A Soul to Keep

Copyright © 2005, 2011 by Christopher L. Haefner.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All names, places, characters, and incidents are the result of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Book Summary of

A Soul To Keep

Biography

A Story Unfolds

Flashbacks

Striving for Change

A Psychiatric Past

Who was this James?

Everything Black and Blue

Dark Clouds

A Cry from the Past

Help is on the Way

Party Interrupted

Together we Can…

Take a chance on Me

Breakfast and Bed

A Step in Time

Blonde and Beautiful

Fervent Sex!

Dead Man’s Curve

Tasteless Tactics

Of Sex and Sin

Contact

Today’s the Day

To each, The other

Lost Souls

What would God Say?

Escape

Enlightenment

Dirty Words

A Dedication

This book is dedicated to my old friend, or fiend, as you may consider him, James. He really lived, loved, lusted, and lost his life just as the book indicates he did. And, he really did return from the dead!

Book Summary of

A Soul To Keep

Bounded by truth, A Soul To Keep, highlights the diabolical life of James Cuzze as told through the inculcations of Dr. Christopher Haefner. The doctor had always endeavored to help him before it was too late. But then James is killed! The doctor is devastated. As a prominent psychiatrist, he knows that if he could have helped James, he could have helped anybody. Had he succeeded, he could have considered himself a brilliant physician. Now he would never know.

But would he? Ten years after his death, James returns—in ghostly form! Little by little he exacts his purposes into the doctor’s life by purporting to his exasperated friend that he has come back only to help him. James has nothing to reconcile with as the doctor does, and he shows him in ways which were like him, wildly wicked. From the first encounter until last, the doctor’s life is blasted toward a final enlightenment!

Biography

Christopher Haefner grew up in the city of Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

After completing his college education in 1995, he set about writing novels for both young and adult readers. He is a voracious reader and has learned from the greatest authors of the past 150 years. He is a public speaker and gives lectures to both public and private organizations. He teaches Creative Writing in schools in his spare time.

Currently Chris resides just outside Lancaster, close to the tiny village of Silver Spring. He has a wife Cathy.

A Story Unfolds

The door to Dr. Haefner’s office closed. The quiet way in which it did was indicative of the mind-set he proffered to himself each and every day at the conclusion of his work day. Since his very first day as a psychiatric practitioner, he had begun allocating the final hour of his otherwise busy day as a private time, a time in which he could contemplate the day.

Today’s last patient was his most complicated. Eddie, thirteen, was suffering from a complex self-destructive disorder in which he would, without provocation, hurl himself through glass-covered apertures such as windows or sliding doors. His face and arms were, over the extent of his illness, always in some stage of recovery from the wounds that bore the result of this unusual sickness. Eddie’s mother, embarrassed by her son’s condition, always went to great lengths to hide his injuries by coating his healing scars and contusions with skin-colored topical lotions. Before beginning treatment with Dr. Haefner, Eddie’s life resembled that of a mental patient’s from fifty years ago when someone like him would have been labeled insane and sent to an asylum. No longer. The doctor had taken Eddie on because of the severity of his disorder and had been successful in treating him to the point where he no longer had to be hospitalized or be restrained while sitting in chairs or in his bed at night. By intensifying the method of his therapy and increasing the dosage of the Prozac he was on, the doctor had been able to moderate the boy’s illness so that it could be controlled. Now the only remaining precautionary implementation being imposed upon Eddie by the doctor was the stipulation that he wear specially made gloves. Except for sleeping, these had to be worn in between all activities in which he could not have them on. Though the doctor was certain at this point that they were not necessary in the sense that Eddie would need them in case he went berserk, he wanted the boy to be constantly aware of himself, of what he had been doing to himself. Eddie needed to be brought to a state of considerable conscientious consolation.

I have given new meaning to the phrase ‘kid gloves,’ he wrote. I am helping James. The doctor quickly deleted the erroneous name from the computer file, corrected it, and then turned off his computer. He got up from his comfortable swivel chair and stretched. He strolled behind his desk to one of the open windows which overlooked the now vacant parking lot. The windows, he had opened in advance of Eddie’s session as a precaution against inducing any unnecessary temptation to the demonstrative child. The doctor took a comprehensive view of the scant backyard that presided over the larger paved area of what was once a considerable-sized lot of grass, shrubs, and flowers. The doctor lamented that he had to comply with the city’s parking regulations and provide for his patient’s vehicular facilitations by asphalting so much of what had once been such a visual delight. It had been a splendid appendage to the grand architecture of the Victorian building it had been serving for over a century. From his vantage point the doctor observed the proliferation of spring buds appearing on the two old lilac bushes which abutted the brick wall outside the windows. He knew that, within days, the bushes would be besieged by busy bumble bees buzzing about in search of nectar. He would have to put in the screens very soon if he wanted to continue using the windows. While the doctor stared at the scenic view and his mind reflected, his attention was suddenly diverted.

