What’s wrong with me? Joe Maxwell asked himself. Why do I always go for the unavailable ones?

He watched Catherine Chandler’s back walking away from his desk, her words still ringing in his ears.

"I don’t think so, Joe. We work together. And besides, I couldn’t bear to lose you as a friend."

He’d come to look at it as his weekly rebuff.

Can’t blame a man for trying.

Trying not to feel rejected, he turned to his personal mail. There was only one letter. It was from Sister Mary Louise, his tenth grade English Teacher at St. Pious High School. She wrote him a letter a month whether she had anything to say or not.

"Dear Joe," she wrote. "The road to Flagstaff is fraught with peril. First the clutch fan in the Mazda went out and then I told the autoclub to tow me as far west as humanly possible. They said That Would Be Gallop. Have you ever been to Gallop? Thank God I have a 9 millimeter is all I have to say. I’ve been assigned to a small Hispanic Parish In Arizona. This makes a hell of a lot of sense, as I speak not a lick of Spanish. Go figure. Anyway, how are you? You sounded depressed in your last letter. You need to find a nice Catholic girl and settle down."

Well, duh, thought Joe.

"Speaking of nice Catholic Girls, I hear Lacey Corelli is back in New York. I got a letter from her. It was obviously written by a sighted person who can’t spell. Or spells in another language like Esperanto. Evidently, Lacey has gone underground, literally, and is ‘going out of her mind mad monkey BORED.’ You two were such good friends back at St. Pious. You should look her up."

Oh, yeah, right, thought Joe. Just what I need. Another Unavailable Rich Girl.

Sister Mary Louise included Lacey’s address. It was a mail drop.

Joe actually leaned back in his chair and let his mind travel back in time.

His memory skipped back to afternoons spent at the plush Corelli house doing homework. Joe was always a little overwhelmed by the way the family lived. The Corellis thought nothing of serving red wine at dinner and had the first VCR he’d ever seen. Lacey had diamonds on the soles of her shoes. And Joe was the only kid in tenth grade on scholarship. Mrs. Corelli treated him as though he was somehow less, but Lacey never did. Her mother would make some catty remark, and Lacey would smile at him from behind sea blue eyes.

"Oh, Mom, don’t be such a snot," Lacey would say, wryly. She’d hide her laughing eyes behind thick white-blonde hair.

"Lacey Corelli, that boy’s going to be a night school lawyer."

That Boy would lower his eyes and pretend he didn’t hear.

Lacey would kick him under the table until her eyes met his. He could almost read her mind. Watch this, Joe. "Hey, Ma, I’m gonna join the Company and drop out of polite society. Then, you’ll be sorry."

Her mother would clam up and walk out of the room with her fists clenched.

Lacey reached over turned up the record player good and loud. ABBA Mama Mia. It was her way of thumbing her nose at her family. Blonde Lacey, the ice queen. Lacey whom he never so much as made a pass at in all the years he knew her. Lacey who blinded herself in a car wreck when she was 18. On purpose. She told him so, quietly, in the hospital. (He was the only one who ever knew.) Lacey, who disappeared without so much as a goodbye. And Joe became a night school lawyer, just like Mrs. Corelli said he would…

He smoothed out the letter and continued reading: " Really, Joe. I think she had a crush on you in High School. With any luck, she still does. Well, the tow truck is here for the van. It’s a little frightening. The truck has an actual toe on it. God Bless and go to confession! Love, Sister Mary Louise."

It was late. Almost five o’clock. Joe took a legal pad out of his desk and began to write:

"Dear Lacey,

Hello. It’s been a while. Sister Mary Louise, She Who Must Be Obeyed to her friends, is stuck in Gallop and took the time to write that you are mad monkey bored…"

A package arrived a week later. The writing on the front was strange. The cassette on the inside was wrapped in a piece of paper that just said, in different writing:

Play me.

Joe put the tape in his walkman and did as he was told.

"Hello, Joe," said the long-ago voice. " It was so nice to get your letter. It’s good to know that you’re doing so well. Long time no see. Or talk. Oh, whatever."

Joe smiled. Lacey sounded nervous. Why?

"Wow. You’re an assistant DA now? You must’ve worked so hard to get where you are. Well, you always did, didn’t you? I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch. If it helps, I didn’t keep in touch with anybody from the old neighborhood — not even with my own family... Speaking of which, how’s your mom?"

In the background was a faint clanging noise — and ABBA of all things. Rock Me?

"So, you work with the famous Catherine Chandler. I know her, too. Bet she stole your heart. You always went for the Rich Girls…" Then, the voice paused and her laugh rang out. " Just like the song, right, Joe? Hall and Oates."

