of her disappointment and understanding her disappointed; it had been so long.

Within minutes of being in the SUV, Harry was confident with Carson's driving; in fact she was probably more adept at the wheel than he was, unless he was writing as his altered-ego, that is, being Diomedes Mantell driving the supercharged V12 two-seater, with Jessie at his side.

Harry's arm was held in gunslinger's position because he'd also suffered damage to the elbow, now containing a steel plate that would make the security scanners at international airports go crazy. Idly he wondered if Carson would object to having sex with him with this contraption on. Although she'd said no sex, he knew she didn't really mean that; she'd break down, there would be tears and it would be all on. Grrrrrrrrrr! Damn, he was uncomfortable with his underpants cutting into him.

Harry squirmed.

"Are you okay?"

"Um, my butt is a bit tender from lying a bit askew with this frame on."

"Oh yes, I can quite understand that," she said, turning briefly to smile at him, showing near perfect teeth. "These seats can become a little uncomfortable; they tend to push up my briefs uncomfortably, so on longer distances I just dispense with them."

They chatted on about the weather.

During a lull in conversation Harry tried to push the thought back, but was unsuccessful: he wondered if this classified as a longer distance trip; probably not. Without thinking he looked at her knees, noticing the black leather skirt had worked itself up rather a long way.

Carson looked at him, then back at the road.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Harry?"

She'd be disgusted to learn what he was thinking; he had to fake it.

"Uh-hum, you're wondering how Jessie Chicago would cope in this situation, seated with a man beside her who she'd warned off."

"God, you're incredible Harry. That's what I was thinking, exactly. What do I do now, Harry?"

"You have two options, Carson. Stop the car behind a barn on the high plateau in Spain and hook your leg over me, or alternatively, do what any woman over the age of forty would do -- lift your cheeks and tug down your errant skirt."

"Oh Harry -- you know that Jessie is only thirty-two, so she wouldn't hitch down her hem, don't you? But we're not in Spain, so I'll just leave it where it is; I don't mind you glancing at my exposed legs, Harry, but try not to stare."

They drove along quietly, Harry thrilled to be released from that hospital environment and to see the sea again; he loved the sea. But a thought was worrying him; he'd better bring it up now.

"Don't do it, Carson."

"Pardon me?"

"Don't try to be like her?"

Carson looked perplexed. "Like who, Harry?"

"Don't try to become Jessie Chicago."

An orgasm trickled through Carson; she closed her eyes momentarily and crossed the centre line of the highway.

"Carson!' shouted Harry, unable to easily reach the wheel in time, being slowed by his shoulder restraint and seat belt.

Fortunately the nearest approaching vehicle -- a small car like Harry's -- was still one hundred and fifty yards away. Carson, panting slightly, regained control, her mouth open and the point of her tongue projecting beyond her lips.

Harry waited for her to say something profound.

"Ooooooh."

This simply will not do! "Pull over to the first place we can park safely," he ordered.

She said okay and thirty seconds later slowed, put the vehicle into crawler gear and climbed a slope which leveled off, giving them a great view of the ocean.

"Well, this is one way to park safely," grinned Harry.

"Harry -- something's wrong. During the last two nights I've had these wild dreams -- fights, fast cars, gun shots and men slobbering to get all over me; they've been after sex, Harry, and if it hadn't been for the heroic arrival of Jessie Chicago just in time to prevent me being brutalized I would have been in a terrible mess."

Harry stroked his moustache; exactly like Diomedes Mantell did which made Carson tremble

"The trouble is you've been reading too much pulp fiction," he grinned.

"Harry, don't joke -- these dreams are so uncanny, they are almost true. But you know what, Harry? After the baddies are either knocked out and shot dead by your smoking .38 or strung up on their neck ties, you appear and kiss me. You push me back, utter some corny line and I see Diomedes Chamber's face has become your face, Harry. This is scary, Harry."

Harry grinned. Obviously Carson was hungry for it, and this was her way of telling him. God, wasn't she so sweet. He moved to pull a cigarette from behind his ear and Carson noticed the slight gesture.

"You don't smoke, Harry. But Diomedes Mantell does." What's going on here, Harry? Tell me or I'll scream or have another involuntary orgasm, perhaps both."

That made Harry less certain; she did seem genuinely worried, but women were used to confusing men. He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Look, everything's fine, sweetie. Come out and sit on my good side so I can get my arm around you. Good girls shouldn't cry like this -- wipe those tears and get on to that park bench."

"We don't have a hip flask of whisky."

"Cut it Carson; you're only making it worse for yourself trying to pretend Jessie's inside you.

Harry fished his handkerchief from his left pocket and put it over the seagull droppings on the seat to protect Carson's black leather skirt.

"Thank you Harry."

"Carson, when I write I pretend I'm Diomedes Mantell. But I know how to differentiate between reality and fiction. I don't have his physical agility of his ability to...er..."

"The night they spent in Monte Carlo -- seven times and then they arrived back at the hotel after the bull fight in Mexico, five times plus two sixty-nines. Those are the records so far."

"Er, quite. That's simply not me, Carson. Your problem is you are allowing Jessie to invade your thoughts and personality too quickly -- it's in danger of running out of control. Jessie Chicago doesn't have babies, Carson. Period. Think about that -- Jessie has been shot twice and knifed once..."

Carson interrupted Harry.

"Shoulder shot on the Grand Canal, Venice, knifed on the subway in Tokyo and shot in the stomach in Montevideo, one of the most desperate times in her life; she almost died, Harry, if Diomedes hadn't kidnapped that retired brilliant gastrointestinal surgeon in Buenos Aires, it would have been all over. Then he took her to Paris for skin grafts so she can now wear a flimsy bikini again."

"Yes, Carson. But think about what would have happened to the baby had she'd been pregnant at the time of that abdominal shooting -- if not directly hit the fetus would almost certainly been traumatized. Even as bad, especially for you, think about a bullet fired side-on piercing each milk-producing breast and severing an artery, and the wounded, sad, sad Diomedes coming home and saying to an infant, say six months old: "Sorry, kiddo; mummy's not going to make it tonight or any other night, ever."

The tears came, in a great flood.

Harry held Carson and when the sobbing stopped she attempted to kiss him. He drew away, adhering to the code practiced by private detective, Diomedes Mantell as this woman was vulnerable, in a distressed state.