He detected a movement, a shadow, slipping across the wall directly beside him. He caught it out of the corner of his eye and noticed that it landed on the enclosed newspaper article he had hanging on the wall. When the doctor turned to face it, the shadow had disappeared; and instead of considering it, he began considering the article itself.

He read it for what was probably the thousandth time. It read: Local man killed the day before his wedding. James Cuzze, thirty, died tragically yesterday as the result of a car crash on a rural road just outside New Orleans, Louisiana. His death occurred when the car he was riding in plunged off a steep embankment, causing his seat belt to strangle him. New Orleans officials listed suffocation as the determining factor in his resultant death. The other occupant in the car, Julie Newcomer, James’s fiancée, was unhurt in the accident. At the request of the deceased’s family, the body is being returned to Lancaster for burial.

It was a Saturday afternoon, the day after, when the doctor first learned of the tragic event. He had gone to a local park to shoot hoops with his brother, Mark, and their father. His father had immediately related the bad news to him and he recalled the shock of hearing it. Cuzze is dead.

Having heard that his old friend just died, Christopher was immediately reminded of another startling event that occurred the previous night. It was eleven o’clock and Christopher had just gone to bed. He had just closed his eyes, ready for sleep to overtake him, when unexpectedly the phone began ringing. At first he did not react, but the ringing continued, so begrudgingly he got up to attend to the matter. As he trudged down the steps of his rented home, he lessened his irritability by the consideration that any persistent call this late at night could only be of an important nature. When he reached the downstairs phone, he diligently picked up the receiver and said hello. There was no response, but curiously it appeared as though some connection had been made. There was a static noise coming from the other end which became louder as the moments passed. Chris interjected several hellos into the interference, hoping to induce the unknown caller to respond. There was no response. The second he placed the receiver back down, Chris heard a strange noise coming from the front door. In the darkness, Chris traipsed into the living room with his eyes affixed to the door. It appeared as though some unknown person was there, strangely jiggling the brass doorknob as though they were attempting to enter.

Hoping to catch the unsuspecting person by surprise, Chris slowly crept to the door and cautiously turned back the latch on the door lock. When he was ready, he flicked on the porch light and opened the door simultaneously. His adrenaline was flowing and he was ready and able to pounce on anyone who resisted him. The moment he interceded the porch and was about to apprehend the intruder, he was startled to discover that the porch was empty. Nobody was there and there was nobody on foot fleeing the scene. He had been deceived by someone, somehow, but now they were gone. Whoever had been there had mysteriously vanished into thin air! Other than believing he had been fooled by some prankster, Chris gave the incident no further consideration and traipsed off to bed. It was only when his father related to him the account of James’s death that Chris realized the relevance of what happened the night before. Without a mention of the correlative meaning he had concluded about the two events, Christopher went on with his exercise; but in his mind, there was no doubt about it. James, whose life had just ended and whose spirit had yet to realize its determination, had made one final, desperate attempt to seek help. It was James who had tried to make contact with him.

There was a knock on the door. Dr. Haefner’s concentration on the regurgitated matter of James’s death was broken. Come in, the doctor responded. The door opened and the pretty face of Annice Colby, his office secretary, appeared. Doctor, it is after 5:00. Are you all right?

Yes, yes. I am fine, he responded in a subdued voice.

Annice noticed his tired appearance and decided otherwise. She went deliberately back to her desk and acted as though she were busy so she could wait him out before leaving. She knew all about Christopher, his moods and his attitudes. She knew him well enough to know that all was not right with him now. They were friends. And once, before, they had been more.

It was the summer of 1976. He was sixteen. She was fifteen. They were both patrons of the old Maple Grove swimming pool. They were both young with their hearts wide open. Through the course of that summer, they became each other’s first love. Annice smiled as she thought about Christopher as an adolescent boy. Although people change in the sense that they mature and become more responsible about themselves, they do not ever change the essence of who they are. Christopher was still Christopher. And in that place in her heart where she had loved him once, she loved him still.