Joe blushed. Lacey always called him on that. She never taunted him, exactly, but she called him on it. Now, he had it on tape.

"Sorry. I just couldn’t resist. But in all seriousness, I know Catherine, too; and she’ll be our go-between, if you agree. I live in a… secret world — a place you cannot begin to imagine. I’d love to hear more from you. But on tape, please. Someone else has to read letters to me, and I always feel, well, awkward. You understand? Why don’t you just tape over this and send it back to the PO Box on the envelope? Please… talk soon? Lacey… The Ice Queen. You didn’t think I knew you called me that, did you?"

The tape ended there. He didn’t record over it. He rummaged through his apartment and found a blank tape.

"Hi, Lace. It was amazing to hear your voice. It hasn’t changed. You sound just like you did the last time we talked. What do you mean, you live in a secret world? Why do we need a go between? And I’m sorry about the Ice Queen Thing. You were always so… unobtainable."

Joe paused the tape. Should he risk telling her that? Or should he tape over it? He decided to leave it as it was and continued: " I didn’t know you were just human until I visited you that time in the hospital. It was ten years ago. By the way, I’m still the same handsome guy. You should see me now — three piece suits. I don’t look like a Guido, thank God, but I look all right. I’m not so skinny. I probably look like a night school lawyer. Say, Lacey, would you like to meet for dinner sometime? We could eat Italian. Or you could call me…. Here’s my office number…"

He spoke slowly into the recorder, carefully Getting It Right.

"Well, I have a deposition at ten in the A.M., so I’ll stop here so I can mail this before the last pick up. It was so good to hear your voice. So good. Until later…"

How should I end this? He wondered. Joe? Love? What?

" Joe Maxwell."

He sealed the envelope and rushed out the door.

The next day, Joe motioned Catherine to come in his office. "Close the door, Chandler," he said.

"What is it, Joe?" Catherine asked.

"I think we have a mutual friend," Joe replied.

"Pardon me?"

"Lacey Corelli."

The office was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

"I know her," Catherine said, quietly.

"I went to High School with her. St. Pious."

"So?"

"She wrote me that if I wanted to see her, I should ask you," Joe said, evenly. "She said she lives in a secret world."

Catherine shifted uneasily in her chair. "Joe, what I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room. Ever."

"I understand," he replied.

And then the woman who he didn’t really know at all took a deep breath and began: "There’s a place far below the city…"

Two hours later, Joe was still sitting stunned at his desk with his mouth open. Catherine got up, left, came back, left and then came back with a cup of vicious second-floor coffee.

"Joe," she said. "It’s all true. I swear it is."

He stared at her as though he’d never seen her before. "I believe you."

"If Lacey wants to see you, I’ll take you to her," Catherine said. "But she has to want to see you. She might not. You’ll have to ask."

"I will."

"Look, Joe, it’s late. I have somewhere to be."

"Okay, Chandler. I’ll see you tomorrow."

Catherine left him sitting at his desk, staring dumbly at nothing at all.

The reply came a week later. Again, it was a cassette — he recognized it as the same one he’d sent her.

"Meet… Hmmm. Dinner… Hmmm. Is this a date? Or is it one of those I Wanna Bag A Blind Girl Things? No, I know it’s not. I know you, Joe. As much as you might want to, you’ll be a gentleman. Italian’s fine. Are you cooking?" She laughed. She had a wonderful laugh. A young laugh. "Or are you one of those bachelors who live on carry-out? I bet you cook a mean spaghetti. My God, your mother always did. I loved going to your house. No wine. And no whining. Sure. I’d love to have dinner with you. Just let Catherine know… Your place? Certainly not mine. See you soon. Oh, and please talk back. It’s so nice to hear your voice."

Again, there was that clanging in the background — and an ABBA song. SOS. Did it mean something? Or was she thumbing her nose at a long-ago hurt? Joe didn’t know. Lacey used music the other way people used weapons of mass destruction. It always sounded so innocent; but ABBA was her weapon of choice.

He spoke even more carefully this time.

"Lace, my place is fine, if you don’t mind Italian carry-out. But there’s a nice restaurant around the corner. Even better. Have Chandler — I mean Cathy — bring you to my apartment at seven o’clock next Friday. We’ll talk about old times. And maybe write Sister M a nice long letter about our dinner. Still the Ice Queen? Joe Maxwell, signing off."

"Lacey says next Friday is fine," Catherine said, smiling.

Joe looked up from his work and raised his eyebrows. "Good." He suddenly realized he’d been humming Mama Mia under his breath…

On Wednesday, another cassette arrived. It appeared on his desk when he was out for lunch. Catherine said she didn't deliver it; and there was no one out-of-place in sight -- although his secretary maintained it was delivered by an autistic street person. Who just happened to get by security.

