January 21,
2013 Writing Prompt:
"While vacationing at a dude ranch, a wealthy business
tycoon's daughter falls in love with a young cowboy."
In 2008, I wrote a
longer story which was intended for inclusion in a proposed Anthology to
benefit Breast Cancer Research. The Anthology was rejected by the approached organization,
and then the organizer underwent some personal issues, so I don’t know if
anything ever came of the proposition or not. The story I wrote was a little dfferent
and since it’s scarcely seen the light of day (except in my Portfolio at
Writing.com) I’ll append it here.
18+
“THE
LAST RESORT DUDE RANCH”
Originally
composed May-June 2008
THE “LAST RESORT” DUDE RANCH
Chapter 1
Nick Jagerman wiped his forehead with a dingy
kerchief pulled from one faded jeans pocket. (WHAT am I doing here?) Glancing
around at the land flat to each horizon, puffy cumulous barely stirring across
the blinding blue, the emptiness resonated to the void in Nick’s soul. A quick
twinge of pain over his left chest awakened too-vivid memories. Although it
passed in seconds, the fear monster rose up again, wide-awake, its red fiery
eyes shining in his mind. (No! It is NOT recurring! I won’t let it!)
Nick was three months into his recovery
period, two since his oncologist’s release. He understood the statistical
probability all too well: he’d beaten the breast cancer this time, but
recurrence was ALWAYS a possibility. Nick was 34 years old-far too young to die
of a cancer that was always reputed to be a women’s disease. Why him? Why?
Nick’s daddy had died at age 56 of a heart attack, a manly death taking him out
in the field on the combine. Nick’s mom was still alive, nearing 60, with no
signs of ill health whatsoever other than occasional troubling migraines.
Nick’s mom’s older sister had died of breast
cancer, though, at 22; and so had their aunt, at 50. But those were women! Why
did Nick, of all people, contract such a troubling, and potentially fatal,
disease-a “women’s disease”? Nick’s worst enemy right now was his conviction of
unfairness. Life just COULDN’T deal him such a terrible hardship!
Leaning back against his truck fender, Nick
sighed as dust puffs blew up in the far distance. Finally his guide would show
up. When he had arranged his reservation online, an email sent to him explained
that the Ranch was so isolated that guests were expected to wait at Marvin
Station, 25 miles distant, for a guide to lead them to the “Last Resort Dude
Ranch.” Another sigh and a boot toe scuffing dirt, a snort: (“What kind of name
is “Last Resort,” anyway? Feels like it’s what I need, though—if my cancer
recurs, this will be my “last” resort and last recourse.)
Another swipe of the kerchief across his
forehead, shifting his balance, another twinge over the left breast (NO! Not
again!) and Nick realized his own tension was only intensifying the twinging
pain. Consciously deepening his breath seemed to help, as did concentrating on
the oncoming dust vortices. (Wonder what it’s going to be like? Like a spa? A
“dude ranch,” all riding and horse talk? Sure charges enough.) Nick wasn’t a
wealthy man-he’d inherited his dad’s horse-breeding establishment-but he was a desperate
one. Not until the first diagnosis-actually the first serious pains-did he ever
consider life so worth clinging to as he had ever since.
Up until the first pain caught him up in its
vise, dragging him fully upright from a sound sleep one weekday night, Nick had
sported a happy-go-lucky attitude. Sure, he’d take fun and pleasure when it
appeared, but he didn’t go out looking for it. A beer in town at the roadhouse
on weekends, maybe a little two-step with the tourists, rides on Stalwart, his
loyal stallion and champion stud; that was the good life. Sunday dinner at
Mom’s and occasionally church with her on Sunday mornings. Life was good, slow
and easy. Life was good.