A teardrop fell from her eye as she recalled the intensity of her young heart. We were too young then, she told herself. Too young to be in love.

Oh, you’re still here, she heard from one side of her desk. Using the tissue she held in her hand, Annice wiped away the wetness from her eyes. Having him so close to her at this moment tortured her heart. If only she could disclose her heart to him now. If only.

He positioned himself beside the door, holding his briefcase. Annice got up reluctantly, grabbed hold of her handbag, and moved toward the door. As she approached him, he noticed a distressed look on her face.

Annice, you look a little flushed. Are you coming down with something?

No, she replied. I’m fine.

No, you are not, the doctor said decidedly. He instantly placed his briefcase on the floor beside him and reached his hand up to examine her. He moved his hand from spot to spot on her forehead, feeling for fever. As he did, he could not help but become entirely entranced by her beauty. His touches became strokes of tenderness and affection. He looked at her—soft brown eyes, swirling chestnut hair, and smooth, creamy skin with not a blemish to be seen. He could have lost himself in the moment.

You don’t have a fever, he said affectionately, hoping his affectionate observance of her beauty had not been too obvious. Are you ready?

Annice smiled bravely. I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for you.

Yes, yes, I know, Christopher admitted. I am sorry for detaining you.

If you’re really sorry, you will tell me what is bothering you.

What makes you think something is bothering me?

I know you, Christopher, and I know when something is bothering you.

You’re right. It’s that boy, Eddie, my last patient. I’m very concerned about his welfare.

Is he recovering?

He’s had only one violent episode during the past five weeks. He’s off his nightly restraints. And his mother says that he is much more amicable now.

Sounds to me you should be feeling relief and not consternation over the matter, Annice said pointedly.

The doctor conceded. You are persistent, aren’t you?

I have to be whenever I deal with you, Annice returned. I know exactly what I have to do to get you to tell me things.

The doctor grinned. I can not resist your candor but let’s walk and talk, he suggested.

Annice’s insistence that they react further on the subject was used by the doctor as an excuse to also initiate a subtle form of intimate contact with her. As they proceeded out of the office, he placed his hand on the small of her back to seemingly escort her as a well-intended gentleman might do. As he did so, he felt a warm rush of heat extend to his hand from her body. It made him look. His hand, gently pushing against the lowest point of her back was only inches from being in contact with her exquisite derriere. How easily he could have slipped his hand past the rim of her skirt. How eagerly he desired that should happen.

He felt as though he were playing the fool for the second time in his life. Once they had been lovers—lovers in the sense that they were two teenagers infatuated with each other and caught up in the idea about being in love. Their love though, then, had been confined expressly to passionate kisses and fondling. They had never actually made love.

This thought infuriated Chris as he and Annice stepped out of the James Street building, and appropriately, Chris released his touch on her.

Tell me before I go, Annice persisted. Chris regarded her intently, her soft brown eyes gazing at him so expectantly. It’s about Jim, he relented, my dearly departed James, my friend of old, my friend.

You mean the James referred to in the article hanging from the wall in your office.

Yes, him.

What about him?

The doctor’s mind stared into the past, to a time of its former self. Talking about or even thinking about James was like opening up Pandora’s box. But just like Pandora, the doctor was useless to resist. Those times, so filled with the clamor and capacity of the human soul, defined by chaos, bound by indignity and atrocities, and reasoned by possession and possibility, were, for the doctor, his life’s blood. The memories, all, were indelibly printed on his mind. Aware that this was neither the time nor place to dwell into something so intricate, the doctor was succinct in his expressing the matter. I am forty years old. I have been practicing psychiatry for a decade now where I have seen and studied a thousand patients or more. I have also read the case studies of a hundred patients more. But not once, not ever, in all of my erudite study have I come across anyone with a more complicated psyche than James Cuzze.

Why does it bother you so much to think about him now? After all, he’s been dead for a long time.

The doctor, still so captivated by the fond memories of the times he and Annice shared together as a couple, used the conversation as a catalyst to bring up that very fact.

You know, he began, you knew him too.

I did? she replied dubiously.

Yes. In fact he was the one who encouraged me to pursue your affection way back when.

Way back when? Annice asked awkwardly.

Don’t you remember? The summer of ‘76? Maple Grove?

But we knew each other from Sacred Heart School.

We knew of each other from Sacred Heart and Catholic High but we didn’t really know each other. I’m talking about that summer when we went swimming together. We even kept our towels together every day.

What did that have to do with Jim?

