To Have Love and Lost

We called 9-11. In all of the commotion, Angela went into labor, having us follow the ambulance, speeding thru town. They wheeled both of them in at almost the same time.

Given a choice of worrying about Beulah or my precious daughter bearing my baby, which would you choose? You're right, so did I. Looking on from behind a surgical mask, I started to cry at the exact moment that Angela did, when her wonderful OB-GYN gave the baby boy a (well-deserved) slap on the bottom. I remembered the time on the digital readout in the OR: 3:27pm MST.

I held my daughter Angela's hand as she was taken to a private room. A half hour later, I was there as the masked nurse brought in Brad, our new baby. The nurse left and Angela opened his little mouth and placed her beautiful nipple in. With a slap of his tongue and pull of his lips, he drew a long draught of warm, sweet breastmilk. I was jealous, frankly. With both of us beaming, I kissed her tender lips.

Looking at the chart, I was surprised. Angela had had a very bad experience with her 1st marriage; imagine my shock when I noticed that she had legally retained her married name. She confirmed that, saying it was a clerical mistake. I whispered an idea of mine to her. She was blown away by the idea, then cried and nodded. I kissed her. My idea? With our names different, there was no reason that we couldn't fly to Vegas and get married, all legal and proper! Right then and there, my precious daughter agreed. Our love would be made permanent, its status officially sanctioned and sanctified.

Dazed from all of these developments, I had forgotten WHAT ELSE had happened that day. Going into the corridor to catch my breath, a hospital official and a security guard came up to me. They asked me to confirm my name. I did. They said they were sorry, but my wife had passed away, something with her heart and this high altitude. Official time of passing on the chart: 3:27pm MST. They said they could handle all final arrangements. I told them that that would be fine. They were as good as their word. The company they used for such things gave us an urn of the final remains. Not knowing what to do with such things, I just put it in the laundry room above the dryer.

I suppose I should have felt something for my dear departed wife, after all those long (agonizing?) years together. Sure, she kept me from having sex, or seeing my daughter more than twice per year. And yes, she could be abusive, mean, nasty, even rotten. But, she WAS from a rich family, after all.

We were home again in Angela's tiny place. It was a cramped little pillbox, to be sure. But for the moment it would have to do. Angela put that lucky baby boy to breast. As hardy an eater as his dad, he could empty both of her perfect, milk-filled breasts at one sitting. Eventually, as I looked on, licking my lips, Angela would give him formula for his second 'breast', keeping that one free for daddy. God, that white gold was an incredible aphrodisiac. Once Angela had recovered from the baby, the sex we had after I suckled was white hot. Every time we made love, it ended with me going as deep as I possibly could, shooting my potent seed into her womb. I took no notice of her cycles; each time I came, I imagined that my potent seed was going to get my precious daughter pregnant once again. Of course, doing that, day after day, it was bound to work at some point. Like a good little soldier, I just plugged away, pumping potent seed into a receptive and unprotected womb, day after day. Tough work, but someone had to do it.

In the mail that day, we got four things: a request from a charity, some pizza coupons, a political flyer, and a registered letter. The registered letter informed us that the tragic unexpected passing of Beulah had caused the final passing of her mother, the last in her lineage. As a result, the trust and estate were to be settled. We had the option of contesting the legal fees (which were enormous) and the charity donation (even more enormous and questionable) OR accepting the settlement with this final check. From the $65 million estate, the check offered was $25 million (!) It was an outrage, and I gladly accepted it. I was in downtown Denver at 9am sharp, sending a registered, notarized acceptance and depositing a little check we received.

I rushed home to show Angela the deposit slip; she had something almost as exciting to tell me. Today's mail brought official confirmation of what she suspected: she was pregnant again. With the $25 million I guessed we would have enough, even with inflation.

Yes, we DID move to a nicer home with actual working staff to help out. Freed from the worries of keeping up a home or working, we had a lot of time for one- on-one activity. Suffice it to say we had a lot of catching up to do, and we did.

My poor neglected 40 year old spinster daughter would eventually have a mansion, servants, a Mercedes S-class, and nine beautiful children. Oh, yes, and a proud daddy just happy to be there with her. All of this thanks to my dear departed Beulah, the late great heiress to the wicked witch of the west.

One night I thought of all the things she had done to me or attempted to do to me. Then I thought about her ashes, in that hot, humid, laundry room. I quickly retrieved that urn. But now what? I remembered another treasured member of our family, Morris, our big Cheshire cat. I would let him pay final tribute to Beulah and her ashes; he would do it over the course of a week in his own little box. It was quite moving and totally appropriate.