Date: Thu, 01 Dec 1994
From: "Sharon S. Scott"
Subject: Caroline
 
 
          Caroline  (Part 1)
              A Forever Knight Story
                    by Sharon S. Scott
 
 
          --Toronto, 1993--
 
          Schanke grumbled into the phone, "He's on indefinite leave,
          Nat. That's all I can tell you cause that's all I've been
          told. Yours truly would like to know what's goin' on too,
          but all I've been told is that he's on leave. Gimme a break,
          huh? This is no fun for me either--I get to break in a
          temporary partner, and that ain't no picnic in the park.
          This guy is so wet behind the ears you wouldn't believe it."
          He stopped and listened a minute, then continued in an
          irritated tone.
 
          "Yeah, I know he's been acting even stranger than usual
          lately. Whatcha think, that I haven't been payin' attention?
          He's come in late and left early a lot lately, but I'm
          tellin' ya, I don't know what's goin' on. You know he never
          tells me anything important, like he thinks I can't keep a
          secret ..." Schanke stopped again.
 
          "Hey, I know nothin'--I dunno what's got him upset, and I
          dunno where he is. He doesn't answer the phone, his car's
          not there. What else can I tell ya? All I know is that he's
          been lookin' like something the cat dragged in. You want any
          other late-breakin' news, you're gonna have to ask him, not
          me. And I gotta go now. Call me if you hear from him, okay?
          Ditto. Hasta la bye-bye."
 
          Schanke put down the receiver, then turned to the young
          officer standing beside his desk. "Okay, amigo, let's
          vamoose. Got to go rope and hog-tie some bad guys."  He
          sighed as he watched his new partner trip over the
          wastebasket on the way out the door. Knight might be
          strange, but at least he didn't fall over the furniture.
 
          Natalie hung up, then lifted the receiver again and punched
          in Nick's number. She let it ring until his machine kicked
          in. "Nick, call me. No matter what time. CALL me."
 
          She hadn't heard from him in four days, and had been leaving
          messages on his machine for the last three. He hadn't
          responded. She'd driven by the warehouse several times to
          check for lights or his car. The lights were off, and the
          car was nowhere to be seen.
 
          She'd called Janette, hoping that she knew what was going on
          and would be inclined to tell. No luck. If Janette knew
          anything, she wasn't revealing it, not to a mortal, anyway.
 
          "You know how Nicholah is, Dr. Lambert. He'll ... reappear
          when his mood changes. I wouldn't worry--he's been taking
          care of himself for a long time."
 
          <Yeah, right, just what I wanted to hear. Thanks for
          everything, Janette.> She got up and went to the kitchen for
          yet another cup of coffee and was startled to see Sydney
          sitting on top of the cabinet, an angry look in his eyes.
 
          "What's your problem, cat?"
 
          Sydney meowed loudly, jumped from the countertop to the
          floor, stood in front of the cabinet door behind which his
          cans of food resided, and meowed again.
 
          "Okay, okay, so you're hungry. Give me a break, Sydney, I've
          had a really bad day."
 
          She opened a can of food and put it into the cat's bowl,
          then leaned against the counter, lost in thought. Sydney
          finished his meal, gave himself a quick bath, and then
          rubbed his head against Nat's leg. Startled out of her
          reverie, she gave him a quick scratch, then went back into
          the living room, her mind back to the puzzle of Nick.
 
          Schanke was right, he had been behaving even more strangely
          than usual recently. He'd been distant, preoccupied, not
          quite on the same planet with everyone else. He seemed to be
          only going through the motions at work, and,
          uncharacteristically, had been letting Schanke take the lead
          on most of their cases. And, if his appearance was any
          indication of his state of mind, he was troubled indeed-
          -dark circles under his eyes, an even more obvious than
          usual pallor, and he had become thinner, almost gaunt.
 
          She had tried to get him to talk to her, to no avail. Her
          persistent questions had earned her a quick "Everything's
          okay, Nat," then irritation, then stony silence, and then
          he'd started avoiding her whenever possible. Despite all her
          efforts, she hadn't learned a thing.
 
          Obviously Stonetree knew something was seriously wrong, or
          he wouldn't have approved an indefinite leave of absence.
          She decided a call to the Captain couldn't hurt, but a quick
          conversation revealed only the information that Nick's
          reason for the leave was "personal". She'd figured that out
          already.
 
          Sydney padded into the room and jumped onto her lap. She
          absentmindedly scratched his ears, then tried Nick's number
          again, and got his machine, again. "Yeah, Nick Knight here.
          I'm either in bed or incommunicado"--at which point she
          slammed the phone down in disgust.
 
          "Well, Sydney, I'm obviously wasting my time and temper, and
          accomplishing absolutely nothing. He's still "incommunicado"
          and apparently wants it that way. Let's go to bed."
 
          The next evening at work she caught herself snapping at
          Grace for the second time. "I apologize. It's not your fault
          I'm in a bad mood, and I shouldn't be taking it out on you.
          Please ignore me from now on, okay?"
 
          Grace accepted the apology with her usual good humor and
          went on about her business, keeping a wary eye on the
          doctor, waiting for an opportunity to find out what was
          going on.
 
          Shortly after 9 p.m. the phone rang on Nat's desk. She
          covered the body she'd been taking samples from and
          answered. "Medical Examiner's Office. Dr. Lambert. What's
          your problem?"
 
          "Natalie?" The voice was hesitant, but it was Nick's.
 
          "Well, thank God. The mystery man reappears. Where are you?
          What's going on? Are you okay? Nick? Talk to me."
 
          "Just give me a chance, okay? I'm fine."
 
          "Well, you shouldn't just disappear like this. I worry."
 
          "Don't. I'm okay. What time are you off work tonight?"
          His tone of voice indicated stress, but he was obviously
          trying not to alarm her.
 
          "At 11. And then I'm off until Monday night. Why? Are you
          sure you're okay?"
 
          "I'm okay, all right? I've been staying with a friend, and
          she needs some help. Could you come over when you get off?"
          There was a pleading tone in his voice that she'd never
          heard before.
 
          "Nat? Are you there?"
 
          "Yes, I'm here. Okay, where are you?"
 
          "Forrest Lane. 207 Forrest Lane. My car's in the drive."
 
          "Got it. 207 Forrest Lane. Car in the drive. I'll be there
          as soon as I can."
 
          "I really appreciate this." He hesitated, then said
          plaintively, "And, Nat ... bring your medical bag."
 
 
Caroline (Part 2)
 
He hung up before she could ask any more questions. Her mind
raced with the possibilities of his words. <My medical bag?
Oh, God, my medical bag. Just slow down--he said he wasn't
hurt. He said he was okay. So why does he need medical
supplies? And a doctor? And who is "she"?>
 
She forced herself to take a deep breath, trying to stem her
panic. <Calm yourself. Think. Think about what emergency
supplies he might need. And hurry up about it, old girl.>
 
She reached for her medical bag and started filling it with
one of almost everything she had on hand in the way of
medical supplies. Then she traded her lab coat for an
outdoor one, grabbed her handbag and keys, and walked
quickly out of the autopsy room. Grace looked up as she
approached, alarm spreading across her face as she
registered the coat, the medical bag, and the expression on
the doctor's face.
 
"Natalie, what's wrong?"
 
"Nothing. I've just been called out on a case. Depending on
how long it takes to wrap it up, I may not see you again
until Monday. Would you cover the phone for me?"
 
"Of course." Grace hesitated, then said, "Are you sure
you're all right? You look upset about something."
 
"I'm fine. Really. Just catch the phone while I'm out,
okay?" Grace nodded.
 