The doctor regarded her a moment before complying with an answer. Up until that time, you were only a pretty face. You were, in regards to James, always the number-one pick in my top-ten list of girls that I liked. Annice looked at him slightly annoyed. Noticing it, Chris responded, So what if we composed top-ten lists back then? You should be honored. You were always the girl I liked the best. Teenage boys have a right to categorize their potential significant others. It’s a way of helping them to understand what specifically they’re looking for in another person.

As Christopher continued, Annice began to feel an intense awakening inside herself. She began to feel as she had back when she was that younger girl the doctor was speaking about, about when they were in love. Annice Colby was thirty-nine. She was married but had no children. She had a hard life. She grew up in the city and attended Catholic schools her whole life. Having had no prospect to further her education and no opportunity to hold an appealing job, she married her first serious boyfriend, Leslie, when she was only nineteen. Annice was unhappy.

Leslie Colby was an stubborn man who drank too much. During the past twenty years, he had worked a plethora of jobs until recently he landed a position as a postal clerk. He abused Annice both verbally and physically. Annice, due to the mandates of her strict Catholic upbringing, endured it. Emotionally, she had divorced him long ago, but actually, she could not bring herself to do it for the stigma it would attach to her, and because it was considered a sin.

There had been times early on in her marriage when Annice did relent and confided with members of her family some of the dissatisfactions she was experiencing. But most of it fell on deaf ears as she was told from time to time that she had made her bed and now she must lie in it.

Believing in God the way she did profoundly upset her instead of providing her comfort. How could a God who loved her so deeply have determined such an unhappy life for her? This, Annice could not come to terms with, not understand, and not get out of her mind. She did retaliate. From almost the onset of her marriage, Annice had been secretly taking birth-control pills. She did so furtively by acquiring them from a doctor in adjacent York County. This was her secret joy, that she would never conceive a child with a man as mean as her husband. And now, nearing forty, and her reproductive processes declining, she would soon be alleviated from the bother of having to deceive her husband.

Annice listened as Christopher concluded his articulation about how it was James who was the reason that they had been a couple. She would rather that he focused more on that than the reason behind it. The doctor, who had actualized the purport of conversation for the purpose of bringing up their intimate past, had become lost in the myriad of stimulations and excesses of thought that always accompanied discourses pertaining to the subject of James.

Annice was thinking. So what now. Even if his old friend could be attributed with bringing them together once, how did that help now? For her, for her life, it was too late. Just like James.

So you see…

What difference does it make? Annice interrupted. He’s dead!

The doctor was oblivious to the reason for her anger and he answered in accordance with her remark. He’s dead, that’s true, but I, as you know, deal with the emotional value of things. And in that sense, the evocative sense of what people bring into the world, he is not. There exists in each of us parts, attributes, contributed by others—others who are still with us, contributing; others who are no longer with us, contributing also.

What do you mean?

Take you for example. Anyone who has ever been a part of your life has changed you. To some extent, you are who you are because of the people who have interacted with you throughout your life. It is a process which I call influential continuation. Think about it, Annice. Though you may not be consciously aware of it, some of who you are depended upon the people you have made part of your life.

Or the people I have not wanted to make part of my life.

Precisely.

So how does this continuation thing pertain to James? What did he contribute to me?

Me.

They both smiled.

And to think, Doctor, all of that simply because I stated the fact that your old friend was dead. I think I’m going to have to be a little more careful what I say around you from now on.

I am sorry to bother you with my extrapolated theories but I must say that I did it with the greatest regard for your insight and intellect. I have always enjoyed discussing esoterics with you.

Annice felt flattered that the doctor regarded her as someone who could stimulate his mind, but because he was obviously not of the mind to stimulate her emotions, she did not pursue the conversation any further. Christopher, too, realized that she was avoiding any interest in his regard to discuss the philosophical aspects of cause and effect. Obviously she was tired and wanted to leave but was too polite to say so, so the doctor offered her an opportunity. He glanced at his watch. Look at the time.

Annice hesitated. Annice’s hesitation confounded the doctor. It contradicted his belief that she was bored and wanted to leave. Christopher didn’t know what to say. Did you forget something?

No.

Then what is it?

Nothing.

To give her a chance to speak her mind, the doctor suggested that he walk her to her car. This street is busy this time of day. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I can’t afford to lose the best secretary I ever had.

Annice smiled, knowing that she had been the only secretary he had ever had. The doctor took charge, exchanged hands with his briefcase, and grabbed Annice’s with the other. For a time, traffic on the two-way street kept them at a standstill.