Not any more-now life is fragile, brittle, and questionable. Nick had jerked up
out of a sound dream to blinding pain in his chest, his first thought (“I’m
goin’ out like Daddy did!), doubling over just trying to breathe; rolling out
of bed onto the floor, legs still tangled in the bundled sheets, gasping. He
couldn’t reach for his cell phone on the nightstand next to his left arm, for
his entire left side, chest and back, felt wrapped in a sheet of flame. His
only recourse was to hang on, try to survive, and what felt like an eternity of
blazing nightmare finally eased sufficiently for him to roll first onto his
back, then scoot closer to the nightstand. He still could not reach up, so he
continued to roll, bumping against the nightstand till the cell on the edge
fell off onto his face, and then slid onto the floor. Immediately it rang, and
through his haze he saw “Mom” on the screen. Forcing his right hand up, he
pushed “on” and breathed, “Mamma, call 911.” Then he fainted.
Looking back now, Nick remembered how the
next day in the hospital Mamma revealed that she had dreamed of his danger. In
fact, she had actually called 911 on his behalf before dialing his cell phone;
her intuitive conviction was that strong. She, too, had thought of cardiac
arrest, and so did Nick’s doctors at first. Localized on the left side, the
pain had indeed spread from the heart area into Nick’s shoulder and rib cage,
so heart attack was the immediate and most logical diagnosis. Blood work and an
MRI revealed differently, however, and Nick was astounded when Dr. Caller
announced that the accurate diagnosis was breast cancer.
“But I’m a man!” he shouted. “Men don’t get
breast cancer! That’s a women’s disease!” Sensing his mother’s dismay, he
reached across himself with his right arm (his left arm and side were bandaged
tightly) and patted her hand as it rested on his sheet.
“I’m sorry, Mamma! I forgot about Aunt Laura and Great-Aunt Suellyn!”
“It isn’t that, son, I’m upset over. It’s you. Breast cancer is a near-fatal
disease and I’m scared for you!”
Dr. Caller cleared his throat and garnered
their attention. “There are options, you know. We can try chemotherapy. We’ll
first do a biopsy, on Monday, to be certain. If the biopsy proves malign, we’ll
institute a course of treatment.” His voice was cool and somber, but his
expression belied joy. Dr. Caller knew the odds better than either his patient
or the patient’s mother. He could point to one or two recoveries, but the
majority of the patients he’d referred to oncologists hadn’t survived. Electing
not to share that particular statistic just now, he fingered his thick,
in-need-of-trimming mustache and looked away to the end of the bed.
“I’ll alert Dr. Swanson, the oncology specialist
at Hought General, to look at your test results. Now, I must be away; I’ve got
other patients to check on this floor.”
(And probably a golf foursome waiting!) thought Nick as he grimaced.
“Thank you, Doctor,” whispered Nick’s mother,
a softly-speaking lady at the best of times.
* * *
Nick’s attention returned to the present as
the sound of downshifting gears snagged his hearing. Closely approaching was a
dusty gray pickup with long bed and wide high tires. Resting on the sill of the
open window was a large masculine hand with prominent veins and long fingers,
one of which tapped a continuous rhythm on the side mirror. Nick felt a twinge
unrelated for once to his chest pain or to stress. He thought the hand and
wrist awfully pale for a ranch employee, but then maybe it was just
dust-covered. Difficult to tell under all that hair, anyway. Practically furred
with pale strands-Nick felt himself twitching again and straightened up,
pulling his Stetson down low to shade his eyes. All that dust kicking up made
them water-or was it the dust and not his thoughts?
The gray GMC pulled closer and coasted to a
stop opposite Nick’s pickup. The driver was so tall Nick could only see a black
denim shirt, sleeves rolled up, stretched across a wide chest, till the man
bent over and peered out the open truck window. A deep voice purred out
at him: “Mr. Jagerman, I presume?” and a chuckle rolled out, coating Nick’s
nerves in liquid dark chocolate. The twinge had passed into a life of its own
now, and must be pretty obvious to any observer. The other man didn’t seem to
notice, though, just continued to smile and wait on Nick’s response. Too
tongue-tied to speak, Nick just nodded silently.
“All righty then. Soon’s I turn this heifer
around, pointing back in the right direction, you can follow me, okay?”