Long strides took her from the outer office without waiting
for more of a reply, and she broke into a run as she left
the building, heading across the parking lot towards her
car. As she reached it, she dropped her keys and swore.
When she finally got the door unlocked, she threw the two
bags in, started the car, and headed for Forrest Lane.
Quickly.
 
She found the narrow street in less than 30 minutes, and
slowed down to look for the right house. "207, 207. Where
the hell is it?"
 
She drove a few more blocks, then spotted Nick's car in the
driveway of a Victorian-style two-story. She pulled over to
the curb, grabbed her bags, and started toward the house.
 
Dim light shone through the lace curtains of a ground-floor
window, and the porch light was on. She reached the front
door and raised her hand to knock, but it opened before she
touched it. Nick stood in the doorway, looking even worse
than he had the last time she'd seen him. His face was grim,
but at the sight of her a weary smile played at the corners
of his mouth.
 
"Come in, Nat. You're here sooner than I expected."
 
"Yeah, well, no problem. You know how I am about speed
limits. But I'm here, safe and sound, ready, willing, and
able. Can I come in?"
 
"I'm sorry. I'm so tired I've forgotten my manners. Please
do come in out of the cold, Doctor Lambert." He made a
courtly bow as she walked into a living room which, despite
the heavy, dark wood of the furniture, looked comfortable
and inviting. The wood didn't glow as it should have, and a
fine layer of dust covered everything in the room. The dark
velvet drapes looked as if they needed a good cleaning, as
did the Oriental rug on the floor. There were books
everywhere, in the bookcases, and on the tables, and in
stacks on the floor. A baby grand piano stood in one corner,
sheet music in a toppling pile near the bench. The top of
the piano was covered with photographs in ornate silver
frames, although the light was too dim to identify the faces
in the pictures.
 
She turned and saw Nick standing at the foot of the stairs,
head angled as if listening for something upstairs.
 
"Nick?"
 
He started at the sound of her voice, then turned and spoke
softly. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a few
minutes."
 
"Make myself comfortable? You must be kidding. You call and
tell me you have a friend who needs some help, then tell me
to bring my medical bag, and now you want me to just kick
off my shoes and relax? What's going on here, Nick?"
 
He moved up the stairs as if he hadn't heard a word she'd
said. When he reached the top, he walked quickly to the open
door of a room she assumed was a bedroom and went in. She
heard him speaking to someone, although she couldn't
understand what he was saying.
 
She put her bags down, removed her coat, laid it over the
back of a chair, and squared her shoulders. <Okay, he's got
you here and now he's ignoring you. So now what?>
 
And then she heard what sounded like a moan from the room
upstairs. When she heard the sound a second time, she
grabbed her medic bag and ran up the stairs. She stopped at
the open door, and looked hesitantly into the room Nick had
entered. It *was* a bedroom, a woman's bedroom. There were
perfume bottles, a silver-backed hairbrush and mirror, and a
jewelry chest on the mahogany dresser. The heavy drapes were
drawn and the only light came from a small bedside lamp.
 
Nick was sitting on the edge of a four-poster bed, his head
bent, his hands holding those of an old woman. It was hard
to guess her age, but the wrinkling and age spots on her
face and neck and hands put her in the seventy to
eightysomething age group. Her gray hair was in a long braid
over one shoulder, and her face was pale, showing the
ravages of time and illness. Her breathing was so shallow
that the nine-patch quilt which covered the bed barely
moved.
 
He whispered, "Mais non, Caro, mon coeur," and raised her
hands and kissed them gently. The woman's eyes opened,
focused on his face, then shone as she looked into his eyes
and smiled.
 
"Nicky, you know I never learned to speak French. Tell me
what you said."
 
He smiled at her and held her hands against his chest. "You
know exactly what I said and what I meant. You always have."
 
She sighed, then smiled. "You're right, as usual. I just
wanted to hear you say my name again."
 
He raised her hands to his lips once more, then stopped as
her eyes closed and a look of pain crossed her face.
 
"What is it? Is there something I can do?"
 
"Nothing, except ... it's just too much ... I can't take it
any longer. You have to let go."
 
"No. It's too soon."
 
She stared at him. "Too soon? Nicky, it's been over 60
years. I'm old, and I'm tired, and it's time."
 
Her eyes closed again as he touched her cheek gently.
"Later, Caro. Sleep now. I'll be here if you need me." He
stood and watched her face for a few moments, then looked up
and caught sight of Nat. She waited for him at the top of
the stairs as he closed the door, walked past her, and sat
down heavily on the top step.
 
 
Caroline (Part 3)
 
She sat beside him on the step and asked softly, "Who is
she?" When he didn't answer, she touched his arm. "Nick, you
asked for my help. Now tell me what's going on. Who is she?"
 
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When he began
to speak, his voice was flat, almost devoid of emotion, and
he stared into the distance.
 
"Her name is Caroline Miller. She's a friend. An old friend.
And a very good friend." He stopped and rubbed his face with
his hands.
 
"How long have you been awake?"
 
"I've caught a few catnaps while she slept. I'm okay."
 
"Have you ... eaten?"
 
"Not to worry, Nat. She keeps ... supplies for me. She's had
firsthand experience in dealing with my particular problem."
 
She thought about that a moment, then said slowly, "Then
she's a part of your past, I assume?" Nick gave her one of
his looks, and she went on, carefully. "Okay, I guess I
assumed correctly. So if that's the case, why did you call
me? You aren't normally very open about your past."
 
His embarrassment showed on his face. "Nat, let's not go
into that now, okay? I called you because she's hurting, but
she's too stubborn to admit it.  She refuses to go into
hospital. I could have forced her to, but I thought maybe
you could do something for her here.  I know it's a lot to
ask ... "
 
"What's wrong with her?"
 
"She's got a heart condition. Has had for years. She's been
bedridden for the last couple of months."
 
"Who's been taking care of her?"
 
"I have, when I could. I hired a private nurse for when I
couldn't be here. But Caroline sent her away, fired her,
actually, when the woman insisted that she needed to be in
hospital. So here I am. On leave, indefinitely."
 
"I know about the leave. I weaseled that information out of
Schanke and Stonetree--they were worried about you. And so
was I. You could have let us know."
 
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry anyone. Least of all
you." He paused, trying to keep his emotions in check. "I
just felt that it was a very private matter. It's not easy
to watch someone you've loved for so many years ... die."
 
"I know, Nick. I watched Richard die. Twice. Remember?"
 
He put a hand on her arm. "Yes, I remember. How could I
forget? Damn, I should never have gotten you involved in
this. I was just hoping against hope that you could help
her."
 
"I won't know whether there's anything I can do until I
examine her. And I'm not making you, or her, any promises.
I haven't practiced this kind of medicine since med school,
but I'll try."
 
"Thank you, for whatever you can do. I'll go talk to her."
He rose and started for the door, then came back, kissed the
top of her head, and went into the bedroom.
 
When he came back out in a few minutes, he said, "She's
agreed to the exam, but she's still adamant about not going
into hospital."
 
"I'll do what I can, but you understand that may not be
much?"
 
"Understood. I've explained to her that you're a close
friend as well as a doctor, and she's agreeable--well, as
agreeable as Caroline ever gets. She's always been a
headstrong woman. I'll be downstairs if you need me, okay?
Just call."
 
When he started downstairs she picked up her bag and entered
the bedroom. Caroline's eyes opened as she set the bag on
the bedside table.
 
"Doctor Lambert, you're wasting your time and mine."
 
"Ms. Miller, I understand Nick explained who and what I am,
and you've agreed to an examination?"
 
The woman coughed, tried to take a deep breath, and finally
answered. "My name is Caroline. And yes, go ahead, but I
warn you, you're wasting your time."
 
"What do you mean?"
 
