"Lucky"

by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2000, All rights reserved)

Chapter 1

     I was lucky.  

     Everyone kept telling me that - over and over and over.  I was lucky
that I had only been bruised in the accident that had ripped the heart 
from my world; the accident that had killed my wife, Trish.  She had twice 
a normal person's life and joy and enthusiasm, so much that it overflowed 
her and showered down on those around, most of all me.  Without her the 
world had been reduced to drab, amorphous grays with no focus.  But I was 
lucky.  

     I was lucky that she had lots of insurance, augmented by unwanted 
prescience with a triple indemnity for "Accidental death in a public 
conveyance."  To wit: a taxi cab that had been crushed by a delivery
truck.  Everyone was pleased for me that the insurance meant I'd never
have to work again.  As though writing were work instead of pleasure.  As
though I could work again, even if I had needed to.  Trish had insisted 
only my name be listed as author on the books we had written.  But I 
knew that she had provided the sparks of brilliance that had made them 
work.  All I did was plod along behind her leaps of genius, adding an 
almost mathematical rigor to the pure energy that had spilled from her 
creative soul.  I may have done all the typing, but she made them art.  
The royalties would probably continue for some time - more luck I suppose.  

     And I was lucky to have as a good friend that most unbelievable of
oxymorons, a good lawyer.  Benjamin Weiserman, inevitably "Bud" to his 
friends, had been my roommate in college.  While I had wandered around 
trying to find some purpose for my life until it appeared in the form of
the prettiest girl on campus - Trish - Bud had always kept a clear focus
on a law degree.  I didn't really understand what all the honors and 
things he had achieved meant to other lawyers.  What I knew they meant to 
me was that he was really good at his profession, yet he had never stopped
being a nice guy.  Bud had found out that the driver of the delivery truck 
had been on drugs and that his supervisors knew about it.  In fact, there 
was a building case that they had encouraged it, amphetamines and such, as 
a way to make their guarantees of overnight delivery.  I was going to go 
from "comfortable" to "rich" when the lawsuit settled.  Lucky me.

     "Brrreeeppp!!" the phone screeched, startling me from my stupor.  

     I realized I had been looking at my empty underwear drawer for some 
indeterminate time.  Trish had always insisted that I have at least two
weeks' worth of underwear, but I was out.  I remembered that Bud's wife,
Katy, had come by one time and did all the laundry, but I was out again.  
God, had it really been a month then, since Trish had died?  

     "Brrreeeppp!!!" the phone insisted.

     The caller ID showed a name that I knew I should know, but I didn't
remember why.  Since I recognized the name at least a little I knew it 
wasn't a solicitor, nor what had become even worse, a well-wisher, so I 
picked up the handset and answered.

     "Yes?"

     "Tim?  Tim Piper?  This is Lonna," a voice that should have been 
familiar said.  

     "Yes?" I repeated stupidly.  

     "Lonna Roberts," she said.  "You and Trish have hair appointments
this afternoon and I was just calling to remind you."  

     "Oh, uh, no, we can't."

     "I'm sorry?" she said, not wanting to hear what I seemed to be 
saying.  Well, I certainly didn't want to say it.

     "Trish, uh, she, she died."  Maybe if I were *really* lucky, someday
I'd be able to say that without my heart splitting down the middle.

     "Oh, I'm so sorry!" Lonna said.  Unlike a lot of callers, I knew she 
was sincere.  Trish made friends with everyone, but she had enjoyed a 
special relationship with her hairdresser.  Even if I hadn't remembered 
her name right away, I remembered Lonna now.  Usually Trish had her hair 
done before I had mine cut, and the aftereffects of an hour with Trish 
caused Lonna to be bright and happy every time we had met.  She was a 
pretty girl, the best advertisement for her own skill she had ever needed; 
blonde, trim, always stylish, efficient without seeming hurried.  Since 
Trish was the same, except for rich, dark hair, I could see why they had 
gotten on so well.     

      Lonna continued with some sort of explanation that Trish had made 
the appointments in advance after our last time in.  While she chattered 
on I caught sight of myself in the dresser mirror and realized I really
did need a haircut.  Even if I hadn't gotten around to the laundry, I had
always hated to be personally unkempt.  Every day, even the day after
the accident, I had showered and shaved and brushed my teeth dutifully.  
And breathed.  All equally pointless.  

     But now I needed a haircut and I used a break in Lonna's monologue 
to say, "Actually, it would probably still be a good idea for me to come
in, if that's okay."  

     "Oh, sure," Lonna said.  "Um, well, if it's just you, would it be
possible to come by in half an hour, instead of this afternoon?"  

     "Uh, okay, I guess," I said.  What else did I have to do?  

     "Good, see you then," she said, hanging up and saving me from any
need for further banalities.  

     After I put the phone down, I looked once more at the empty underwear
drawer.  It was more problem than I needed right then, so I looked around
for some alternative.  Yesterday's underwear had spent the night in the
hamper with other clothes that had been there entirely too long.  I just
couldn't bear the thought of smelly, . . . ugh.