Speechless, Nick nodded again and waited till
the GMC’s long base passed, then climbed into his regular-size Silverado and
closed the driver’s door. Horrible as the cancer was, one good result had come
out of it, if he got to see an appealing sight like this. Nick shifted, easing
the friction in his jeans, and waited for the GMC to pass him again. As it came
alongside him, the passenger window purred down and Nick saw a long arm waving
in the direction he faced. He nodded again and dropped the pickup into gear,
staying just far enough back not to have a windshield constantly fogged over
with the other pickup’s dust.
Chapter 2
Nick’s treatment had not progressed smoothly,
nor had he been an oncologist’s patient ideal. Instead, he was rough, bitchy,
and smart-mouthed. Right up until almost the end of treatment, he had insisted
breast cancer was a women’s disease that men had no business getting. He
informed Dr. Caller and Dr. Swanson on more than one occasion that their
diagnosis was severely mistaken, and nurses had been known to leave Nick’s
private room in tears. Although intended as a semi-private, Hought General had
fallen on tough times and didn’t draw the patient clientele of its heyday, so
arrangement for the mean-spirited Nick Jagerman to keep the room on private
status was simple. Any patient rooming with him would no doubt suffer a
relapse, all the nurses thought, and privately the physicians concurred.
Dr. Swanson adjudged Nick’s cancer to be
pervasive, and instituted an aggressive radiation regimen. Despite his natural
affinity with Deity, the oncologist also evinced compassion for his patients
and wanted them to succeed in recovery. Nick’s impossible attitude sorely tried
his resolve, though. The root of his inspiration to see Nick healed was
entwined with the dismay he experienced whenever he had to approach the
attitude-ridden patient. Swanson often considered that Nick carried more
attitude and meanness in his system than he did cancer cells.
Meanwhile, Nick’s mother Jane had enlisted her church women’s circle in a
prayer chain. Each hour on the hour, each day, one of the women lifted up
Nick’s name in prayer, right along with Jane, whose kitchen clock chimed hourly
to remind her it’s time to pray. Every Sunday service Pastor Janway prayed for
Nick as well, and the Wednesday evening Missions Board meeting always included
his name in their opening prayer. If the combination of prayer and the
oncologist’s drive to see Nick healed worked, then he would be free and clear of
the disease he insisted was not possible for him.
If it failed, then Nick would learn the truth about male breast cancer’s
survival rate.
Chapter 3
The ride out to the Last Resort Ranch seemed
an eternity, till Nick reminded himself that he had only missed out on actual
eternity by a hairsbreadth. Unconsciously stroking his left hand across his
chest, he remembered his last days in treatment with a frown. Even when Dr.
Swanson revealed the prognosis for recovery, Nick had feared to believe it:
this, from the patient who had insisted from the beginning that “breast
cancer’s for chicks, not guys.” Dr. Swanson chuckled to himself, careful not to
let his star patient see him.
Nick had eventually come around to the
necessity and purpose of the aggressive chemical and invasive internal
radiation treatment, even if he refused to admit that he might have the
“chicks’ cancer.” Sometimes he speculated that he might actually have cancer,
only in some other virulent form: maybe lung or stomach, perhaps bone or brain.
Why his pains were concentrated on the left side of his chest he couldn’t
fathom. Maybe the cancer hid in the walls of his heart.
Another sigh and a shake of his head and
Nick’s mind returned to concentrating on the drive. Suddenly he realized he’d
let the faded gray GMC fly too far ahead of him and it was nearly out of sight;
no, it was missing! He’d lost the guide! Now he was really worried. (Did I pass
a turn-off I didn’t see? Why was I thinking about the hospital, dang it all?
I’m such a stupid fool!) Just then he noticed the clouds of dust before him
were thickening again, roiling, so the GMC must be closer than he’d thought. In
fact, the dust was shifting, sinking, so maybe—yes, the truck ahead was
slowing, and Nick could see a vague red blinking through the dust, on the left
side. Okay, left turn then. Nick signaled too, then chuckled to realize he’d
acted unnecessarily, as no vehicles were anywhere behind him for miles!