"Exactly what I said. But go ahead if it'll make you and
Nicky feel any better."
 
Nat removed the stethoscope from her bag and prepared to
start the exam. "How old are you, Caroline?"
 
"I'm 87. And I won't live to be 88. So do your stuff and
then leave me in peace."
 
Natalie smiled. <I think Nick's right--she does seem to have
a mind of her own, and I'd not like to be the one to try to
change it.> Caroline's brown eyes were clear, but her skin
had a grayish tone and seemed almost translucent. As she
turned the woman's arm to check her pulse, she noticed a
group of small white dots, in pairs, on the inside of her
wrist and elbow. On closer examination, the dots appeared to
be old scars of some sort. She started to ask about them,
but then the most likely answer came to her, and she almost
dropped Caroline's arm. Recovering her composure, she
continued the exam. The woman's pulse was weak and erratic,
and her heart sounded like it was drowning in fluid. Her
fingernails were slightly blue--all of which added up to a
worn-out body which was barely functioning.
 
She glanced up and found Caroline looking at her with amused
resignation. "So what's the verdict, Doc? Will I ever dance
again?"
 
"You need to be in hospital, Caroline. There's not much I
can do for you here--you need more medical help than I can
give you."
 
"Hospitals can't cure old age, and besides, I hate them.
I've made my choice--if I have to die, I'll do it here, in
the house I love, with the man I love. Or should that be the
man we both love?" She paused and smiled at the look on the
younger woman's face. "Don't look so surprised--I've loved
Nicky for a long time, and I recognize the signs."
 
Flustered, Nat answered quickly, "You're mistaken, I'm
afraid. Nick's a good friend, but that's all."
 
Caroline closed her eyes. "Keep trying to convince yourself
of that--it won't work, but keep trying."
 
Natalie began to dig through the contents of her bag,
searching for a syringe and the correct vial. "If you won't
go into hospital, about all I can do for you is give you
something for the pain."
 
"Something that'll make me sleep through my last few days?
No, thank you." She opened her eyes and searched Natalie's
face. "Or is it hours, rather than days?"
 
"Are you sure you want to know?" When Caroline nodded, she
answered slowly. "I'm afraid it may not be days. You're in
congestive heart failure."
 
"Yes, I did know that--I've been to all the doctors and I've
taken all their medications, none of which are working any
longer. So quit bothering me and go see about Nicky."
 
"Nick? He's downstairs. You're the one who needs help, not
him."
 
Caroline's eyes blazed. "If you believe that, then you're
not as bright as I thought. Get out of here and go see about
him. He needs someone to help him get through this, and it
seems you're that someone this time. So get the hell out of
here and let me get on with it." She closed her eyes as she
coughed and seemed to gasp for breath, and didn't speak
again.
 
Natalie exited the room, leaving the door open so she could
hear if Caroline called out.
 
In the living room, Nick was stretched out on the sofa, one
arm over his eyes, the other cradling a half-full wine
bottle with no label. Thinking him asleep, she turned to
look for the kitchen and some coffee.
 
She was startled when he asked, "How is she?"
 
"I thought you were asleep. I was just going to get some
coffee to keep me awake. Do you want some?"
 
"No, thank you. I never acquired a taste for coffee."
 
Embarrassed that she'd forgotten that small detail, she
turned away from him, searching for the kitchen.
 
"It's through the door to your left, Nat."
 
When she returned, cup of coffee in hand, the bottle Nick
had been cradling was nowhere to be seen, although he didn't
seem to have moved an inch. She sat in the wing chair facing
the sofa and sipped her coffee.
 
"Is there anything you can do for her?"
 
"Nothing but pain medication, and she refused that. I know
she's your friend, and I'd rather not have to tell you this,
but she's failing rapidly. There really isn't much anyone
could do for her, even if we could get her to hospital."
 
"How long?"
 
"It's always hard to tell, but not very long. A few hours,
perhaps a day. Fluid's building up in her lungs, and her
heartbeat is very weak and erratic."
 
"I know--I've been listening to it for days. The sound of it
follows me, and every time it falters I wonder if that's the
last time." He stood and moved to face the fireplace.
 
"Tell me about her, Nick."
 
His face seemed to close, as if a mask had dropped into
place. "You don't want to hear about it. It's a story that
ends like all the others."
 
"I'm here for the duration, so tell me anyway."
 
"You won't be bored?"
 
She smiled at the thought. "I'll tell you if I get bored.
Indulge me."
 
"That's strange. Janette said the very same thing to me the
night this all began."
 
 
Caroline (Part 4)
 
--New York City, 1927--
 
Janette had appeared at his door, obviously out of sorts at
having to climb the stairs to the top-floor apartment.
 
"Why do you choose always to live in the clouds? I despise
stairs."
 
"My humblest apologies, Janette, but I don't remember asking
for your approval of my living quarters. I choose to live
where I can see the sky, and the stars, and enjoy the wind
blowing in through open windows. Where I can be near people,
and hear them, and see them. I don't understand how you can
bear to always live underground--I'd go mad if I had to live
in those places again. Catacombs, basements, cellars, caves,
crypts. Haven't we spent enough time hiding out in the dark
through the years?"
 
"Perhaps you're right, Nicholah, but those dark places kept
us alive more times than I care to think about. Here, I am
too ... exposed. I feel more secure with earth around me. It
keeps the light, and ... people ... away."
 
Nick smiled sardonically. "That sort of sums up the
differences between us, doesn't it? You choose to cling to
the old ways, protected from the light and from life."
 
"Oui. And we know that you now disdain those ways. You
aspire to more. But I warn you, again, remember that the
light can be fatal to our kind." She paused, staring at him
intently. "And you *are* still one of us, despite all your
useless attempts to cross back over. Why do you keep
trying?"
 
"It's obvious you'll never grasp why, so let's not open that
Pandora's box again. Now, tell me, why are you here? What do
you want of me now?"
 
She slowly and deliberately took a cigarette out of her gold
case, inserted it in the holder, lit it, and blew the smoke
in his direction. "Why do you assume that I want something?
Perhaps I simply wanted to see an old ... friend?"
 
"Janette, you always want something. So let's don't play
games. Tell me what it is."
 
"I enjoy games, as you well know. You've been an entirely
willing participant often enough."
 
At the look of irritation that crossed his face, she sighed.
"Yes, I know, you don't wish to remember the past, do you?
You want to live in the here and now, however boring it is."
At his questioning look, she went on. "I'm bored, Nicholah.
I desire amusement."
 
"Amusing you can be a full-time job," he sighed. "What did
you have in mind this time?"
 
"Nothing too strenuous. Take me out on the town, as I
believe they so quaintly put it in this country. See, I'm
dressed for it."
 
She let her fur coat drop to the floor, revealing a
shimmering black dress which would have been shapeless on
anyone else. She pirouetted, and the jet beads caught the
light as she moved.
 
"So tell me, what do you think?"
 
"I think you are as beautifully elegant as usual, but I'm
not in the mood tonight. I have work to do. Can't you find
someone else to amuse you? Where's your coterie of
playmates?"
 
"I told you, I'm bored. And I'm especially bored with them.
They're gauche ... and ... *enthusiastic* ... and extremely
... boring. Indulge me, Nicholah." She put out her cigarette
and lit another. "But, if you choose not to attend me, I
could remain here and assist you with your 'work'. Although,
frankly, I can't imagine anything more boring than studying
books on ancient ruins. You've lived in more than a few of
these places now considered  "ancient" by mortals, so what's
the point of studying them?"
 
Nick groaned inwardly. Janette had never understood his love
of archeology, and her "help" would mean an evening of
subtle, then obvious, attempts to distract him from whatever
he was trying to do.
 