"Yeah, right," said Joe.

He sighed, because he had no walkman; and he put the cassette in his coat pocket and went back to work.

"Hey, Joe, what d'ya know?" the now familiar voice said. "I just wanted to say you could back out if you want to. I've changed a lot and quite frankly wouldn't want to have dinner with me. In fact, I'm not quite sure why they allow me to live here -- except that maybe Father doesn't want to unleash me upon polite society." She must have been walking around while she was taping, because there was a loud BANG! "Oh, shit! I mean, shoot! Well, there's a Hail Mary. DAMN! Who left that frigging pile of BOOKS in my room?! It's not like I can READ them!" Pound, pound, pound. Clank, clank, CLANK! "Oh, where was I… "

The music in the background said:

Guess I've been working a little too hard

"At least they have 45's where you are," Joe said aloud.

"And it's only on 45!" Lacey told him, waving the picture cover. The left side of her face was swathed in a bandage from the I-swear-it's-the-last treatment to remove the strawberry birthmark on her left cheek. That was the summer they were 17 -- the summer Joe started working three jobs to pay for community college. Lacey spent her summer hiding behind books, bandages and ABBA picture covers.

I've got a feeling the dream will come true

Hey, Honolulu, I'm going to Happy Hawaii.

"Stop it, Joe! I do, too, have taste! Just because it isn't yours doesn't make it bad. I happen to like ABBA." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "And besides, my mother thinks ABBA's the spawn of Satan. How cool is that?"

Joe was so busy listening to the music in his memory, he almost forgot about the tape.

"…Oh, yeah, Maxwell, you don't have to take me out to dinner, if you don't want to. No hard feelings…"

At 6:55 p.m. Friday, Joe looked around and realized that his apartment was anything but blind-friendly. At 7:00 p.m., the doorbell rang. It was Lacey. She was alone. She stood there, cane in hand, wearing Ray Bans and looking otherwise like the Ice Queen she claimed she wasn’t.

"Joe?"

"Yes," he said.

"Oh, good. For a moment there, I thought I had the wrong door." She laughed nervously and held out her hand.

Joe finally understood that she meant for him to take it.

"You haven’t changed," he said, gently shaking her hand.

"You have," Lacey replied.

"How?"

"You’re… older," she said, thoughtfully. Then she seemed to catch herself. "I mean, your voice is deeper and your hand is different."

"Different, how?" Joe asked.

"Different, stronger," Lacey replied.

"Would you like to come in? Our reservation isn’t until 7:30."

Lacey smiled and walked through the door as though she owned the place. Her cane seemed to be a magical appliance that bounced off of clutter and walls with the aclarity of sonar.

"The couch is about five feet to your left, Lacey," Joe said.

She found it with a practiced ease and sat down. "Take a load off, Joe," she said, patting the empty cushion beside her. " Come tell me about yourself."

Joe took his time walking over to the couch. He took a good long look at Lacey. She was still beautiful. She still had hair the color of platinum. She had the same open smile; but her body language said Don’t Touch. He didn’t.

Joe sat down next to Lacey and said: "What do you want to know?
"For starters, why did you write me?" she asked, softly, seriously, as though she was really asking much, much more.

"Well, because I remembered you," Joe replied, carefully. "I remembered the good times we had. I missed you. And I always wondered what happened to you."

"That’s it?"

"Pretty much," Joe said. "I’m a pretty straight-forward guy."

"That you are," Lacey replied, smiling. She leaned back and seemed to relax a little. "What’re you wearing, Joe?"

"A grey sweater and black slacks. Why?"

"Good. I don’t think my clothes are up to three-piece-suit dining."

Joe laughed. "I think you look fine," he said. His voice came out much lower and softer than he’d meant it to. Looking at her now, sitting as she was, she looked like a creature from another planet -- or another time. She was wearing a slim denim jumper dress with a white peasant blouse. The blouse had cornflowers embroidered on the collar and cuffs — in yarn exactly the color of her eyes. He wondered if she knew that. He didn’t ask. Instead he said: " So, tell me about this world of yours."

"I wouldn’t know where to begin," Lacey said, too lightly. "Maybe I’ll show you sometime, instead."

"Sure. I’d like that. If it’s okay, I mean."

She shifted her cane from her left hand to her right and back again. That little gesture said volumes.

No. It's not okay. Give it time.

Joe reached over and stilled her hand. "It’s all right, Lacey," he said. "Don’t be nervous. We’re friends. We’re friends having dinner."

"But Joe, I was such a bitch. I didn’t even tell you good-bye."

He hadn’t seen that coming. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "It’s in the past, Lace. "

"You’re sure?" she asked.

"Yeah, I’m sure," he said, mostly because she needed to hear it.