Why they’d turn on this dusty track Nick couldn’t tell, as no buildings could
be seen and again, the flatness just stretched in all directions. What he
wouldn’t give for a mountain or two as he’d see in the distance back home, and
a huge stables with Stalwart neighing for an apple and rubbing his jaw against
Nick’s shoulder. He yanked out his cell and checked for a signal, thinking to
call his mother, then discovered no bars at all.
(Last Resort, all right! End of the earth, likely!)
Another half-hour passed and finally beyond
the dust billows Nick spotted buildings spread out on either side of the track:
a bunkhouse on each side, a stables beyond (not as big as the Jagerman Stud
Farm boasted, he thought smugly), a cookhouse, and farther down, a cow barn
(cow barn?) and then on the right, a blindingly whitewashed two story
farmhouse, opposite a two story fancy bunkhouse, painted gray with white trim.
(Oh, that must be the guest house, and the first two bunkhouses are for the
employees. Or maybe this was a working ranch back in the day; that’d explain
the cow barn too. Now it must be just a horse-riding operation for the guests.)
The gray GMC pulled up near the farmhouse and
that long arm and long-fingered wide hand popped out of the driver’s side
window, first pinwheeling to indicate Nick should come ahead, then index finger
pointing toward what Nick had assumed was the guest house. Indeed, apparently
he was correct. He stopped in a space by the far end of the building and hopped
out, waiting for the other driver to approach. Instead, that same index finger
rose in a “one moment” gesture, and the GMC sped away!
(So NOT what I expected! So much for the possibility this might be a spa-type
establishment. Now, think, just what did that brochure I downloaded last week
say?)
Nick walked around to the passenger side,
unlocked, and reached into the truck pocket for the brochure. Of course it
wasn’t there. (Where did I leave it? Didn’t I bring it? Oh! In my overnight
bag!) Of course, that’s where it was, and Nick leaned heavily against the door
frame while he flipped the pages. (Hmm—swimming? Don’t see no sign of a pool,
unless it’s behind the Big House. No spa stuff: oh well, no massage with hot
oils then. Riding? Yep, but I could have done that at home.
Wrestling--wrestling? Sure enough, employee-guest matches on Saturday nights,
at the Old Bunkhouse. Okay, that would be one of those two I passed when we
drove in, I guess. Hmm-doctor’s permission required. Ah, a doctor on
staff-Herman L. Jenkins, M.D. Okay. That’s good-in case any of the guests get
heat stroke, or hearts give out while horseback-or rasslin’.)
“Hey! Hey there! We’re in here waitin’ on ya!”
Nick almost jumped, then caught himself and
looked around. No one in sight-oh, over there at the guest house door, must
be-the door was open, but its angle hid whoever had called out. So, either the
speaker was invisible, or petite. Nick preferred to go with the latter option,
since even after recovery from a potentially fatal disease, he remained a
rationalist. He shut the truck door, still carrying the folder, and walked
toward the guest house. As he reached the far side of the door, he spotted a
petite flame and blinked two or three times to clear his vision. Oh, no-that
was hair, blazing red hair-curly, moppish, big hair-over a faded-to-white
flannel shirt and pale jeans. Just as he tried to decide what-and who-it was,
its mouth opened and another bellow issued forth.
“Hey!”
“I’m standing right here in front of you, double-dang it!” Nick’s attitude had
not appreciably improved with his recovery. “I’m right here! Wake up!”
Head rose, eyes locked on his, mouth opened to bellow again-
“Stop right there!” Nick held up a hand. “Just tell me what you want without
all that hollerin’, please!” He’d thought the curls were on fire, but that was
nothing compared to the look in those blue eyes. Like gas flames on an open
burner, he thought now.
Her mouth opened yet again, but the sound of
a golf cart approaching from the far distance up the track interrupted. The
gargoyle-in-disguise glanced in that direction and turned away unspeaking, back
into the guesthouse. The door slammed behind her. Nick turned to watch for the
golf cart, now approaching from behind his own pickup. (Hmm, hmm, hmm. What a
fine piece of horseflesh.) His lips curled and his jeans twitched. The guide
who had brought him out to the dude ranch drove the cart as he did the truck,
fast and loose-handed, one arm draped over the wheel, gaze locked on Nick.