"I surrender. You've vanquished me. Again. I know how much
help you'd be. Just let me go change."
 
"Oh, lovely, Nicholah! You know how I adore men in evening
dress. Vite, vite!"
 
When he emerged from the bedroom a short time later, Janette
was sitting on the piano bench, smoking and tapping her foot
impatiently. "You're finally ready? Let's be off, then. I
want crowds, lights, music, dancing ..."
 
Nick smiled and moved toward the kitchen.
 
"Where *are* you going?"
 
"It's 1927, and this is New York City. America. Remember a
little thing called Prohibition? That means vile liquor,
probably made in someone's bathtub. I'd rather drink
something that won't eat away my stomach, so I'm going to
fill my flask. Would you like me to fill yours while I'm at
it?"
 
Janette frowned. "I forget that these fools have such an
idiotic law. No, thank you, I do not wish to drink anything
kept in anyone's kitchen, including yours. I'm sure we can
obtain something fit to drink, if you offer enough money. I
do hope you have plenty of money."
 
"Yes, I have a sufficiency of cash, but one never knows. I'd
prefer to be prepared. Be back in a moment. And while I'm
gone, you could pick that very expensive fur coat up off the
floor and put it back on."
 
As he turned to go into the kitchen, Janette stuck her
tongue out at his back. "Nicholah, don't disparage my coat.
Animals die every day, and you've done your share of
killing."
 
He returned from the kitchen, putting the flask in his
pocket. "So you keep reminding me. But is it necessary to
flaunt death so? Or to flaunt the exorbitant amount of money
that coat cost? You should know by now that it's dangerous
to allow humans to know the extent of our wealth."
 
"Nicholah, I desire amusement, not criticism of my attire or
my spending habits."
 
"Then I promise not to mention it again. But remember, this
evening was your idea, not mine. Where do you wish to go to
be amused?"
 
"Texas Guinan's, I think, to begin. It is loud, and crude,
like this city. A good choice?"
 
"If crude is what you desire, then that's the place to go.
Shall we?"  She took his arm as he opened the door. They went down the stairs to
 the sidewalk and hailed a taxi.
 
They were met inside the club by Guinan herself, shouting
"Hello, suckers!" at the top of her voice. The place was
filled with smoke, the smell of bad liquor and cheap cigars,
the scent of human bodies and the perfumes used to cover
their odors. Tables were pushed so close together that
movement between them seemed impossible, and the tiny stage
was filled with scantily-clad women dancing and attempting
to sing loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the
crowd.
 
Before they even tried to force passage through the crowd,
Janette looked at Nick, shook her head "no" and retreated.
Back out on the sidewalk, they both took a deep breath of
the cold night air.
 
"I thought this was what you wanted, Janette."
 
"I want music, not screeching, and enough people to provide
some amusement, but I do not wish to be trampled by that ...
herd."
 
"Then have you had enough for one night? May we go home
now?"
 
"Have you no sense of adventure, Nicholah? No, let's go on."
 
Sighing, he motioned for her to lead the way, then took her
arm as they proceeded along the crowded sidewalk. They
stopped at several other clubs, none of which were to
Janette's satisfaction, and eventually ended up at Helen
Morgan's. After an exchange of pleasantries and cash with
the headwaiter, they were seated at a small table near the
stage, which held a piano and little else. They ordered
drinks, but at the first sip Janette made a face.
 
"Don't even attempt it, cheri. It's loathsome. How can they
drink this swill?" She opened her handbag, took out a vial,
and mixed the contents with the drink.
 
"Are you amused yet, Janette?"
 
She gave him a scathing look, but before he could answer,
the lights in the club dimmed and a spotlight focused on the
stage. As a young man took his place at the piano, a woman
stepped into the light. She wasn't beautiful--was, in fact,
rather plain.  Brown bobbed hair, brown eyes, tall, slightly
heavy, wearing a simple black dress.
 
"That's not Helen," Janette hissed.
 
"Do you wish to leave?" Nick asked.
 
"No. Perhaps Helen will sing later, after this one is done."
 
The piano player started the intro, and the woman on the
stage closed her eyes as she began to sing.
 
  "There's a someone that I'm longing to see ... "
 
Her voice was low and husky and hypnotic. The noise level in
the club dropped immediately as every face in the audience
turned to listen to her.
 
  " ... someone to watch over me ... "
 
Janette looked over at Nick and her heart plummeted. He had
that look on his face, the look she'd seen so many times
before, as if he were transfixed by this woman, as if no one
else in the world existed.
 
<No, not again. I can't bear it. Does he not care what it
does to me, and to him?> In an attempt to break the spell,
she focused her will on him, forcing it, making it stronger
and stronger. To absolutely no effect. His eyes didn't move
from the singer, and his face showed no hint of the pressure
she was exerting.
 
She gave up the attempt and sipped her drink slowly,
watching him. He didn't applaud as the song ended and
another started. He simply sat and stared. <He no longer
even knows I'm here. This one truly has him in thrall.>
 
When the set ended, and the applause finally died down, he
wrenched his eyes from the stage and looked around as if
awakening from a trance.
 
"Again, Nicholah? Have you not learned by now that this is
folly?"
 
"What are you talking about?"
 
"Don't treat me as if I were stupid. I saw the look on your
face. You didn't know I was sitting at the same table as
you."
 
"You're imagining things. Finish your drink."
 
"I *have* finished my drink, which you would have noticed
had you been paying attention." She glared at him, rose, and
stalked out of the club. He gathered up her coat, threw some
money on the table, and followed.  She was standing on the
sidewalk in front of the club, arms crossed over her chest
in the cold night air, her anger evident in the set of her
face and the lines of the body. Without a word, he draped
the coat around her and they moved toward the taxicab stand
on the corner.
 
As they reached the stand, a woman in a dark coat and a
cloche hat almost collided with them. "I'm so sorry, please
pardon me. I'm just being clumsy as usual." The woman looked
at Janette, sensed her anger, and took a step backward.
 
Nick moved in between the two women before Janette could
speak. "No harm done. May I tell you how much I enjoyed your
singing? You have an extraordinary talent."
 
Janette glared at them as they introduced themselves, then
spat out, "Nicholah, I'm ready to go."
 
"Please accept my apologies, Miss Miller. My companion's
manners leave a great deal to be desired. I hope to hear you
sing again sometime."
 
He opened the door of the taxi and held out his hand to help
Janette in. She ignored him, got in without assistance, and
moved to the far side of the vehicle, where she stared
stonily out the window. Nick gave the driver Janette's
address, then settled back into the seat and stared out his
window. They rode in silence until the taxi stopped.
 
Janette sat a moment, then said quietly, "Never, ever,
again, apologize for me." She stepped out of the cab and
turned to face him. "And don't come to me for comfort when
your latest infatuation brings you grief. Bon soir,
Nicholah." She slammed the door and vanished.
 
He sat quietly for a few moments, then said, "The Village,
driver."
 
Caroline (Part 5)
 
--Toronto, 1993--
 
He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips before he
continued. "Janette had always been there for me before, and
it was a shock when I realized she meant it this time. She
withdrew from me completely. I was alone." Nick's bitterness
was evident in his voice.
 
"Until I happened into a little place that was a bad
imitation of a Parisian night club. I don't really know why
I went in, except that it reminded me of other places and
other times. And there was Caroline, singing love songs to a
crowd of people pretending very hard to be sophisticated.
And I sat and listened to her, through all three
performances. And I wanted to talk to her, so I waited for
her to leave."
 
--New York City, 1928--
 
The woman was startled when he spoke to her in the dimness
of the alley behind the cafe. "Miss Miller, you probably
don't remember me, but I heard you sing in Helen Morgan's
club one night. I'm Nicholas Girard. You bumped into my
friend, a dark-haired woman in a fur coat, at the taxi stand
outside the club, and she was exceedingly rude to you."
 