Then, an amazing thing happened. Lacey asked to see his face. She took a long time framing it and running her fingers over his cheekbones. From the way she mapped it with her evenly spread fingers, Joe knew she was memorizing it. If her touch hadn’t been so deliberate, it would have been sensual. Even as it was, Joe trembled inwardly. He knew she remembered him as young. He was no longer eighteen. Finally apparently satisfied with what her fingers "saw", Lacey dropped her hands into her lap.

"Same ole Joe," she said, softly, as if to herself. She sighed deeply.

"What?" Joe asked.

"My mother was always so afraid of you," she replied, laughing.

"Why?"

"Because even at 15 you had all the ambition I lacked." The memory must have been quite satisfying, because she grinned. "She was terrified that if you'd decided to, you could have whisked me away and taken her little meal ticket."

Joe inched closer, one eye on the clock, the other on the curves if Lacey’s face. He could just make out the faint network of scars that disappeared behind her dark glasses. Ten minutes until they needed to leave. "Who says I didn’t want to?"

"Then why didn’t you?" she asked, her voice suddenly and very lightly cruel. "You knew what kind of life I had!"

Stunned, Joe felt as if he’d been hit. Hard. "I didn’t know," he said, simply. "You didn’t ask. And besides, which, you seemed to be able to take care of yourself."

Lacey's grin was hard. It was set. "Oh, yes," she said, bitterly. "I could always do that."

The hardness passed as quickly as it appeared, though. "I was glad to get out — and to get away. Ma never forgave me, though. I was such a nize little meal ticket."

Joe remembered how Lacey worked very hard to graduate a year early so that she could be something she neither understood nor wanted to be. Even then, it was painful to watch. Now, the thought was almost unbearable.

"How’s your mom doing?"

"She’s as feisty as ever," Joe replied, smiling. "Still lives in the old neighborhood. I go to see her every other Sunday. How are your folks? Are they still alive?" he asked.

"No, they died in a auto accident about six years ago," Lacey replied.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. Joe couldn't imagine anything worse than losing both of one's parents at one time.

"Don't be," she said, shrugging. "It was a long time ago. And besides, we hadn't spoken since I was 18. I don't think they liked me all that much, anyway."

Joe looked at his watch. Five more minutes. "So, how did you come to live Below?"

"Long story," Lacey said. "But I did have sort of an in. My parents were first-generation Helpers. Did Catherine tell you about Helpers?"

Joe nodded.

"I sort of lucked out," she went on. "I was this close to pawning my computer and turning to a life of crime."

"You? Nah."

"Yeah, me." Lacey smiled wickedly. She tucked her legs beneath her and her cane clattered to the floor. "Father says I ought as well have a sign around my neck that says ‘Will Go To The Dark Side for Food.’"

For an instant, Joe was back in the Corelli's dining room, fifteen and tongue-tied. What do you say to a woman who's brutally honest, blinded herself to get away from her family and admits that she'd sell her soul for a hot dog?

"I'm joking, Joe," she said, laughing. "See? I can still read your mind after all these years!"

And then it was time to leave.

Joe got through dinner. Barely. There was something about talking to a woman -- any woman -- and eating at the same time that made him feel clumsy and prickly. He managed to drop orange food down the front of his sweater. Of course, Lacey couldn't see this, but Joe could and it made him feel strangely shy. He kept reminding himself that she was just an old friend and that she didn't care about things like Orange Food.

He had to remind his mouth to talk.

He had to remind his teeth to chew.

He had to remind his throat to swallow.

Lacey was completely oblivious to his discomfort. She was also totally unaware that the waiter was blatantly flirting with her. The Corelli's had a way of both ignoring and ingratiating themselves with people at the same time. It was disconcerting.

"And I ran away from life and hid under a rock…" Lacey was saying just then. "Literally. And that's about it. My life in a nutshell."

"Mmmm Hmmm," said Joe.

Lacey laughed and took a careful sip of wine. "Joe," she said. "I thought you'd be married with a dozen kids and living in Brooklyn right now."

"Nothing worked out," he replied, motioning for the check. The waiter ignored him. "Besides, I have my job."

"Still mister ambitious, I see." The smile was an easy one, but the woman sounded sad. "But are you happy, Joe?"

"Yeah, I guess. Are you?"

"Yeah," she said, shrugging. "I guess."

Joe walked Lacey back to his apartment and called Catherine to come and pick her up. When he hung up the phone, he took a good, long look at Lacey.

The Ice Queen was standing beside the dark window to the fire escape looking at nothing at all, when Joe asked:

"When can I see you again?"

Her smile melted his heart. "When do you want to?"

"Is tomorrow too soon?"