Surely the man saw everything Nick felt and thought at that moment!
Chapter 4
Frannie Vinson was an angry survivor. Not
lost in questions of her recovery, as Nick was, Frannie railed and roared at
fate. Frannie knew she should have succumbed to the cancer, but instead, two
years later, here she still was, still furious, still mean-spirited, still
bearing an attitude that drove away any man except the doctor. "Jake,"
as the Last Resort owners and staff called him, was as gentle and
long-suffering as the mountains in the distance overlooking Nick's horse farm.
Jake treated everyone he encountered with unconditional acceptance and the
attitude of the Colorado River carving the Grand Canyon over the course of
millennia. Jake was steady, assured, and deep.
Frannie's first diagnosis occurred three-and-a-half years ago in St. Louis,
where she worked as a graphic designer with an occasionally cohabiting
boyfriend. Jerry was suave and sexy in a bad-boy mode, and Frannie was obsessed
with keeping him happy. She supported him, gave him intimacy whenever he
demanded it (often at first but soon only seldom requested), handed him cash
and loaned him her credit cards. Frannie did nearly everything for that
boy, calling it love, but truly it was obsession. A void in her could only be
filled by the corresponding jagged edges in Jerry, her beloved "bad
boy." Jerry took and took and never gave. In fact, Jerry was the first to
spot the lump in Frannie's right breast, but rather than mentioning it and
urging her to have a mammogram, Jerry kept silent to Frannie (although he did
mention it to one or two of his other "chicks on the side.")
Frannie discovered the lump herself a few
weeks later in the shower, after a steady absence of Jerry. Each time she
dialed his cell, voicemail picked up; he never came by when she was home-and
she often worked from home-but when she'd leave to deliver a CD of her
assignments, or shop for groceries, she'd come home to discover some of his
clothes were missing, his toothbrush, the photo of the two of them she'd had
taken at Branson. Little things here, and never all at once. She knew he must
be stopping by, but why always when she was out, and how in the world could he
know? Her schedule was, purposely, unpredictable. She liked life that way,
unsettled. When she found the lump, "unsettled" became the tenor of
her entire existence. She waited another three weeks, then made an appointment
at the Women’s' Health Clinic for a mammogram. The technician recommended
Frannie schedule a physician's visit immediately and a diagnostic mammogram.
Next she knew the diagnosis was just as negative as she’d expected, and she
settled herself to wait on the real unpredictability of life: the approach of
death. She stumbled through radiation therapy expecting nothing, and that
seemed to be what she received. But six months after the treatment, she still
lived, still designed, and had not seen or spoken to Jerry in a year. An
oncology nurse who had befriended her met her for coffee one morning and
mentioned Last Resort Dude Ranch, run by a physician who himself was a cancer
survivor. Frannie leaped at the opportunity to change her life, geographically
and vocationally. She’d settled in immediately, ripping the skeleton staff
regularly with her flaying tongue, but the owner understood her rage against
nature and Deity and simply let her be-yet another survivor. The Last Resort
Ranch seemed to collect survivors.
Chapter 5
“So you met our Resort Ranch spitfire, I see,”
grinned the giant hunk as he hopped down from the golf cart in a graceful
gazelle step and held out his hand. “Now you can meet the doctor.”
“You-you’re the Doctor? Doctor-umm” Nick stuttered.
“Jake Jenkins, at your sah-vice,” drawled Mr. Sexy.
“Jake?” Nick crumpled the brochure as he tried to unfold it.
“I thought it said uh Herman.” Clearly all his blood supply had gone south and
nonsense poured from his brain.
“Sure, but would you want to be called Herman, except by your lovin’ mama?”
Jake chuckled. “Come on, Nick, grab your bags and let’s get you settled. Bout
time we introduced you to the Spitfire-Frannie.”
That liquid chocolate
chuckle again; Nick wondered how he’d get through his stay without igniting. He
hurried back to his Silverado and pulled his carryon, laptop carrier, and big
suitcase from the floorboard, then followed Jake to the Guesthouse door.