She smiled. "Yes, I remember you. Your ... friend wasn't
very happy with me, or with you, as I recall."
 
"She's a very impatient woman." He returned the smile.
 
"And I'm a very hungry one. Since you obviously don't have
anything better to do than sit through all three of my sets,
and stand around in the alley waiting for me, why don't you
make yourself useful and take me out to dinner?"
 
"I'd like that very much, Miss Miller. Where would you like
to go?"
 
"My name's Caroline, and I don't care where we go, as long
as wherever we go has lots of food. I'm starving. How about
just walking down the street and stopping at the first place
that smells good?"
 
"That sounds like an excellent plan to me. Lead on."
 
They walked along the sidewalk until they reached an Italian
restaurant. Caroline stopped, inhaled deeply, and said,
"This is the place. It smells delicious."
 
Nick demurred when it came time to order, saying he had
eaten earlier, but sat and watched in awe as Caroline ate an
enormous meal with obvious relish.
 
"Why are you staring at me? You look as if you haven't ever
seen anyone eat before."
 
"I'm amazed that one human being could put away that much
food at one time. You really were hungry, weren't you?"
 
"May I call you Nicky?"
 
"Certainly. Call me whatever you like."
 
"Okay, Nicky, I'll tell you my tale of woe, and then maybe
you'll understand my appetite. When they raided Helen's
club, they not only confiscated all the booze; they hauled
off what furniture they didn't break, and they destroyed
everything else in sight. And because of all the damage, the
club didn't re-open, which left me without a job. In case
you don't know it, singers are a dime a dozen in New York,
and it isn't easy to find a place where they'll let you do
what you're good at. Most of them want you to prance around
in next to nothing and let the customers pinch you, because
that sells more of their rot gut. That's what I loved about
working for Helen--she let me do what I was best at, maybe
because she's a singer herself, so she understood. She was
the real draw at the club, but she couldn't hold out for
three sets a night, so I filled in for her. It was fairly
steady work, and I was able to give up my other job as a
waitress. Then disaster struck." She gave him a questioning
look. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"
 
"I'm positive. I've lived through a few disasters myself.
Please go on."
 
"All right. But do you think you could arrange some wine
first? This is dry and dusty work."
 
He called the waiter over and made a deal for a bottle of
wine.
 
"Where was I? Oh, on the brink of disaster. To continue--I
was out of a job, my rent was due, and the cupboard was
bare. I tried to get my old waitress job back, with no luck.
 
 
So I started making the rounds of the theaters, and the
clubs, and the speaks. I was about ready to try the
burlesque houses when they hired me as waitress at that
pretentious little club. The owner's girlfriend, who was
also the singer, got herself a new man and took off, which
left them without any so-called entertainment. I stepped
bravely into the breach--I wasn't exactly in demand anywhere
else. It isn't much, but it's all I've got right now. And I
have to pay the rent, so there's little or nothing left to
feed my baser appetites for things like food and drink. So
there you have it. Now aren't you sorry you asked?"
 
"No, I'm not. Tell me more."
 
"It's your turn. Tell me about you while I drink some more
of this excruciatingly bad wine."
 
"There's nothing much to tell. Sometimes I teach, sometimes
I write, sometimes I paint. Other times I just sit and stare
out the window. A boring life."
 
"Apparently you have enough money to do exactly what you
want. That doesn't sound boring to me, and I am very easily
bored."
 
"Money isn't important."
 
Her irritation at his statement was evident. "That's an
extremely boorish thing to say--only people who have money
think it isn't important. It allows you to lead the kind of
life you want."
 
"My life is not what I would have chosen if I had had a
choice."
 
She stared at him with frank curiosity. "What does that
mean? Why not?"
 
"That's my tale of woe, Caroline, which is an even more
depressing tale than yours. Let's save it for another time."
He looked away, but something drew his eyes back to her
face.
 
"Well, if you won't tell me now, perhaps you'll tell me
later."
 
"Will there will be a 'later'?" He looked at her intently.
 
She returned the look. "That depends."
 
"Upon what?"
 
Her face was serious as she replied. "Upon whether I like
whatever else you have to say."
 
The intensity of the look that passed between them was
broken by the waiter announcing the closing of the cafe.
Out on the sidewalk again, he asked if he could escort her
home, and when she agreed, they began walking toward the
Village, talking, enjoying each other and the city at night.
 
She answered his question about what kind of songs she liked
to sing best. "Love songs. Always love songs. I can and have
done other things, but I don't have the right face or body
for the chorus line or the theater. I'm not pretty, and I'm
too tall and too heavy. But when you sing in clubs, the song
is the important thing, not the singer's looks."
 
When he started to speak, she cut him off. "Don't tell me
I'm pretty, because I'm not. I can see myself in the mirror,
so don't flatter me."
 
"I wasn't going to. What I was going to say was that you
have an extraordinary voice. Will you accept that
compliment?"
 
She smiled. "Yes, I will. And will you accept one also?"
 
"I'll try."
 
"I like your eyes. Very much. They're very striking eyes.
No, don't make a face! I'm serious." She grabbed his arm and
looked into his eyes.
 
"Nicky, I mean it. They're very sad eyes--they look like
you've seen things you'd rather not have seen. Were you in
the War?"
 
"Yes, I've been to war. And I have seen some very unpleasant
things. But let's talk about pleasant things tonight, okay?"
 
They continued walking, her arm in his.
 
"Tell me, what's the thing you'd most like to do, Caroline,
if you could do anything?"
 
"Fly, Nicky. I'd fly."
 
He stopped so suddenly that, for a moment, she didn't
realize he was no longer beside her. When she did, she
turned to him with a questioning look.
 
A wide smile appeared on his face, then he laughed so loudly
that other late-night passersby turned to look at him.
 
"What did I say? What brought this on?"
 
He tried to control himself long enough to speak. "You want
to fly?" He erupted in laughter again.
 
"Yes, I do. I have ever since I saw a barnstormer back home
in Toronto. What's so funny about that?"
 
He attempted to make his voice serious. "I can fly."
 
"You can? You really know how? You're not just teasing me,
are you? Tell me you aren't."
 
"I'm perfectly serious. I learned to fly an aeroplane during
the War."
 
"Will you teach me, Nicky? Please?"
 
"Yes, I will."
 
She ran to him, laughing, and grabbed his hands, almost
dancing in her glee. Then she pulled herself closer to him,
put a hand on either side of his face and kissed him. She
pulled away and looked intently into his eyes. "When? When
can we start?"
 
He wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed her,
hungrily. And kissed her again. "I think we already have."
 
--Toronto, 1993--
 
He stopped talking, his face soft with remembrance. He got
up and crossed the room to the window, looked out at the
sky, and closed the drapes against the coming light.
 
"And I did teach her to fly. She had the nerve, the
fearlessness, that you need to be a good pilot. And she was
superb. She had a passion for it. As she did for music, and
for life."
 
He went to the piano, picked up a stack of sheet music, and
sat on the bench. He pulled out various pieces of music,
looked at them, then put them back at the bottom of the
stack. "That passion came out in her singing, as well,
although she never made much of a success of her career."
 
"Why not, if she was that talented?"
 
"Because she wouldn't bend, wouldn't give in when she
thought she was right. She would disagree with the club
owner, and she'd either quit or get fired because she
insisted on doing things her own way. She was the same way
when we were together." He stopped, obviously disconcerted
by what he'd just said. He looked at Nat, trying to
determine her reaction to his words. She didn't seem to be
upset, so he went on, hesitantly. "We're both ... very
stubborn people ... and neither of us would give in. We had
some happy years together, but we had some really bad ones
as well. She was the first mortal woman I'd ... been with in
a long time, and the adjustment was ... difficult ... to say
the least."
 