     My eyes were drawn to Trish's end of the dresser.  Maybe it was the
thought of going to a hair salon, a sort of feminine bastion that allowed
male intruders but never truly accommodated them, but the thought of 
sharing a bit of Trish's world seemed suddenly desirable.  I opened her 
drawer and pulled out a pair of thin, shiny satin panties.  

     Actually, I had worn Trish's panties a few times before.  We had 
enjoyed role-playing sometimes, with pirate and damsel, terrorist and 
heiress, principal and school girl, and other games adding variety to 
our intimate times.  Trish had voted for "girlfriends" a few of the times
when it was her turn to choose.  The first time I thought it was silly,
but for Trish I'd have done just about anything so I let her dress me
up as Tammy, her giant Barbie doll.  We drank tea and watched a romantic 
movie, and then she had seduced me, all the time pretending I was her 
college roommate come to visit while hubby was out of town.

     The second time I was a much more enthusiastic participant.  The 
clothes themselves had been more bother than fun, although the erotic
association had certainly made them arousing, but when the most beautiful
woman in the world is using all of her charms to seduce you . . .  Well,
dressing funny was a small price to play for the most fantastic intimacy 
we had ever shared.  A part of me wondered just how close Trish and her 
roommate had really been, but I had decided to leave that question 
unasked.  Now it would forever be unanswered.                

     Trish had always said that one day the "girlfriends" were going to 
go out to dinner together.  She assured me that Tammy would pass as a 
woman with no question, but I had never left the house when dressed up.  
We had only done that game a half a dozen times in the 4 years we had been 
married and I never felt at all comfortable.  But it was fun, at least in 
private.  Of course Trish would never have forced me to go out dressed.  
Any sort of deliberate humiliation would have been as impossible to her 
as, well, deliberately hurting someone physically.  

     The hall clock bonged and I realized I had once again fallen into 
reverie.  Grabbing the panties I slid them up my legs and reached for
my jeans.  They were almost too loose and I had to tighten the belt a 
notch.  I must have lost weight since the accident.  Since I couldn't 
really remember what I'd been eating lately, any surprise at that 
discovery didn't last long.  

     My jeans felt funny over the panties.  One localized area felt cool 
and slick, while the rest was normal.  Always before, Trish had carried 
through the masquerade with overtly feminine styles so the combination of 
panties and pants was a new experience.  The continuing strangeness 
triggered memories that had lain dormant for a month and I found myself 
responding physically as I drove.  It made me feel closer to Trish in a 
way that I thought would never happen again.  

     I sort of wandered, mentally, between distraction and reverie once 
I reached the salon.  Getting my hair washed had always felt nice and
relaxing, and Lonna's typical chatter washed over me with no more residue 
than the well-rinsed shampoo.  Once we left the basin and moved to her 
chair, she ran her fingers through my hair and I sort of roused from 
wherever I had been.

     "Same thing as always?" she asked.  Then before I could answer she
chattered on, "Your hair is so thick and soft.  It seems a shame to cut
it.  Half the women who come in here would say it's 'to die for'."

     "Oh, God," she spluttered, "I'm so sorry."  

     "Uh, that's okay," I said.  But I sat up straighter as an idea came
to me.  "Um, Lonna, I, uh, was, uh, thinking about something."

     "Yes?" she said, reaching for her scissors.

     "I suppose you'll think this is sick or something," I blurted out,
"but could you cut my hair like Trish's?"

     "What?" she said.

     I blushed, a response the mirrors threw back at me with cruel 
clarity, and shook my head.  "Nothing," I said.

     "No, really," Lonna insisted.  "Did you ask if I can cut your
hair like Trish wore hers?"

     I nodded.  "It was a stupid idea.  I'm just, well, I just, uh, miss
her I guess."

     Lonna's look softened and she said, "Um, it won't look the same for 
quite a while, of course, but if that's what you want, I can cut it so it 
could grow into that style.  If we don't do the bangs right away, it won't 
look that unusual on a man.  And if you decide you really want to do this, 
we can work something out later on the really feminine aspects."

     "You think it's stupid, and sick," I said, disgusted with myself.  

     "No!" Lonna insisted.  "I think it's kind of sweet, wanting to keep 
some aspect of her in your life, part of you all the time."

     She sighed and looked wistfully into my reflection in the mirror, 
showing her own longing to me at the same time, "I wish I could meet 
someone who would love me that much."  

     The moment stretched on, both of us lost in our own longings, until
our eyes made focused contact again and we both grinned sheepishly.  Lonna
covered her own embarrassment by becoming smoothly professional.  

     "Okay, Trish wore her hair basically all one length except for her 
bangs.  But it will take a lot of care to make that work well, especially
when your hair gets longer.  Right now all you'll need to do to make it 
look neat is blow dry it over a brush, but blow drying is hard on hair so 
you'll need to use some conditioners and a good shampoo.  I'll show you
how once it's shaped.  It'll look a bit 70's retro, at least as far as 
guys' styles go, with more fullness over the ears than men do now but 
that's not a big deal."

