III

Savannah, 2061

SOMEHOW THE MONTHS IN SAVANNAH were gliding by. I did some consulting work and continued to collect pay from the government. In my own terms, I was doing okay.

It was late March. The weather was warming. Azaleas were in bloom. The change in the weather encouraged locals to don short-sleeve shirts. Some wore shorts.

After a late breakfast, I took a half mug of coffee and a laptop into the garden behind Mrs. Pinckney's house. A high hedge and a number of ornamental plantings provided ample privacy. Three chairs, a chaise lounge, and a small glass-topped table sat on a concrete patio. I took a chair next to the table, opened my laptop, and spread out some work papers.

I was not alone for long. The SCAD student, who rented the smallest apartment at Mrs. P's house, called out, "Hey, Mr. Lenman, great morning." Since my back was to the door, I had not seen her approach. I cringed at the interruption to my privacy— and also at her practice of leaving a syllable out of my last name.

"Oh, hello, Jacqueline." I knew she preferred the use of her full first name, rather than the diminutive "Jackie." I did not, however, know much else about her, since she had only moved into the Pinckney homestead in February after another SCAD student left.

"Thanks for leaving the lounge chair for me. I want to get some sun. I hope I won't bother you."

"No, go right ahead. I'm just trying to do a little writing." In truth, I felt that she would inhibit my work, and I doubted she would keep silent. She proved my point when she immediately tried to converse with me.

"You do a lot of writing," Jacqueline observed as she took her sweatshirt and jeans off, leaving only a skimpy two-piece bathing suit to maintain propriety. "Are you working on anything interesting?"

"I'm trying to record some information I researched while I was working for the government." I was satisfied that my reply was a reasonable blend of truth and obfuscation. It was intended to stifle further discussion along that line. I looked in Jacqueline's direction to see if she would react to my reply. As she turned her head toward me, I was reminded strangely of Kate Hastings. I noted that Jacqueline's body was rather thin and taut like Kate's, although Kate was several centimeters taller. Jacqueline's hair was a reddish blond and short with an inclination to curl—nothing like Kate's wispy, shoulder-length silver blond. Jacqueline's facial features were quite regular but less angular, and her chin was less assertive than Kate's. But her eyes, like Kate's, were that mysterious shade of gray.

Jacqueline was less interested in my reply than in my attentive gaze. "Do you think I'd look better if I gained some weight? I'm one point seven meters tall—well, almost—and I weigh a little over forty-five kilos."

"Aren't you happy with the way you look?" I tried to avoid a direct answer on a sensitive subject.

"No fair. I asked you."

"I think you look fine. You might be a little thin, but better that than fat. Don't you think?"

This time Jacqueline was willing to reply. "That's what I think. Anyway, I don't really have the opportunity to put on weight. With school and two part-time jobs, I'm generally running in one direction or another. On Thursday and Friday nights I wait tables at Francesco. You'd think I'd get fat from their pasta, but they're only willing to let me have a few leftovers. When I'm at school, I only get snacks. But you don't have that problem."

"Do you mean I'm overweight?" I asked, a bit irked.

"No." She emitted a girlish giggle. "I mean you must be pretty rich. You can afford to have Mrs. Pinckney's meals. You don't really have a job, and you're much too young to collect a pension."

"Thanks for the 'young' part."

"So are you rich?"

"You're not shy about asking questions. No, I just get by on some pay I still get from the government." I tried to reply simply and avoid the term "disability pay."

"Sounds like a good deal to a struggling art student like me. I've been working on a BA for five years, and who knows where it will lead when I finally get it."

I might have been encouraging. I should have uttered some gratuitous, optimistic remark about the future. However, my opinion of the future was muddied by my view of the past. Both were decidedly negative. It was easier to remain silent rather than lie. Jacqueline turned away, resting her head on her forearm. I hoped the conversation was finished.

Two minutes later, when I had just returned to my writing, Jacqueline again broke the silence. "Do you mind if I call you Jim?"

"I really prefer James, and family members call me Jamie."

"I'll call you James. Maybe I should continue to call you Mr. Lenman. But I bet you're not that much older than me."

"Bet I am."

"Bet I'm older than you think," she countered.

"You're probably twenty-three, since you mentioned that you've been in college for five years."

Jacqueline grinned. "That's good detective work, but what you don't know is that I didn't start college immediately after high school."

"So you're twenty-four or so. I must confess I thought you were a bit younger."

"Like nineteen or twenty. Most people make that mistake. And how old are you? Probably too old to be called Jamie." She smiled again—a funny smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes too much.

"Why don't you guess? You made me guess."

"I don't want to guess. If you're younger than I guess, you'll be insulted that I thought you were so old. And if you're older than I guess, you'll be embarrassed to tell me your real age."

I was momentarily impressed by her analysis of human nature and her consideration for my feelings. But she spoiled my illusion by impulsively saying, "Okay, I'll guess. Thirty-five."

"You're close. I'm just past thirty-five."

"Then that's not so old. You're certainly not old enough to be my father. Just a somewhat older friend." Suddenly I was Jacqueline's friend. She shifted position on the chaise lounge, and her bikini top needed to be adjusted. She looked at me as I watched her reposition her breasts. "You need to come and see me at work some time."

"I don't know if I'd have occasion to eat at Francesco."

"No, I mean my other job. I work at the Durango on Wednesday and Saturday nights."

I realized that Jacqueline was quite a busy young woman, even if her class load was light. "Where's this 'Durango'?"

"Oh, you don't know the Durango?" The eyes crinkled again.

"No."

"James, you have been living a sheltered life in Savannah."

"Is it a bar?"

"Well, yes, in part. It's just over the state line in South Carolina. I dance there."

I was beginning to get the picture. "Topless?"

"Does that shock you?" Her expression was now serious, and she was looking directly into my eyes. I sensed she wanted an honest answer.

"No, not at all. Do you enjoy that kind of work?" I wondered whether my tone was still casual.

"It doesn't bother me. I don't mind men looking at me. Even if I'm not very large on top, I think they find me attractive. And if you don't mind, I'm going to take my top off for a few minutes. In my profession it's better not to have a bra line interfere with a nice tan."

What could I say in return? Would it be more chivalrous to refuse her request or accept it? "Go right ahead. I need to return to my work."

"Could you do one thing for me? Would you kind of keep your eye on the back door?"

"Sure. Of course." I probably blushed. "Don't want to invade your privacy."

"No, it's not about you. I'd like you to be on the lookout for Mrs. Pinckney. I don't want to give the old dear a heart attack." Her eyes crinkled again. "But I don't mind you seeing my tits. I'm used to guys doing that."