Campbell (standard:fantasy, 3589 words)
Author: Shanty	Added: Apr 22 2003	Views/Reads: 3026/1943	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Campbell is dying. Come live with him for a time.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

He'd thought of her hairless pubes many times over his life.  He 
wondered if she had remembered his poor excuse for a penis.  If she 
remembered, would she laugh? 

He remembered too the first time he stole something.  Walter was the
milkman who served their community.  He had an open cart, an aisle up 
the middle of two banks of milk crates.  The horse knew the route 
almost better than he.  The horse walked the streets and stopped while 
Walter hopped on and off the cart replenishing his basket with butter, 
milks and cream.  Cam would ride with him for a few blocks on Saturday 
mornings.  He wondered what long lost thing might have made him angry 
at Walter.  In any event, he stole a pound of butter, and then, of 
course had no idea what to do with it.  He finally put it in the middle 
of a bush in a neighbour's yard.  It still bothered him.  Would Walter 
be waiting? 

He'd been caught stealing in a five and dime when he was ten, too.  The
store manager gave him a good talking to, but, bless him, didn't tell 
his parents.  Would he meet those folks on the other side?  Would they 
remember? 

Yes.  Would he turn around to wait for others he'd known who were in the
line behind him?  That really bothered him.  Would he remember? 

He was just dozing off when breakfast came.  It was Sarah this morning,
a twenty something nursing assistant, very pretty.  She had a great 
sense of humour and enough confidence to banter with him.  He liked 
flirting with her, if that's what you could call it.  He was more than 
three times her age, wasn't he?  Who could take him seriously.  “You're 
very pretty this morning, my dear.” 

“What?  More pretty than usual?”  She flashed him a warm smile and put
her hand gently on his arm.  “You're very good for a girl.  Thanks.”  
She went on about her duties and he watched her, trying not to be too 
obvious.  She certainly had a cute little figure.  She had a way of 
moving which reminded him of someone.  Who?  Someone a long time ago.  
She bent to pick up a tissue on the floor and as she did, the cloth of 
her uniform tightened around her hips.  Yes.  Very pretty indeed.  Some 
lucky bugger.......   He smiled.  Those were the days, my friend. 

“What are you smiling about?”  She was standing at his bed, her fists on
her hips, grinning. 

“Oh nothing.” 

She said nothing, just continued to look at him and he felt he might
have blushed if she hadn't left. 

His breakfast was the favourite.  Oatmeal porridge, toast, coffee and
juice.  It was more than enough too.  It was what he would have made 
himself. 

As he ate, he thought of her gentle touch on his arm.  That's what he
missed most, the touch of others.  Lying there in bed, it happened 
seldom, and when it did, it was so clinical.  The doctors poked and 
prodded at him.  The orderly helped him pee. etc.  The nurse took his 
temperature and pulse and felt his glands.  The assistants rolled him 
this way and that to change sheets.  No body came to just hold his 
hand, to love him a little.  Only his son who would hardly stand there 
holding his hand forever.  Maybe Penn, his little girl, Penelope, 
except she lived so far away, emotionally too. 

In fact, he felt all his senses were deprived of enough stimulation.  He
ran his hand over the sterile sheets.  Surely the coffee had a smell.  
The jam on his toast seemed weak.  Sadly deprived.  Even so, he reached 
into the drawer and his little portable CD player.  Something was 
better than nothing.  He needed distracting.  There'd be a lot of 
nothing shortly.  He smiled to himself. 

Adjusting the phones over his head, he pushed the remains of breakfast
away, pressed play and settled back to listen to Ella croon love songs. 
 Though his hearing had definitely declined, there was enough.  He 
could hear the works as he remembered, in perfect stereo.  Some of the 
songs moved him to tears these days. One so much reminded him of his 
wife, Meg.  They'd had a good life together.  He dreamt on and his 
thoughts drifted to other women he'd known. 

Matron was next, with his pills.  Her touch was gentle too, waking him
from his dream state.  He pulled off the phones and tried to sit up a 
bit.  “It's okay, Mr. Gordon.  I'll help.”  She rearranged the pillows 
behind him. 

He looked at the paper cup of pills.  He knew each.  He always took the
red one last, and hid it often under his tongue.  This time would be a 
time to do it. 

‘Well, how are we today?”  It was their routine.  She was a very
pleasant woman of perhaps forty.  She was a little overweight so that 
her uniform was generally tight on her.  He chastised himself for 
thinking that way.  She had two rings on her left hand, one a big 
stone. 

“I can only speak for myself.  How would you say we are?” 

“Well, Sir.  I'm not so bad.  You're not so good as we know, but I think
you're having a good day.” 

Between pills, they conversed.  After the last, he said he wanted to lie
down again and she left him alone.  He carefully spat the pill into the 
bed beside himself, then transferred it to the stash in his drawer.  
There were ten.  That should do the trick when the time came.  He'd 
bare the pain until noon. 