This looks like a level-seven Frogger situation, he said jokingly.

As the entourage of cars and trucks clogged both lanes so indiscriminately, Chris continued to hold Annice’s hand. Their palms sweated just the way they had when they first held hands as a couple. By the way Chris held on, he tried to convey to her that he had feelings for her, that he loved her. When the moment came, they hurried across the street, still hand in hand. On the other side, their hands released at the exact moment, as if their connection had been part of a theme park ride which had just ended. Annice entered her car and tried starting it. The engine refused to turn over.

Want me to go inside and call your husband?

Him? He would be of no help. I can assure you of that. And besides that, he won’t be home until after midnight. He works second shift, and after that he usually hits up the bars.

You know, you should really become a member of the AAA.

I know, Christopher. You told me that before. But it takes money to join, money that I just can’t spare right now.

Then how about if I give you a ride home today? Tomorrow, first thing, I will call a tow truck and have your car taken to the nearest garage. Maybe it’s something simple and can be fixed in one day. And don’t worry about the expense. If it’s too much for you to handle, I will pay for it. Consider it a bonus for all of the hard work you do for me.

Annice looked relieved. She got out of her disabled Ford Escort and locked it. Together they waited again to recross the street. As if it were a premeditated act, their hands made contact again and joined as if they were magnet and steel.

Flashbacks

The doctor arrived at his home on Pinnacle Road shortly after 6:00. It was a half-hour commute to and from his practice every day, but he much preferred the seclusion of the sylvan southern woods to the busy city life. To most people who knew him, the extent of privacy he afforded himself on his ten-acre property seemed far too extreme, but he always assured them that he was comfortable living there and content living there alone. The living alone part, of course, was not true, but the doctor was not one to spread his personal problems, like peanut butter and jelly, on public bread.

He longed for love. He wanted to have someone special in his life. He wanted a wife.

During his college years and again as he studied for his doctorate, the doctor had been involved with a considerable number of young attractive women, all of whom he had his fun with but none he had taken seriously enough to try to build a future with. After expending such a large number of eligible bachelorettes, the doctor had gained a somewhat sundry reputation as a cold, callous philanderer. Even his professors had heard of it. Several times they cautioned him against this behavior. Though you may be very well—intentioned at finding your heart, we must advise you against this reckless abandonment you seem to put each and every one of these poor girls through. Your intended profession requires that you maintain the utmost standards of decency. We do not want to see your career jeopardized by having something as silly and as serious as this ruin your chances.

Christopher took their advice seriously. During his remaining year in medical school, he improved his behavior toward the fairer sex and reduced the frequency of his sexual indulgences.

When it came time for him to begin his four-year stint as a practitioner, he was a changed man. He came highly recommended when chosen by Dr. Brain, a prominent psychiatrist who headed Reading Hospital’s Psychiatric Ward, to assist him. The four years he spent there evaluating and caring for actual patients brought out the essence of Dr. Haefner’s erudite nature. He became a brilliant psychiatrist and an ineffective love-her, as he put it. He had been rendered a bachelor, a compensation for years spent in intensive study. He was thirty years old when he began his private practice in his hometown of Lancaster, and hope was still his guide to what he thought would be his eventual, successful finding of someone special. Then came Annice. It was like a dream come true the day she came to assist him in his private practice. She was all he ever wanted in a woman and he cherished every moment of every day they spent together. But she was married, a fact the doctor could never completely come to terms with. Having her with him, he experienced both the agony and the ecstasy that comes with true love. His hope of finding someone special confined itself to his own office from the very first day she came.

He winded his way up the long approach to his house and activated by remote control the automatic opener to his garage when it came into view. It still amused him how, when he had built his home, he had a two-car garage constructed despite his owning and intending to only ever own just one. The idea that it was put there for the eventual purpose of having a spouse who would use it now seemed laughable. Just the same, the doctor only parked his vehicle on the one side, wanting to keep the other in pristine condition should it ever be needed.

After parking the Buick, he closed the garage door then proceeded into the kitchen by an adjoining door. His mail, which he carried with him, he placed down on the oval oak table alongside his briefcase and began perusing it. A considerable amount of it, as usual, was junk. The ones he affirmed as such, he, without even opening them, took one by one and tore in half, tossing the torn sections into a nearby trash can. The bills, he piled neatly and placed back beside his briefcase. One white envelope which was from the Pennsylvania Psychiatric Association or PPA, located in Phoenixville, outside of Philadelphia, the doctor opened. It was a request by the prestigious group, asking the reputable doctor if he would be willing to donate any of his precious time to a cause that the state was now involving itself with: taking an interest to provide in-house psychiatric care of inmates in prisons across Pennsylvania. No psychiatrist could risk becoming disassociated with the PPA, so some contribution would have to be made to the cause—money, perhaps. I don’t do prisons.