"To: Sister Mary Louise McCarty c/o General Delivery, Flagstaff, AZ

From: Joseph Maxwell, D.A., NY, NY

Sunday Morning

Dear Sister Mary Louise,

I hope you made it to the wilds of Arizona in one piece. I suspect you did, as I haven’t seen anything about Gun-Toting-Nuns Vs. Gila Monsters in the Daily News. Speaking of news, I saw Lacey Corelli last night. What can I say? She’s herself. I hadn’t realized that I’d missed her even; but I had. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s easy to be with Lace. I don’t have to hide where I come from. Or justify it. We’re going to a Yankees game today. I’ll let you know how it goes. Bye for now. Joe."

It began just like that. Joe would meet Lacey at Catherine’s apartment, and then the two of them would do something — as friends. Always as friends. Baseball games. Coffee. Concerts. Walks in Central Park. It became a habit. If there was a dinner or an opening or a party, Joe would ask Lacey. It made a difference that she was from the old neighborhood. It felt right somehow.

Joe actually broached the subject once, lightly, over coffee at one of those places in the Village.

"Don’t be an idiot, Joe," Lacey told him, laughing. "You don’t want to date me."

"Why not? You’re a from the old neighborhood and don’t mind take out or baseball."

She slowly rolled her steaming mug between tense hands. "Because dating me is a lot like drinking a latté made with soy milk. Sure, it looks the same; but when you finally take a sip, it’s never what you expected."

"Go Yankees," Joe replied.

Lacey’s smile deepened into a grin.

The very out-of-date jukebox droned:

Joe didn’t mind the friends part. He sensed that with Lacey, closeness would come with time. And trust. He could look at her face and see that she didn’t trust him. Not really. The fact was, he suspected that she didn’t trust anybody. Besides, Joe had been deeply hurt by a bad relationship himself, and refused to do what Catherine blithely called The Rebound Thing.

"It’s better this way," Joe told himself, one evening when he was looking at Lacey across the kitchen table and wondering exactly what it would be like to be with her. "I’ll go slow. I’ll really take the time to get to know her again."

But his body didn’t feel that way. His body wanted to knock over the table and grab her and make her want him. It was the eternal battle. Joe, the nice guy, was also a very lonely man. He hadn’t been touched in a long time. He wanted to undress Lacey slowly — starting with the dark glasses she always hid behind. He wanted to look into her silent eyes before he kissed her. He wanted to taste her. He wanted to feel her skin against his. And more than anything, he wanted to just hear her say take me, Joe.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Lacey asked.

For an instant, he wondered if she really could read his mind. "Why?"

"You sighed."

"I did?"

"Yes," she replied. "And it was a big one." She grinned; and golden eyebrows shot up above the rims of those ever-present Ray Bans.

Joe almost told her; but instead, he lied. "I was just thinking it’s getting late and I should get you back to Catherine’s place."

Her face fell. "Oh, all right." She reached down and picked up her cane and looked resigned to being kicked out.

"What’s wrong, Lacey?"

"It’s just… Well… I don’t want to go home yet," she said, unconsciously rolling her cane back and forth on the table. "You don’t understand what it’s like down there in the dark." She stiffened and burst out: "Oh, God, I didn’t mean to say that. Just forget it. I have a big mouth."

"You could always show me," Joe told her, quietly. He was very curious about the place Catherine called The Tunnels and Lacey called nothing at all.

"And you could always think less of me than you do now."

He was completely baffled. "I don’t understand. I don’t think less of you at all. I wouldn’t."

Lacey shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "That’s not what I meant," she said slowly. "I meant… I mean, I’d just rather not have you… see… me…there. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Really?"

"Yes, Lacey," Joe said, softly.

Then something amazing happened. Lacey carefully slid her hand towards Joe. She continued to slide it until she was half-lying on table top with her palm opened and out-stretched. She did not lift her face, so he couldn’t see her expression. Joe took her offered hand on faith. He was surprised when she gripped it as though she were a drowning person.

What happened to you? he wondered.

"You’re a nice guy, Joe Maxwell," she whispered.

Eventually her grip loosened and she threaded her fingers through his. Lacey rested her head upon her arm and her face revealed nothing.

They sat together like that for a long, long time.

Finally, Lacey slid away from him. "It’s not that I don’t want to show you," she said, softly. "It’s that I can’t. It’s not allowed. At least, not without a lot of explaining and negotiating. You’re not even supposed to know about where I’m from. Catherine went out on a limb she really shouldn’t have." She withdrew behind a wall of ice. "Do you understand, Joe?"

"Not really," he replied. His voice was low and very soft.

That night, she let him hug her goodbye.

Does this means she cares about me? he wondered fighting to suppress the arousal that came in response to her touch.