He knew what was next.  He hated the humiliation.  They might have to
wipe his ass if this went on much longer.  He pushed the bell and 
George stuck his head in the door.  “Just give me a sec.”  It took a 
minute or two but he was back with wheels.  He helped Cam onto the 
chair, took him into the toileting area to leave him alone.  “Ya.  I'll 
be okay.”  Ten minutes later he was back in a bed nicely remade in his 
absence. 

What was it about being old that sent your mind to thinking about sex
when you're no longer remotely capable?  It took him a few moments.  It 
was that sexual activity required all the senses.  It was the most 
sensuous of human activities.  It required the greatest sensitivity of 
each partner to be the most rewarding.  And now, he admitted, it was 
what, of all things, he missed the most about growing old.  All his 
sensibilities were diminished.  Oh, for an good old fashioned romp in 
the sac.  Ah well.  Maybe in the next world.  Somehow he doubted it.  
Memories.  He let his mind go. 

Susan.  She could have had him, but she had only been in town for a
weekend.  That was a long time ago.  He was probably thirty-five at the 
time.  Married with two young kids.  He and Meg were at a reception at 
the country club, and there she was, standing against the wall, having 
a smoke.  As he had circulated, he worked over towards her.  A pretty 
woman.  Her dress was becoming, tight against the body between waist 
and bust, loose over hips and bosom.  Suggestive to one who was 
sensitive to that sort of thing. 

“Hi.  You're new in town,” 

“Right.  In and out.  We're visiting the Frasers.” 

“Nice people” 

“Yes.” She had looked at him. “My husband is drinking too much.”  He had
figured she was too.  “He fancies Sheila.” 

The last came as a shock to him.  He quickly scanned the room for Sheila
who was very much enjoying the company of a man he'd never met.  
“You're kidding!” 

“No.  What are you doing tonight?  Did you come with someone?” 

“Yes. I......  Well....” 

“That's a pity.”  Her eyes told him everything.  She wanted
entertaining.  She was bored. 

She turned and walked away.  He had watched that very trim figure
undulate over to a little group as the wheels in his brain spun.  Then 
Meg had been at his side.  “Who's that?” 

“They're here for the weekend visiting the Frasers.” 

He knew very well what might have happened but Susan and her husband
were never seen again.  He had thought of her often in the months 
following. 

He had been unfaithful to Meg several times in their marriage.  Twice
she had found out and forgiven him.  The other times, he got away with 
it.  Angela.  Karen.  Err.  What was that girl at church?  They'd had 
fun rubbing belly to belly at a church dance, and neither's spouse 
thought anything was going on.  Ha.  That affair lasted most of a year. 


He had no idea whether Meg had been unfaithful to him, but he suspected
she  just might have been.  Who was to know now?  If she had been, he 
thought, it was probably for the same reason as it was for himself.  
He'd got bored.  Too much the same.  No new challenge.  Too familiar.  
No new surprises.  Was that marriage? 

He recognized his weakness.  At one level, he cursed his infidelities. 
On another, he celebrated them.  An affair lit the fire of life,  of 
desire.  The excitement.  Feeling a new body.  Getting a whole set of 
new responses, and being thrilled by the different stimuli.  Of course 
it was wrong, but of course it was so right.  Every time it had 
happened, he had wallowed in the guilt and pleasure.  Even now, if he 
had been able, and some woman was willing,...................  That was 
a laugh! 

He was smiling when lunch arrived.  It was Sarah again.  “I've been
keeping my eye on you.  What's up?” 

“Oh!  I guess I was thinking of you.” 

“We should have a date.” 

“Name a place.  I'd be there.” 

She put the lunch on his tray and winked.  “I'll be back.” 

He ate his lunch slowly, thinking about her.  She really was a very
desirable creature.  When she returned to his bedside, she asked, “How 
goes it?” 

“Okay, thanks.” 

She stood there a foot from his hand, fists on her generous hips, and
smiled warmly at him.  “You're doing really well.” 

“Thanks.  You know I wish I was about fifty years younger.” 

“I guess when I'm your age, I'll wish that too.  So what would you do if
you were fifty years younger?” 

“I'd flirt outrageously with you.” 

“Ho!  But you do that already.” 

“Well, I'm hardly a threat.”  He grinned. 

“But Sir!”  She put the back of her hand to her forehead in feigned
innocence.  “What can I say?  Do you mean if you were fifty years 
younger, you would be a threat?” 

He grinned back at her and his eyes twinkled.  “You're damn right!” 

“But Sir,” and her eyes were wide, “I have a boyfriend.” 

He took his time.  “I'd give him a run!”  He paused.  “I hope he pleases
you.” 

This time there was a mischievous glint in her eye.  “Oh yes.  He
pleases me.  He pleases me very well.” 

“I should hope so!”  She was called away.  “Be back in a jiffy.” 

It wasn't Sarah who took away his tray.  It was George.  He wondered if
he'd gone too far with her. 