Nat thought that over for a few moments, piecing together
the various bits of information that both Nick and Caroline
had spoken. So they had been more than just friends. Nick
was telling her that they'd been lovers? How was that
possible? <Well, here goes--I guess the only way to find out
is to ask.> "But you ... worked it out?"
 
"No, Nat, we didn't. You know what I am, so you know that I
couldn't trust myself not to hurt her. Or kill her." He
stopped for a moment, visibly embarrassed, then looked up at
her. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
 
Yes, she understood. She wished she didn't, but she
understood. She tried to keep her expression calm and cool.
"I think I get the general idea."
 
"Yeah." He paused for a moment, then continued talking.
"We were together on and off for years, until she got too
sick to work. And then she got too sick to take care of
herself, although she wouldn't admit it. Both her parents
were gone by then, and she told me that she wanted to move
back to Toronto, to the house where she, and her mother, had
been born. To this house. She was trying to ease me out of
her life. She joked about not wanting me to see her in her
"declining years", as she put it. So she moved here, and
then I came to help take care of her. She wouldn't let me
move in, because it was too painful for her when people
assumed I was her son, rather than her lover. But no matter
what other people thought, and no matter how we aged or
didn't age, neither of us ever lost the passion we had for
one another."
 
He stopped and rubbed his face with his hands. When he
didn't resume, she prompted him.
 
"And?"
 
"And then this."
 
"Nick, if you're almost 800 years old, surely the problem's
come up before with people you've ... loved, hasn't it? How
do you deal with it?"
 
"You just live with the pain and you go on. And you lie to
yourself that it'll never happen again. That you'll never
allow it to happen again.  And then it does."
 
 
Caroline (Part 6)
 
They took turns sitting with Caroline throughout the day,
sleeping when they could. When sundown arrived, Nick was
asleep on the sofa, and Nat sat in a rocking chair next to
Caroline's bed, rocking and listening to her reminisce
between bouts of exhausted sleep.
 
"Natalie, you can't imagine what life was like then. Radio.
Talkies. Model A's. Did you know that Nicky taught me how to
drive? And how to fly? We even met Lindbergh once, at some
horribly boring reception. I idolized him. I have a
photograph of the three of us somewhere--tell Nicky to find
it for you. He'll know where it is."
 
"You should get some rest now. You're tiring yourself with
all this talking."
 
"So? What else do I have to do? It pleases me to talk. Nicky
used to tell me to stop talking and take a breath every once
in a while. But he always listened. That's one of the things
I loved most about him. He listened to me talk, and he
listened to me sing, and I even got him to join in
sometimes, the singing, that is. He has a beautiful voice."
She closed her eyes and her smile faded.
 
"Other things weren't so beautiful, though. Because of what
he is, the physical side of things wasn't always so
pleasant."
 
"Caroline, no, I don't want to hear this ... "
 
"Oh, for God's sake, *Doctor* Lambert, grow up. The body and
its needs are a part of life, mortal or otherwise. You're
old enough to know that. Love with Nicky was an act on the
edge--sometimes immensely pleasurable, but too frustrating
to be truly satisfactory. And always, always, extremely
dangerous. Control is all, and a loss of control can mean
death, literally."
 
She sighed, then continued. "That's what drove us apart. I
always wanted more of him, and he was always afraid of
losing control. He would sate himself on that stuff he
drinks, trying to dull his hunger, and then we would begin
to make love. The pleasure would be incredible, but then we
would have to stop, because his final pleasure might have
killed me. Or made me into what he is. The frustration drove
us both mad. So when it became too much, one or the other of
us would just leave. Him, to put some distance between us
for my safety and his sanity. Me, for my so-called career.
We sometimes spent years apart--I'd take a job in Detroit,
or Chicago, or Montreal. He'd be off on a new adventure,
teaching or writing, or off on some dig. The war years were
the really hard ones, with me always wondering if he'd gone
off and gotten himself killed. Or worse. And then he'd show
up on my doorstep again, and we'd take up where we left off.
What brought us together in the first place would bring us
together again. But then the same old conflicts would drive
us apart, and he would go to Janette, and I'd go to other
men. It was a tortured way to live."
 
--Chicago, 1951--
 
They were in the midst of yet another argument.
 
"Caroline, stop it. I can't go through this anymore. Why
won't you just stop?"
 
"Don't give me that. I've heard it all before, and it's just
as maddening now as it was in the beginning. Remember that
first night? Remember what you told me?"
 
"Of course I do. I warned you--I told you what I was."
 
"Yes, you warned me. You told me that you needed blood for
sustenance, and that you were a thing of the dark and of the
night. You said that you were evil, a creature without a
soul and beyond any hope of redemption. And I didn't believe
you then and I still don't. You aren't evil. How many times
do I have to say it to convince you?"
 
"It makes no difference how many times you say it--I'm still
that same creature--I still need blood to live. And I still
can hurt you. You refuse to believe the very obvious
evidence of your own body. Look at your arms. *Look*. Look
at what I've done to you." He held out her arms, staring at
the scars.
 
"It was with my permission, Nicky. I was terrified that
first time, but I wanted you so badly that I would have done
anything. Anything." She moved closer to him. "And I'm
trying to telling you that nothing has changed. I still want
you just that badly."
 
He kissed her, and then held her tightly, his breath moving
strands of her hair. "Et moi, aussi, Caro."
 
He pulled back so he could see her face. "And that's what's
tearing me apart. I'm afraid I won't be able to stop. I
don't want to hurt you anymore. You bear the scars, not me.
You're the one who's in danger. Of your life."
 
She extricated herself from his embrace, turning away from
him. When she spoke, there was bitterness in her voice.
 
"And you don't have any scars? Your soul is unblemished?"
 
"I don't *have* a soul. LaCroix took it from me, along with
my life and my hope. Why do you refuse to accept that?"
 
"Because you've never understood that you're wrong--a
creature without a soul couldn't love. And you do love me.
I have no doubts about that. If you didn't, we wouldn't be
having this argument again."
 
"And again, and again. How many times have we had it? And we
never come to a conclusion that we can live with."
 
"I'm perfectly willing to live with the danger. I always
have been. You're the one who's too obstinate to be moved."
 
"That's because I'm the one who has to put on the brakes.
And it's getting more and more difficult to do that."
 
"I know that, Nicky, but--"
 
He interrupted her. "But what? Caro, this is useless. We go
in circles and we get nowhere."
 
Her voice was soft as she spoke. "Wouldn't it be lovely if
life were simple? I dream sometimes about it sometimes, and
then I wake up crying."
 
"That's a dream of *mortal* life, and we both know it's just
a dream, despite all my failed attempts to make it
otherwise."
 
"They haven't worked yet, but I know you very well indeed-
-you'll keep trying, no matter how often you fail. I don't
know if it'll ever happen, but do you know what gives me
nightmares?"
 
"I have a fairly good idea. I have them myself."
 
"I have nightmares that you *will* become mortal again
someday, and that I won't be here to see it. I'm 45 years
old, I've got crows-feet and my hair's beginning to gray,
and I'm beginning to get wrinkles, and I'm aging every day.
Soon people are going to think I'm your mother, and then, in
a few more years, they'll think I'm your grandmother. And
then what will we do? Will you still love me then?"
 
"I offered you immortality, Caroline, and you said no."
 
"I'd like to have seen the look on your face if I'd said
yes. You knew I would refuse before you offered me "the
gift" of immortality. And you know why. I can see the
torment your kind of life has given you. Some gift."
 