"I’ll see you on Friday for the game," Lacey said quietly into the nape of his neck. "I’ll meet you at your office."

"It’s a date." Joe replied.

He didn’t kiss her.

I should have.

"Dear Mr. District Attorney," the crumpled, coffee-stained letter read, "I made it to Flagstaff using the one-hundred mile plan. (Don’t tell the auto club.) By looking helpless and explaining that It’s A Mazda, I was towed 100 miles every twenty-four hours. (I’m sure I’ll do hard time in Purgatory for that one.) I suppose the habit helped, but being stuck in the middle of the desert in it was totally unpleasant and made me long for my childhood when all I wanted to be was a majorette. By the way, good on you for getting in touch with Lacey. Her last letter sounded some semblance of happy. Well, I have places to go and people to annoy. Be a good boy for once and go to confession. You probably need to. Go Yankees! Love, Sister Mary Louise."

Joe called Catherine into his office one afternoon. "Shut the door, and sit down," he said quietly.

Catherine did.

"I want to know why you told me about… that place."

She looked him in the eye and said: "Because I was angry, and because I could."

"You were angry?"

"Yes, I was."

"At me?"

"No. At someone."

Catherine stood up and straightened her jacket. "I don’t want to talk about this anymore," she said, quietly. The way she said it made it crystal clear that the subject was closed.

"That’s okay," Joe replied. He looked at the caseload on his desk. "I need to get back to work."

Catherine moved to open the door and then stopped. She didn’t turn around when she said: "Lacey needs you."

"Why do you say that?"

"I know things that you don’t," she replied. And she left his office in cloud of Chanel No. 5.

In the dream, Joe was running down a dark hallway trying desperately to find the right door. There were so many doors that it was impossible to know which one to choose. He could hear Lacey’s voice calling out to him.

Joe, please help me. Please. I won’t ask for anything else again. I swear. Just loan me your car. I’ll pay you for it. I’ll send you a card. Come on, Joe.

But he was sixteen years old again, and he didn’t know what to do; so he did nothing. The hallway melted into a pool of blood. He was in high school, wrestling a much-larger opponent. Then, he was with Lacey in a hospital room. Her face was covered. Her eyes were dead.

Joe woke up in a cold sweat. He couldn’t move. Memory pinned him to the mat. The only thing that could free him was a Latté made with soy milk…

"Joe, it’s Saturday night. It’s a moral imperative that we do something," Lacey said. She was sitting on the floor, leaning back against his ancient sofa with a piece of half-eaten pizza balanced on one knee. The pizza box was propped open by her half finished beer. Lacey Corelli seemed to do things in Parts.

"A moral imperative?" Joe asked. He was stretched out on the couch above her, his hand dangerously close to her hair. He felt the effects of the beer much more than he should have. It was difficult to move — and even more difficult not to.

"Oh, come on. It’s early. We could go and shoot some pool or something." It amazed Joe that Lacey could play pool at all. She seemed to use some weird sixth sense to do it.

"Not in the mood," Joe replied, shrugging.

"Then, what are you in the mood for?"

"Don’t ask questions, when you don’t want the answer," Joe told her, grinning.

"Don’t be a shit, Joe Maxwell." Lacey turned so she was more or less facing him. "Just tell me if I’m talking to your feet," she said, taking a bite of pizza. "That would be rather embarrassing on my part."

"You’re not talking to my feet." Joe was amused. He wished that she could see that he was grinning at her, flirting with her — and that he was also blushing. After all, he could see the soft flush that spread across her face and neck. He could watch the absolute control with which she moved and spoke. "All right," he said. "If you ask me again, I’ll answer."

Lacey opened her mouth as if to speak. She took a breath and stopped before any sound came out.

She doesn’t like it, when she’s not in control. "You can’t, can you?" Joe asked, waiting expectantly for the action that always followed the Can’t Word.

A stray hair slipped out of her braid and brushed across her face. She opened and closed her mouth wordlessly a few more times. She pushed her glasses further up her nose. She took another swig of beer and then another and another. Finally, she said, too lightly: "Okay, Joe. What are you in the mood for?"

"This," he whispered.

Joe slid down on to the floor beside her. He took her beer and put it safely out reach. For the first time, he touched her face. Lacey’s skin was smooth and very warm. More wisps of hair fell lose from her braid and brushed against the back of his hand, sending chills up his arm and down his spine. "Lose the glasses," he said, softly. He traced the curve of her cheek until it disappeared and became the curve of her neck.

When Lacey didn’t respond, he removed the glasses for her.