Suddenly, he knew who she reminded him of.  It was Diane.  Diane, the
fellow teacher.  Diane, the single parent of one of the children in his 
class.  While she was twenty-nine, he had been forty.  Diane, the woman 
with those wonderful hips, that when she lay on her back on the bed, 
they created the illusion of the deck of an aircraft carrier,  the deck 
he'd had the pleasure of landing on many times.  Diane, with the lovely 
breasts that had fascinated him.  In the staff room, they had sat away 
from one another and he'd glance over her way occasionally.  Dressed, 
she was an ordinary sort of woman.  In bed, she was so gentle and 
loving, nurturing, extraordinary.  Everything about her was unusual.  
Her smells, tastes, the feel of her skin, the wonderful squeaks and 
squeals as they made love.  What a memory.   Where was she now? 

He was still wallowing in the memories of Diane when he felt a kiss on
his cheek.  She was there, an inch from his face, and there was a tear 
in her eye.  “Thank you, Campbell.  There are no other words.  Thank 
you.”  She paused.  “Now I'm finished for today.  See you tomorrow.”  
She stayed there and they shared that very intimate moment. 

“Thank you, young lady.  You are special.”  He smiled. 

She returned it.  “I know.  You make me feel very special.”  She
straightened.  “Bye.”  She lifted a hand and was gone. 

He enjoyed the warm feelings she'd left with him.  He bet she was
extraordinary too.  Lovely girl. 

He drifted off to sleep, into a dream of Meg.  He only called her
Margaret when he was being serious, which was not very often.  Oh, yes, 
there were occasionally times when she irritated him, but honestly, in 
a life time, they were quite few.  It was far more often that he 
managed to touch a nerve in her.  She was very female, living on a 
sensitive edge.  He had sometimes accused her of being emotional, to 
his sincere regret!  He, on the other hand, was probably a dry stick.  
He was always was looking for a reason that things had gone the way 
they did, which did nothing to address her frustration or disquiet. 

He found himself thinking of Christmas dinners, a series of them over
many years, and in his memories, they all smelled the same.  The rich 
smell of cooking turkey, gravy and dressing.  The sounds of carols.  
The smell of snow and cold.  How he wished he could do it again.  He 
saw his children as youngsters, as teens, as young adults, in the house 
he and Meg had shared for thirty-nine years.  Once the kids got 
established, they didn't come home as often. 

He thought of Meg again.  Dearest Meg.  Soft.  Warm.  Loving.  Perfect. 
Gentle.  Forgiving.  Not a pushover by any means, but wonderful.  She 
seemed to know what she wanted, and seemed to have been mostly 
satisfied with what she got.  She had loved him.  There was no doubt 
about that. 

A smile crossed his face as he thought of lying beside her.  She had
always been a little overweight.  She fretted about it, but he said 
nothing, except when they were between the sheets.  Then he'd growl and 
tell her she was the sexiest broad in the whole world.  He'd go on 
about her generous hips and fabulous breasts.  Normally she was shy 
about such talk, but with the bedroom door closed,  she actually liked 
it, and she gave it back. She was one for flannelette nightgowns.  He 
preferred to sleep in the raw.  When she wanted sex, he found her naked 
next to him.  “Do me. Big Boy.”  What a turn-on!  In the summer, when 
it was warm enough to make love without the bedclothes in the way,  
she'd often sit on him, put her hands behind her head, arch her back 
and ride “her cock horse to Banbury Town.”  Wasn't that the line from 
the nursery rhyme?  The memory of her there was one he often visited.  
And now she was dead. 

He was awaken by the evening orderly, a burly man whom he didn't much
like.  “Time for your boost, Sir. They'll be here in a minute.”   He 
struggled to sit up with the man's help. 

A moment later the nurse arrived at the side of his bed .  He knew what
was happening so he didn't look, but he soon felt the warm surge as the 
chemical flowed into his body through the catheter.    “Melvin will 
stay with you for twenty minutes.  Please try to stay awake.”  The 
instructions were always the same.  The stuff made him feel terrible. 

Why, when he was feeling bad, did he think of Penn.  They had never got
along.  From the time she was two, he could do nothing for her without 
a struggle.  Meg had to do it all.  Baby sitting the little one, if Meg 
had a night out, was a nightmare.  As a teen, she paid him little heed. 
 She got out of his life as quickly as she could.  He thought he had 
tried reasonably hard.  Meg didn't find fault.  Regrets. So sad.  He 
drifted off to sleep. 

When he awoke, the place was silent except for the hum of voices down
the hall.  He wanted to scream, but what was the point?  Today had been 
like so many others of late.  What was the point of lying here and 
taking up space?  He just lay there for a half an hour.  Surely the 
other side could be no worse than this.  Besides, why not now instead 
of later?  He saw himself standing in line before the Pearly Gates.  
Well?  What better time? 

He rolled over painfully and reached into the back of his drawer. 
Carefully, he transferred his stash of red pills into the bed beside 
him.  He got out his CD player.  Mozart, he thought.  Yes.  The sound 
track he loved from that eighties film about Mozart.  He turned the 
volume up just a little and took the first pill.  It took two or three 
minutes to get the ten down.   Meg had loved this recording too.  He 
was sure she was there with him.  He went to sleep. 


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