Once inside, Jake
led him to the kitchen where sassy Frannie cooked and introduced the two,
suggesting Frannie moderate her usual spicy tongue-lashings, at least on Nick’s
initial day. Frannie grumbled but complied, showing Nick to his room on the
second floor at the rear corner, overlooking more unending flat horizon. (Oh well-next
time I’ll book a resort stay at home. Oh-won’t be a next time; I’ll not be
contracting cancer and having to recover again! That stuff is for sissies, not
for men who get real diseases-like my Dad did. Heart—maybe lung cancer. Not
this stuff I got, not ever again.)
Nick unpacked and
showered, setting his notebook computer up and plugging into the Resort’s
wireless setup. Then he hopped downstairs, two steps at a time, and came out
into the hall to find Jake taking up wall space, smiling that same slow sultry
come-on grin. Nick couldn’t stop smiling in return and blushing.
“Hey, pahdner, want to ride? You do ride, don’t
ye?” (Oh that chuckle! My jeans just tightened two sizes!)
“Sure I do. I own a stud farm.”
“I know. I read your vitals when you applied. Come
on, stables are beyond the cow barn. Yes, this was a working ranch in the 19th
century, with real, honest-to-goodness cowboy studs. Horses, cattle stampedes,
the whole business. Folks that own it now bought it four years ago from
the estate of the last heir, a ninety-year-old dude whose dad and granddad and
great-uncles ranched here all their lives. Kind of sad in a way,” Jake pushed
back his Stetson as they strode to the golf cart, “to realize all that history
is –pffft- over and gone now. Just us “dudes” now.”
That sexy smile slid across Nick’s face like warmed molasses, catching at his
eyes and lips, then Jake looked away and turned the key, maneuvering the cart
around in the drive and heading toward the distant cow barn.
“Is anything on a small scale here? Everything
seems so distant.”
“That’s how it is out here-them ol’ ranchers liked
their space. Takes a lot of acres to herd cattle, or sheep, either one; and
don’t even let them get too close together and start poaching on each other’s
land or worse one guy’s herd drinking out of the other’s guy creek, oh no. Wars
were fought over such.”
That warm look came again and Nick blushed and turned. Eventually they
wove around the end of the abandoned cattle barn and found the stables, much
bigger and more polished than expert Nick had expected. Hopping from the cart,
Jake asked, “Do you want a stallion or a gelding?” Even that had a hidden
meaning to Nick’s ears.
“Stallion, please. Back home I have
Stalwart-he’s a beauty, black. His sire was Pride of Araby, remember he placed
in the Triple Crown six years back?”
Jake nodded. “That’s great. I bet you do miss him
though. Get a lot of riding in?”
“Not near enough. Night and day wouldn’t be enough.
And I—lately I haven’t been out on Stalwart much.”
“While you were ill?”
“How-how’d you know”
“Told you. Read your application.”
“It’s not on there. It’s not.”
Nick turned away and fought to hide the upswell of water in his eyes. He would
NOT cry-not here, not ever. He was not a sissy. He was a man. Dang it all! Here
come the tears anyway, racking his shoulders, while behind him Jake continued
saddling a bay gelding for himself and a sweet roan for Nick.
“I’m a doctor, man, remember,” he purred softly.
“I know these things. I saw you. I’m lookin’ at you right now, and I know
you’re hurtin’ big time. But that’s okay-that’s why you came here, to hurt, to grieve,
and to heal. Yes, heal. You’re in recovery but now it’s time to heal your
spirit and soul. First you got to face it-then you can release it. Then you’re
becoming whole.”
Nick felt a
strong hand touch his back, then reins wrapped his hand and tugged gently. He
wiped his face and looked up, into the roan’s eyes.
“Here, give him a sugar cube. He’s a soft touch
for it.” Jake pressed the cube into Nick’s hand and turned away to lead his
horse, Marmaduke, outside. “Come on, Nick, let’s enjoy the afternoon.”