Joe ran his fingers over the sea of scars surrounding her still, dead eyes. On a conscious level, he realized that her optic nerves were atrophied and that the sea-blue irises remained clouded beyond repair. But on a deeper level, he saw only the beauty that was Lacey Corelli; he saw her strength and her impossible stubbornness. He saw the girl he’d known so long ago. Joe was amazed by all he saw.

"That’s better," he said, gently.

Joe was sitting so close in front of Lacey that he could feel her breath soft and hot against his face. He moved so that his body pinned her to the couch. The feel of her like this was exactly what he’d wanted. For years. He was only vaguely aware of the heels of her hands pressing against his shoulders.

"Please, Joe," Lacey whispered. "I’m not so sure this is a good idea…"

"But I’m sure," said Joe.

And he leaned in and kissed her. Hard.

Joe was surprised at how willingly Lacey’s mouth gave way to his. He tasted her deeply, thrusting and encircling and exploring as though he’d never kissed anyone before. He was thrilled by the slow, sweet movements of her tongue against his. He was burned by the visions of her fingertips. He pulled her closer and closer until, suddenly, they were flat on the floor and he was on top of her.

He was on top of her; and Lacey was slowly snaking her sinewy legs along his and her arms were slithering up beneath his Yankees’ sweatshirt. Her touches so deliberately matched the building rhythm of their kiss. He lost himself in the feel of her wise hands. It was as though she was carrying both of them on that touch… And then, without warning, she raked her fingernails across the sensitive skin of his upper back.

"Yes!" Joe cried out. His body thrust hard against hers. He slammed her as though he was already inside her. Desperation filled him. He had to have her. Now. He held her down and delighted in it.

Lacey struggled beneath him. She twisted away and broke their kiss. "No! Wait!" she said, breathlessly. "Not on the floor. Not like this. Not with you. Please, Joe."

Joe forced himself back into reality. He opened his eyes and came to the horrible realization that Lacey was half-lying on the greasy pizza box. Her golden braid cascaded jaggedly over a pile of discarded magazines. And a bottle of beer had spilled and seeped stickily beneath her. Oh, God, he thought, miserably. I’m taking you in a pile of trash. And her words "Not with you" replayed themselves over and over in his mind.

"I’m so, sorry, Lace," Joe whispered. He rolled off to one side. He resigned himself to the fact that he was going to be spending the night alone yet again.

"Don’t be sorry," she said, still trying to catch her breath. She didn’t move away. Instead, she reached out and touched his face. A shadow of a frown played across her brow. "It’s been a long time for me, too."

"Yeah?" Joe wasn’t quick enough. She’d seen his disappointment. Damn, he thought.

"Yeah." Lacey moved closer to him. Her thumb idly brushed across the corner of his mouth. "I just don’t want our first time to be on the floor."

"I don’t care where it is, just as long as it is," he said, before he could stop the words.

"You’re too special for that."

Something deep inside of Joe Maxwell broke open. "You think I’m special?" he asked, softly.

"Oh, yeah."

Somehow, he managed to lead her into his small bedroom. Joe was an all-or-nothing guy. He needed to stop every few feet and roll Lacey into his arms, roll her against the wall, kiss her, wrap himself around her, taste her. Her braid came loose, and her hair trailed over his arms like spun gold.

"Not much for foreplay, are you?" Lacey murmured softly, when he threw her down on the bed.

Joe didn’t reply. Instead, he laughed with pure delight and pinned her beneath him. He owned her mouth just that much more with every kiss. Lacey’s body was so soft and so giving. And her hands seemed to be everywhere…

He had no sense of undressing. The only thing he knew was the sweet, electric awareness that he was inside of her — and that his body was in overdrive.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, the woman surrounding him was calling his name for no reason other than himself.

"Joe," Lacey whispered. "Joe Maxwell…"

"Shhhhhh," he whispered, trailing kisses across the curve of her neck. He was losing control; and far too soon everything would become a fast, hard blur.

Lacey’s hands framed his face. She guided his open mouth to hers. Her tongue thrust desperately against his. "Finish what you started, Joe," she begged, her voice jagged and low.

Joe moaned and thrust into her with all he was. He thrust into her so hard that her body bucked convulsively against his. Again and again he nailed Lacey hard against the second-hand mattress. Their entwined bodies became slick with sweat and heat and moved like some pounding, drilling machine.

"Is this what you wanted, Lace?" Joe growled, unable to stop the driving rhythm that locked his body to hers. "Is it?"

"Yes." Lacey moved deliberately beneath him. Every movement fed Joe’s frenzy. Every touch fed his want. Her fingernails tore into his back. Her teeth slid across his shoulder. Her mouth claimed his in ways he’d only dreamed of.

She said, Yes. She said, Finish what you started, Joe.