"Listen to yourself. You want all of me, that's what you
keep telling me. Well, you know what I am, and what I have
to do to live. I can't give you all of myself without making
you like me. And neither of us wants that to happen."
 
They were both silent for a few moments, then Caroline
spoke. "So where do we go from here?"
 
"I don't know. I honestly don't know."
 
 
--Toronto, 1993--
 
Caroline sighed. "And he was right, Natalie. We did go in
circles, and we never did find a solution to the problem.
Except separation."
 
"Do you know what the hardest part is? No, of course you
don't--you're young. He's young. And he stays young,
forever. And you get older, and older, and the body goes,
and the mind starts to go. But you have no idea how much it
hurts, even after all this time, to look at him and realize
that he looks exactly like he did the night I met him. Not a
moment older."
 
She paused, then put out her hand to Natalie. "It's hard,
very hard. You want to think about that, because it's the
most difficult part of loving him. You age and you die, and
he doesn't. It's as simple, and as complicated, as that. And
it colors everything. Everything."
 
"The time will come, perhaps sooner than you think, when
you'll have to face the same decisions I did. He's not an
easy man to love. He's a man who is scarred by his anger and
his guilt, and he can hurt you so easily when his control
slips. He'll regret it later, but he can and will hurt you,
emotionally if not physically."
 
"That's the reason I never hated Janette. I resented her,
and was jealous of her, but I couldn't hate her. He could
let down his guard with her, and truly be himself, without
fear of hurting her. Something he couldn't, or wouldn't,
allow himself to do with me. She was there for him when he
needed her."
 
"I thought Nick said Janette cut him out of her life?"
 
"Oh, she did tell him to get lost. But we both know that he
has ties to Janette that are very strong. They get stretched
and knotted and torn, but they're never completely broken.
It didn't take long for him to get back into her good
graces. You know how easily he can do that, even without
really trying. The problem is that he's so naive about the
women in his life--he puts them up on that proverbial
pedestal, and then is devastated when they either fall or
step off. I usually fell off, out of carelessness or
ignorance or stubbornness. And then he'd go to Janette, who
didn't give him time to elevate her to the pedestal. And if
he had, she would probably have jumped off on purpose, just
to keep him interested. And whatever else I may think of
her, she did keep our secret from LaCroix. You do know about
him, don't you?" At a nod from Nat, she went on. "Nicky
lived in fear that LaCroix would find out about our
relationship and put an end to it one way or another. But
Janette helped him hide me. She loves him that much, and
apparently has done so for more years than I care to think
about." She coughed, caught her breath, and continued.
 
"He did offer me his kind of life once. I think everyone
believes in some sort of immortality for themselves, either
through their faith, or their children, or their words, or
their music. But I could see what immortality had done, and
was doing, to him, and I refused his offer. I felt that a
mortal lifetime with him was enough. He says I'm one of
those strong-willed women whose heart is ruled by her head,
but I don't know if he's right about that. You have to be
strong to love him. And, Natalie, I recommend it highly."
 
Caroline closed her eyes, and Natalie rocked, watching her
face, thinking she had drifted off to sleep again. She was
startled when Caroline spoke again, in a whisper.
 
"Are you the one who'll bring him back into the light?"
 
Caroline (Part 7)
 
Nick raised himself from his reclining position on the sofa,
swung his legs to the floor, and rubbed his face with his
hands.
 
"You look like hell, my friend." Natalie said as she entered
the living room.
 
"Yeah, well, those are the breaks. No rest for the weary."
He sighed, then ran his fingers through his hair. "You
should get some sleep yourself. You have to be all in, too."
He stood and stretched.
 
"That sounds wonderful, but I think I'm too tired."
 
"You won't be much good to anyone if you're asleep on your
feet. If you won't go home, at least stretch out on the sofa
and get some rest."
 
"Okay. But call me if Caroline needs me. I'll be right
here."
 
"How's she doing?"
 
"Not good. She's getting weaker. She's sleeping for short
periods, but it's not doing her any good. Her heart's just
giving out."
 
He started toward the staircase, then stopped and turned.
"You know how much I appreciate your being here, don't you?"
 
"Yes, I know. Go on up. I'll be fine." He nodded, and she
watched him climb the stairs and disappear into the bedroom.
She went over to the sofa, hesitated, then kicked off her
shoes and stretched out. She could hear him talking softly
upstairs, and the sound of his voice and her weariness
combined to make her eyes close and her body relax. She
slept in spite of herself, and dreamed of music.
 
She was awakened hours later by a sound she couldn't quite
place. She opened her eyes and lifted her head, straining to
hear. It sounded like singing. From upstairs.
 
She got up and quietly climbed the stairs. It definitely was
singing. She looked in the door of the bedroom. Nick was
sitting on the bed, Caroline in his arms, his cheek against
hers, his eyes closed as he sang softly. "Someone to watch
over ... " And then his voice broke. Caroline's eyes were
closed, her body still, her chest no longer rising and
falling.
 
The look on his face was more than she could take. She
backed quickly and quietly away from the door, and went
downstairs. She wandered around the living room, looking at
the mementos of the life Nick and Caroline had had together.
A photograph of them in a nightclub, both in 50's clothing,
smiling at one another. A millefiore paperweight. A
"Cabaret" soundtrack album. A book by Dorothy Parker.
Another by Kerouac. A small framed watercolor of a
sunflower. A coffee mug filled with seashells.
 
Holding the paperweight in her hand, gazing into its
miniature glass flowers, she heard the door of the bedroom
close, and turned to see Nick moving slowly down the stairs.
She put the paperweight back down on the table, being
careful not to make a sound.
 
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "It's over."
 
"I'm sorry. I know she meant a lot to you."
 
He stood perfectly still a few moments, staring at her, then
said in a thick voice, "Yes, she did."
 
Natalie hesitated, then said "Would you like for me to ...
make the ... arrangements?"
 
"Yes. I don't think ... Yes. She wanted to be cremated. I
... Thank you."
 
"I'll just go up and ... then I'll start making calls." She
touched his arm as she passed him, unsure of what else to do
to comfort him.
 
Upstairs, she started to straighten the bedclothes when she
noticed small red dots on Caroline's nightgown and the
sheets. <What ...? They look like drops of blood. She wasn't
bleeding. How'd they get there?> Puzzled, she stared at the
spots uncomprehendingly, but then, suddenly, the answer came
to her. <Dear God ... they're tears. They're Nick's tears.>
Shaken, she sat heavily on the edge of the bed, staring at
the drops, then at Caroline's face. "I've never seen him cry, Caroline. I didn't
 know if he could. But he cried for you."
 
She stared at the still face a few moments longer, then went
to find clean linens and a fresh nightgown. She changed the
bed linens and Caroline's gown, washed her face, and
smoothed back her hair. After straightening up the room a
bit, she picked up her bag and stood at the side of the bed,
gazing at Caroline once more.
 
"I don't know that I could bear the kind of half-life you
had with him. I just don't know. But I'll do my best to take
care of him."
 
As she stood looking at the woman's face, she heard a crash
from downstairs. Then another, and another. She ran to the
top of the stairs and looked down.
 
"Nick? Nick, what's going on?" She winced as she heard a
bellow of rage and the sound of breaking glass. She started
down the stairs, and had to duck near the bottom as a
photograph in a silver frame came flying by her.
 
"Nick! What are you doing?"
 
The only answer was the sound of something solid hitting the
wall. She advanced cautiously to the door of the living room
and peered in, looking on in alarm as she saw Nick sweep his
arm across the top of the piano, scattering its contents
across the room. A kick to the piano stool made sheets of
music flutter around him like snow. The sounds of his rage
echoed in the room, and the look on his face and the glowing
yellow of his eyes made her heart pound loudly.
 
