maxine

          One day Hank said to Ling when they were alone in the breakfast nook, "My wife will be in Seattle for a protest against the World Trade Organization."
           "I've heard of this thing. You told me she has been a Red for a long time."
           "Oh yes. A long time."
           "It will be a big media event."
           "The bigger the media, the bigger the event."
           "There will be violence."
           With a look of worry, Hank asked, "You think so?"
           "It's very possible. Why don't you go down there?"
           "Yes. I think I will."
           Hank took up Ling's hand and kissed it. "Thank you very, very much."
           "And I thank you. On that note I must tell you that I plan to go back to the employment agency. You no longer need me to look after Bernice. Let me visit you on weekends. See how you're getting along. And I have a feeling that you and Maxine will reunite soon."
           "A feeling."
           "A feeling."


                                                                                  *


           Jouncing along the two-rut woodland road in her muddy Volvo, Ling pondered the Robert Frost poem that said the woods were lovely, dark and deep. Dim cones from her headlamps lanced into the moonless shroud. She looked sharply for deer. Dials on her instrument panel glowed in a friendly comforting row. No idiot lights flickered. She sighed. Ignorance is bliss.
           Up ahead burned cabin lamps. Amber fireflies in the wilderness.
           Soon the portico loomed and she saw the Rover. Evidently Hank had returned OK from Seattle. She parked behind it and opened her creaky cardoor. She burbled with glee Hank's clarion: "Hello to camp!"
           Silence.
           There was a gong that Bernice had hung by the door. A gentle hark.
           Ling took a little mallet and rang the little gong.
           A pleasant perfume wafted from inside the cabin. Someone was burning herbal candles. Fragrant, aromatic, they could fill a room with love enticement. Ling could hear someone colliding with furniture. It sounded like the spotted bamboo chest she had given to Bernice. Losing some of its feng shui balance.
           "It's me. Ling."
           Hank's voice, husky: "Jussa minute."
           The door was unlatched. She was tempted to enter, but chose to wait.
           "Are you decent, sir?"
           "Yes, m'lady."
           She loved this cabin. It was always a delight to enter it.
           In the dim warm candlelight she could see that Hank was decent. But the woman with him was still disrobed. And still straightening herself to receive company. Ling caught a glimpse of some full, middle-aged boobs before they were covered in a sweatshirt. Ling was reminded of the actress Adrienne Barbeau. Modesty compelled her to look away.
           "Sorry."
           "It's Ok, love." A calming voice, rich as honey. Pinewood, Truckee River.
           Hank's flannel nightshirt almost touched the floor. He was stepping into slippers. The woman hoisted her jeans, tied her belt, and smiled. "There!"
           Ling noted that the woman had dyed her hair jet black in a small crime of vanity.
           Hank motioned to Ling. "I wantchu t'meet someone."
           An empty bottle of single-malt and two tumblers lay by the sofa.
           Again the woman smiled beautifully. A tan and wrinkled face, gaunt and hawklike. Jewish nose, Ling thought. "Hello, I'm Max. You must be Bern's friend."
           "Yes, ma'am. Uh, is Bernice here?"
           "No."
           Hank added, "As you all know, Bernice comes and goes like the breeze. Sometimes we only feel her presence."