Chapter 6
Nick mounted the stallion and followed Jake
back into the sunlight, a stray tear or two still tracking on his sun-lined
cheeks. Somehow-some of the knot he carried in his heart area had loosened. Just
a little, just a tad bit—but the edge of the anchor of pain and heartsickness
had let loose, maybe only for a moment, maybe for a while. Here he’d make a
fool of himself in front of another man, a sexy gorgeous physician at that, a
guy who had the world on a string-and he’d survived. He wasn’t a soppy gooey
mess puddling on the floor. He’d survived the embarrassment, just as he’d
survived the cancer. THAT cancer. Oh, dear.
Jake led Nick on what seemed another eternity of a ride (does he do EVERYTHING
at such great length?) but eventually they fetched up at a quiet little pond
and both dismounted to let the horses drink their fill. Jake unfolded a picnic
spread from one of the saddlebags-Nick had been too distraught at the stable to
notice-and laid it out on a flat rock at the edge.
“Come on, man, take a load off, settle yourself,
feed up and then talk to me. Meanwhile, I’ll talk at you,” he said laughing.
“You know-I told you this spread was bought from the estate of the last heir to
the original ranch, right? Well, the current owner, believe it or not, is also
a survivor, as is our feisty cook.”
Nick took a big bite of the roast beef
sandwich-admittedly Frannie could cook, despite her mean spirit and sharp
tongue. He looked away toward the pond, hoping to conceal his irritation at the
topic. He certainly didn’t care to discuss any kind of survivor-and wait a
minute, had Jake just specified the owner and the cook? The cook? Frannie?
Mouth open, he spun back. “Frannie?”
“Yep. Breast cancer survivor-and hating it. And
the owner is a survivor of prostate cancer. So there, Nick my man. So there. It
can be done-and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
To his dismay the tears began to roll again,
a flood pouring out like a waterfall just when he most wanted to be manly. Arms
enwrapped him and he felt his head pushed to Jake’s shoulder. “It’s okay,
buddy, it’s really going to be okay.”
“I’m so ASHAMED! Real men don’t get this
disease! I feel like such a sissy.”
“Shh,” Jake rocked him gently. “You’re beautiful just the way you are; you’ve a
good, gentle spirit. Nothing wrong with that. Everybody don’t have to be a
he-man stallion; some of us got to be geldings. You know, I kind of felt that
way too, once-when I was diagnosed.”
Nick leaned back and rubbed his sleeve across his face. “You?”
“Yep. Told you the owner had prostate cancer once.” Jake plucked unseeingly at
grass blades. “Thought it might turn out to be AIDS-scare of a lifetime.” A
sardonic chuckle, then he looked Nick full in the eye and palmed his face. “It
was just prostate-life-altering, yes, but not fatal. Not yet, and maybe not
ever. I’m not planning for it to be. And you-whatever you had-and I’m guessing
by your attitude it was something similar-testicular or maybe breast? You’re a
survivor too, dear Nick, or you wouldn’t even be here at “The Last Resort.”
That sardonic chuckle sounded again, and Jake enfolded Nick in his arms.
“Survivors-it’s all about the healing, the attitude, and the point of view,
Nick. We survived-you, me, Frannie. Every day is one more day of life. We’ve
another day to rejoice, to love, to learn, to laugh, to excel. One more day,
and every day is precious. Nick, live it; listen to me. Save your precious
moments, don’t waste life on grieving for what was or for what you think should
not have been. You’re here now, and that’s no accident. You were drawn here,
just like I was-and Frannie, bless her. Live for me, Nick; live for
yourself.” Jake stroked a finger down Nick’s wet cheek and kissed him softly.
“Live: the entire point to life. Live.”
Nick gazed up into the deep gray eyes that so
magnetized him and wondered. Could he? Would he even consider it? Maybe the
surviving was a signal to him; maybe he ought to try living life differently.
Maybe he could stop being so anxious about being manly and just trying being
himself. Maybe he could stop just surviving-and start living, just one day for
now. Just one day at first. He smiled back at Jake and leaned forward into the
embrace. Just living, at last.
wc 5,169
Trapped by Jack Kilborn