     She chattered on about how hair grows at different rates, and how I'd
need to come in at least as often to keep the hair on top trimmed while 
the lower parts grew out, and this and that and a dozen other things that
started to wash over and past me again.  I paid a little closer attention 
when she explained how to use the brush and dryer to give it a little 
body, once again reminded of Trish who had often done the same thing.  
Eventually, I was dutifully buying the recommended shampoos and 
conditioners and whatever else she said I needed, half determined in my 
own mind to call the whole thing a stupid idea as soon as I got home.  
Lonna was right that my hair looked well within the range of men's styles 
so there was nothing irrevocable done so far.  But somehow I also found 
myself making another appointment for six weeks down the road, this time 
scheduling a longer block of time than I had ever needed before.

     Strange as it was, a plan to do something different with my hair 
seemed to energize me.  At least it was a plan, not a continued drift.  
I busied myself straightening up the house, washing clothes, carting out
trash from who knows how many takeout meals.  Later that afternoon, when
I was taking a necessary break to use the facilities, I realized I had 
forgotten about my forced underwear choice.

     Would it be wrong, would it be obsession if I wore some more of her
clothes?  We were about the same size.  She had been quite athletic, trim
but a bit more than slender.  Perhaps lean would be a good word.  She 
hadn't had much body fat, not even in the place, um, places, she had 
wanted some.  Even before I had lost some weight, she had found enough 
among her own clothes to give Tammy a different outfit each time we had 
played her "girlfriends" game.  

     I snorted to myself and thought, "That's even more stupid than 
letting my hair grow out."  

     Still, I was feeling better than I had for a while so I decided to 
go out to eat instead of just ordering something.  There was a nice, 
family-style restaurant that Trish and I had often gone to on spur-of-the-
moment occasions, and somehow I felt like repeating those memories instead 
of avoiding them.  Eating alone is no picnic, but I pretended Trish was 
with me, holding a silent conversation about the food, about the way the 
waiter was flirting with her, and how she was encouraging him.  She told 
me about her day, finding outrageous humor in the most mundane situations.  

     None of it was real, of course, and I knew that; I wasn't quite that
far around the bend.  But all of those things had happened at different 
times in that place, and I cherished the memories.  I tried to remember 
ever single detail of her, how she held her head, the way she liked to 
twirl her fingers in her hair, the way she scrunched up her nose when she
was kidding, the way the little lines crinkled in the corners of her eyes
when she was really amused, the way those same little lines stayed hidden
when she was just being friendly with a stranger.  I knew she had never 
really flirted with anyone we had met, no matter how friendly she seemed.  
She had always saved those little smile lines for me. 

     It was the most enjoyable meal I had eaten since . . . well, since. 
I kept up the mental game until I got home, though it was starting to run 
a bit dry.  Not that I couldn't remember more details of Trish, but I 
felt sort of stupid to be pretending she was still there.  Even silently,
and alone.  

     It was well into the evening, but I knew Bud Weiserman would still be 
awake so I called him.

     "Hello?"

     "Bud, it's me, Tim." 

     "Well, hi, Tim!  I've been wondering if you were going to hibernate
forever." 

     "Thanks, friend.  I appreciate the sympathy," I replied, dryly.

     Quietly now, but unrepentant, he said, "Tim, you know I loved her as
much as anyone in the world besides my Kate, but you have to move on with
your life."

     "I know," I said.  "In fact, I got my hair cut today, and did the 
laundry, and just got back from going out to dinner."

     "Well, good for you!"  

     "Yes, it was good for me," I agreed.  "In fact, that's why I called.
I know I have been, well, hibernating is as good a term as any.  Is there
anything I need to be doing?  I don't remember paying any bills or, well,
anything since the accident."

     "That's what you hired me for, Pie-eyed," Weiserman said, 
resurrecting my college nickname.  I had gotten drunk exactly one time.  
But after that occasion, admittedly a memorable one, I was the Pie-eyed
Piper to everyone who had been with me or saw me the next day.  Bud had
taken care of me then, too, as he was gently reminding me.  

     "Thanks, Bud.  I really do appreciate it.  So there's nothing I need
to be doing?"

     "Just taking care of yourself, Tim, and getting on with your life."

     "Okay, thanks.  Tell Katy I said hi.  One of these days I'll take 
you out to dinner."

     "One of these days you're going to do a lot better than that.  You're
going to make me a really rich man, as opposed to filthy rich, which is 
what I'm going to make you," Bud said, laughing.  Then he got quiet, and 
coldly serious.  "We could settle now for $100 million, but I want some 
heads on a pike for what they did to Trish."

     "Go get 'em," I agreed.  If I could, I'd have arranged the literal
fulfillment of his demand.  In today's "civilized" age, the best we could
do was to destroy them financially, and that was not too much at all for
what they had done.  If they hadn't killed my wife, it would have been
someone else.  

     We hung up on that somber note, but I still felt more alive than I
had in a long time.  Even revenge is an emotion, or righteous anger, or 
whatever I was feeling.  I slipped into my freshly-made bed resolved to 
keep doing something, anything, rather than slip back into the grayness.