Putting the thoughts of what he might do aside, the doctor set about making himself supper. He stepped over to the refrigerator, opened it, then perused its contents for anything that particularly piqued his palate. He picked, from the assorted Tupperware containers, a selection of leftover haddock fillets and half a plate’s worth of onion potatoes. He carried them to the counter beside the stove then got out a skillet. After applying butter to the pan, he began frying. For a drink, he returned to the refrigerator and brought out a half-gallon container of milk. He poured about ten ounces of the 2 percent milk into a twelve-ounce glass, then scooped into it twice the recommended amount of Nestlé’s Quik to make what he termed a chocolaty chocolate milk. After aptly stirring his concoction into a perfectly blended mixture, he placed it inside the freezer to chill. Then he went back to the stove to cook. When everything was ready he took his hot food and cold drink into his living room where he regularly ate his evening meal. Using his remote control, he switched on the TV news then eased himself down into his comfortable La-Z-Boy recliner. He had just taken his first bite of food when the phone rang. He reached over his plate and picked up the receiver.

Hello, he said in a mild-mannered voice.

Hello, Doctor… I mean, Christopher. It’s me, Annice.

Annice?

Yes. I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home.

Not at all, he assured her. What can I do for you?

I… I… just wanted you to know how much I appreciate your taking me home today. I… I really didn’t thank you when you dropped me off. And that was inappropriate of me. I’m sorry.

Something was amiss. The doctor sensed that there was something more to the call than the apology that had just been unnecessarily offered. Could it be that you love me? Could it be that you called just to hear my voice? Could it be that you needed reassurance that when we held hands today we were, in effect, holding each other’s heart? These meanderings came into effect in his head but he dared not entreat himself to their possibility. It was an awkward situation for them both. Having regarded her sincere apology, Chris was simply unprepared for what to say next. He didn’t want to admonish her for calling him at such an inconvenient time, but he did want to complete his meal before it got cold. Annice, I am sorry but I am going to have to let you go. I have a hot plate of food in front of me right now and it’s not getting any hotter.

Oh, Christopher, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.

Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow. And don’t forget I’m picking you up.

They said their goodbyes and hung up their phones. Christopher’s heart was pounding at the joy he felt from actually having Annice call him at home. The only other time she had ever called him there was the day, ten years before, when she received notice that he had selected her to work in his office. But he was equally upset by the strangeness of the call itself and how he had handled it. If it were true that Annice had called for reasons other than the apology, he should have tried to find out what they were. By not doing so, he found himself out to be no different than what he had been back when they were teens. Even then, he had found it incredibly hard to open up conversations between them when it involved their feelings. He admonished himself for his apathy toward her. She was obviously in some sort of distress or maybe just lonely, and all he could do was complain about his food getting cold.

What a fool I am, he pronounced loudly as he commenced with the consumption of his food. He tried to console himself as he ate and watched the television, determined that it would never happen again.

An aura of melancholy enveloped him once the news was over. He collected his dirty dishes and brought them to the kitchen sink and began filling the sink with soapy water. He liked hearing the sound of the splashing water as it spilled into the stainless-steel sink. He liked watching the bubbles and placing his hands in the steamy hot soak. He lingered at the sink for a time, thinking and doing dishes. His mind became interspersed with thoughts about Annice, then went blank.

Most evenings before bed, the doctor would read in his chair, sometimes fall asleep in it, and wake up in the wee hours of the morning, then stumble off to bed. It depended mostly upon the fascination he was having with his latest library acquisition. The doctor was a voracious reader. He had an insatiable appetite for the written word and he would indulge himself as a reader whenever and wherever he could. He had other hobbies too. He collected old American and Canadian coins, fossils, and old brewery memorabilia from the Haefner Brewery, a brewery his family had once owned and operated in Lancaster. Though his interests were quite profound in each of his collections, it was his reading that spurred him on. One of his lifetime goals was to accomplish reading every important book ever written. At age forty, he had already read over one thousand. And as he considered it, he had only nine thousand more to go.

The only book left on the drop-leaf table, the only one left from his latest trip to the Lancaster County