No longer capable of any kind of control, Joe pinned Lacey beneath him and slammed his body into hers until there was nothing left — nothing left of him, or of her. No lines dividing. Only satiation and the sweet sounds of Lacey as she struggled against him...

Joe Maxwell’s world exploded into a shower of light and feeling.

In the still of the night, Joe awoke to the feel of Lacey wrapping herself around him. He welcomed her touch and returned it freely.

"Hey, Joe," Lacey whispered, soft and low.

"Hey, Lacey," he replied in kind.

"Would you mind if I spent the night?"

"I’d be hurt, if you didn’t," Joe told her, quietly. He kissed her forehead.

"Then, I think I’d better stay."

Lacey kissed his open mouth; and then, she snaked her leg around his thigh and settled into the crook of his arm. It felt comfortable — it felt as if she’d always been there. Her hand came to rest over his heart. "Thank you, Joe," she whispered.

"Anytime."

Given the permission to stay, Lacey fell asleep almost instantly.

Joe gently combed his fingers through her tangled hair. What happened to you? he wondered. Why are you so afraid of going home? Do you even know what ‘home’ means?

In the dark, he couldn’t see her scars. He could only feel what his body wanted and needed simply because she was there. With him. He lay awake in a state of half-arousal for a long time. It was wonderful. Her hand was so small compared to his.

Lacey whimpered; Joe knew she was probably having a bad dream. Nightmares had plagued her all her life.

"I’m here, Lacey," he whispered into hair. "It’s all right."

"Please don’t make me go back there," she murmured.

"I won’t. Go back to sleep."

She curled up and made her whole being small.

Joe was exhausted and sated from making love more times in one night than he could count. He was just happy that Lacey was back in his life. Then, it hit him lying there safe and warm: something really could have happened to her all those many times she self-destructed. Joe imagined Lacey lost and broken in her own, personal dark; and it really scared him.

He remembered her in high school, when she’d do just about anything on a dare. He pictured her at sixteen walking across a plywood plank the chess club had balanced between the gym and rectory buildings. Even after much taunting and goading and calling of names, nobody else in the group gathered on that roof would dream of walking it — but Lacey did. While whistling "Rock Me."

Rock me, give me that kick now

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Lacey hissed, over one shoulder. "What a bunch of whiners! No wonder you’re all virgins. Only the good die young!"

Joe watched silently, secretly knowing that she was a virgin, too, and prayed that she wouldn’t end up on the asphalt basket ball court two stories below. The board went crashing to the ground just as she made it to the other side. Lacey was furious, because she got stranded on top of the rectory and had to be rescued by the nuns. Sister Mary Louise called her parents, who grounded her for two months and wouldn’t even allow Joe to come over to do homework. It never occurred to Lacey that she could have been injured or worse. She just did it. No big deal. It was a lifelong weakness of hers — and also a very dangerous strength.

Before he could stop himself, he thought: It’s all right, Lacey. You’re home now.

Joe’s mind went wandering many times that night, but it always came back and wrapped itself around the woman curled up in his arms. Without meaning to or wanting to, he’d fallen in love with her.

"To: Sister Mary Louise McCarty c/o General Delivery, Flagpole, Arrid Zone-a

From: Joe M, NY NYNY NM M&Ms

Monday PM

Dear Sister Mary Louise,

Okay, so how do I write this? I’m slightly buzzed, and I have all these questions to ask; but you’re a nun. I’ve been told to Go To Confession. So I’ll just write this letter and start on the Hail Mary’s now.

How do you know when a relationship is real? And what does it mean when she won’t take you home? Is she ashamed of you? Even though you worked very hard and wear three piece suits? Is there still something wrong with me? I lost the accent. I left the neighborhood. She said Not Like This. Not With You. And she smiles when she talks to me and kisses me Hello, but she always comes to my place. It’s not that great and the toilet leaks no matter how many times you replace the flapper thing.

What does this mean? Why am I asking you? You’re a nun. JM"

He must have mailed it, when he went on that third beer run.

"Dear Joe,

You’re obviously buying the wrong flapper. I had the same problem back in Brooklyn. It can be fixed. You just have to futz with it until it decides to either come clean or spontaneously combust. Either way, you get what you want if not what you need.

If you’re asking me about Lacey (which I assume you are), I can’t tell you much. I do know that she’s had a life worse than any you can imagine and is very ashamed of how far she’s fallen. She’s probably just as afraid of what you think of her as you are of what she thinks of you. Don’t you remember that roof incident? To quote Mick Jagger: "Am I hard enough? Am I rough enough? Am I rich enough? I’m not too blind to see…"

ASK HER.

GO TO CONFESSION.

Not in that order.

PS–I’m still a nun.

Sister Mary Louise."

Joe decided it was a relationship, when he gave Lacey her own key.