"Nick, stop this! Get control of yourself! STOP IT!"
 
He didn't acknowledge her presence. He knocked over a lamp,
picked up a porcelain vase from the mantel and smashed it
into the fireplace. Then he moved to the bookshelves and
began pulling books off, throwing them so hard that a couple
of them dented the wall, screaming "No!" so loudly that it
hurt her ears.
 
"NICK! STOP! DON'T DO THIS!"
 
She moved to the left, raising her arms to protect her face
from a flying book, only to be struck on the hand by another
one. The pain made her drop to her knees, her left hand
cradling the right to her chest.
 
"DAMN YOU! STOP IT! YOU HIT ME!" She looked up to see him
standing in the middle of the room, panting, his body
trembling, the glazed look slowly receding from his eyes,
the yellow color fading to blue.
 
Gaining control of himself, he moved towards her, reaching
for her hand. She instinctively drew back from him, still
not sure that the storm had passed. A stricken look crossed
his face when she drew away.
 
"Merde. I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"
 
"Are you crazy? Of course you hurt me--that book must have
been moving at warp speed. It hurts like hell."
 
"Can you move your fingers?"
 
She tried, gingerly. "Yeah, it hurts, but I can move them."
 
"Come sit down. I'll fix an icepack to keep the swelling
down. Can I help you up?"
 
"Yes, you can, if you're sure you're through with your fit."
 
"I'm done. I promise. I didn't mean to hurt you. I just ...
lost it. It won't happen again."
 
"It better not, or I'm out of here." This time she allowed
him to help her up. He settled her on the sofa, her back
against the arm, and lifted her feet up.
 
"I'm truly sorry. Can you forgive me?"
 
"If you'll explain to me what that was all about."
 
"I don't know if I can."
 
"Try."
 
"I ... it's just that ... I loved her, and I couldn't do
anything to help her. Just like always." He turned away from
her.
 
"Dying is a part of life, Nick."
 
"It's a part of mortal life. But I'm not mortal, and I'm the
one who gets left behind. Again and again."
 
"You knew that when you got involved with her, didn't you"
 
"Of course I did. But it's a hard lesson to learn, and I was
never very good at lessons. LaCroix wouldn't win any awards
for his teaching, either."
 
Natalie's irritation showed in her voice. "I don't think you
can blame this on LaCroix or anyone else. You knew what youwere doing, and you
 knew how it would end. So take the
responsibility yourself."
 
"Caroline knew what I was. I told her at the beginning."
 
"Oh, that's just great--you *told* her. And just how did
telling her help? It couldn't have been very good
preparation for what life with you would really be like."
 
"Nobody knows what life with another person is like until
they experience it, do they? Don't judge me, Nat. You don't
know anything about Caroline and me."
 
"Excuse me? I've been here listening to both of you talk for
more than a few hours. I think I know more about it than you
realize. So listen to me--Caroline said listening was one of
your better traits."
 
Nick glared at her. "Okay, I'm listening. But if you don't
mind, could you hurry it up a bit? I'd like to go home."
 
"Then listen to me very carefully, Nick. Caroline said that
you carried the scars of your immortality, and that they
influenced every part of your life together. You're angry
now because she left you, and you're feeling guilty that you
couldn't do anything about it. I understand that, but don't
let her death create new scars, because they toughen you,
and make you less sensitive, and eventually you don't feel
anything at all any more. She deserves better than to be the
cause of that, don't you think?"
 
Nick didn't respond, although as she watched his face, she
could see the conflicts of his emotions. He turned away from
her and looked at the litter on the floor, then bent down
and started picking up the sheets of music.
 
"Nick, talk to me."
 
Again, he didn't respond.
 
"You need to talk, to work through the grief process. You
can't just keep it bottled up."
 
"Don't recite Psychology 101 to me. I know all about the
grief process. I've gone through it more times than you can
imagine. I'll work it out my own way."
 
"Oh, will you? Your way doesn't seem to have worked very
well, as far as I can tell. All you've done is destroy this
room."
 
"Just drop it, okay, Nat? I don't want to hear about the
flaws in my character right now."
 
"That's not what I'm trying to do and you know it."
 
"Then what is it you're trying to do, pray tell?"
 
She took a deep breath and tried to still her own anger.
"What I'm trying to tell you is that this is what life *is*
for mortals--it's disappointment, and pain, and frustration,
and death. You say you want to be mortal again--well,
welcome to mortality. Everyone you love dies, sooner or
later."
 
Nick stopped his pretense of cleaning up, stared at the
papers in his hand, then threw them against the fireplace.
"Then the hell with mortality. It hurts too much."
 
His face crumpled and he fell to his knees, rocking back and
forth, his arms wrapped around his midsection as if trying
to hold himself together. She moved across the room to him
and bent down to comfort him. His arms enfolded her and he
held on to her as if he were drowning.
 
"It's okay, Nick. It'll be okay."
 
When he loosened his grip on her, she moved to sit down
beside him on the floor, and he took her hand.
 
"Ow! Don't! That's the hand you smashed."
 
"I'm truly sorry about that. I don't ever want to hurt you
again."
 
She smiled at him and held out the other hand. "Then here,
hold this one. It's just itching to be held."
 
He took it and held it to his cheek. "Yes, ma'am."
 
He looked around the room and sighed. "I seem to leave a
wake of destruction wherever I go, don't I?"
 
"Or a wake of litter, anyway." At last a smile crossed his
face.
 
"Listen up, you. I've seen your office and your apartment-
-don't get on my case about being neat and tidy, if you
don't mind."
 
"Yeah, you're right about that--I just can't ever seem to
get things organized. But this mess really needs some order,
doesn't it?"
 
"Definitely. Where shall we start?"
 
"What's this "we" stuff? I'm wounded, remember? I'll
supervise and you can do the work."
 
He smiled again. "That's what I was afraid you were going to
say." He got to his feet and held out his hand to help her
up. "I'll get some ice for your hand and then you can order
me about at will."
 
While he was working, she started making the necessary phone
calls. When they were both done, the paperwork had been
completed, and Caroline's body had been removed, they stood
wearily in the living room.
 
"Let's go home, Nick. We can arrange the memorial service
after we both get some sleep."
 
He nodded, put on his jacket, and turned to look around the
room once more. He picked up the box of photographs he
wanted to keep, then moved to the table beside the sofa and
touched the paperweight.
 
"This was the first gift I ever gave her. She was fascinated
by it. She'd sit for hours looking into it, trying to figure
out how something so beautiful could be made from something
as hard and brittle and cold as glass. Would you accept it
as a remembrance of her?"
 
"Yes, I would. Thank you."
 
The sky was beginning to lighten as he opened the front
door. "Well, are we done here?"
 
"Yes, I suppose we are. You need to get home before
sunrise."
 
"Yeah. Thank you, Natalie, for everything you did for her."
 
"No need. Let's go home."
 
As they started out the door, she stopped. "I just
remembered something I left upstairs. You go on, and I'll
lock up and be right behind you."
 
"Okay, if you're sure."
 
"I'm sure. Bye."
 
He held her a moment, kissed her cheek, and then got into
his car and drove away.  She walked back into the house and
went directly to the phone.  She picked up the receiver,
then put it back down. "I'm probably going to really regret
this later." She picked up the receiver again and punched in
the numbers quickly, before she could change her mind.
 
"Janette? Natalie Lambert. I apologize for calling at such
an odd hour, but I thought you needed to know that Caroline
Miller died a few hours ago."
 
She listened to the voice on the other end of the line, then
said, "Yes, I know. He just left. I think it might be a good
idea if you were there when he gets home. Yeah, bye."
 
She put the receiver down gently, turned and left the house,
and went home to Sydney.
 
                  THE END