word-man7 stuff

The soft blue stage lights silhouetted her. The small and intimate club was packed with eager fans, silent in anticipation, patiently waiting for their musical journey to begin. Nana was totally immersed. Her long, blonde hair held each ray of light captive. Her hazel eyes, quick and intelligent, surveyed the front row, looking for the one that she would sing to tonight. She had to do this. It made the songs more intimate. It took her back to when she was with him. The one the songs were written for. Her sensuous lips parted slightly. Lost in the moment. She held her guitar to her chest, as delicately as a mother would her newborn child. Her fingers began to move, tenderly caressing each string. With a sigh, and one last thought of him, she stepped to the microphone and in a clear and hauntingly beautiful voice, began to sing.

Roxie Bennett, twenty-seven, felt she had lived twice that long. Life was dreary. Her plain attire, mousy brown hair, and close-set eyes did little to distinguish her from the crowd. Roxie's childhood had been dreadful. An only child, she was molested by her stepfather, shortly before he was sent to prison; abandoned by her Mom, and on her 13th birthday, was sent to Jersey to live with her Grandma. After high school, given no hope of any negligible success by her teachers, she spotted an ad for secretarial school, guaranteeing job placement upon course completion. She finished one-year later and was placed working for a small investment firm. She found a tiny apartment close by; two-rooms that came with a stray cat. The cat became her only friend. Eight years had passed, still the same job, with little prospect of advancing her current fate. Roxie's present life consisted of work, knitting, frozen pizza, the music of the "Carpenters" and used romance novels (3-4 a week). She yearned for a new life. One in which she was amusing and worldly, envisioning herself a beautiful suburbanite, with a successful husband, traveling summers together to such exotic places as the Greek Isles or Universal Studios, Orlando! She would dream about this as she sat in her two-room abode, lost in fantasy, only to eventually find herself back in the realm of her humdrum existence. Roxie had a new boss, John Daniels. The old one, Mel, had been transferred to Vegas. This guy showed up the following week. He immediately developed a fixation with Roxie, constantly walking by her desk, checking her work, asking what she believed to be very personal questions. Roxie felt his eyes on her. When she left for her half-hour walk at lunch, she could imagine him standing at the door, watching as she walked away. She just couldn't figure him out, but he was a man, and surely was up to no good. Roxie rose for work as usual the following Monday, after what had been a pretty good weekend. There had been a Picasso exhibit downtown. She had taken the bus and spent both days admiring her favorite artist. She felt Picasso captured the essence of loneliness, speaking directly to her through his work. Suddenly, a sharp pang in her stomach sat her back down on the bed. It was like nothing she had felt before. She had been having slight cramps, but passed it off as diet or woman troubles, but this one was severe. Another followed the first, more forceful, driving her flat on her back. As the pain deepened, Roxie was held captive on that twin bed. Unable to move, the pain washed over her like the ocean waves along the New Jersey shoreline. The phone rang between spasms, wearily she reached for the handle. "Hullo?" "Roxie?" It was John's voice. "Where are you, it's ten-thirty?" Roxie tried to respond, but the next wave was too powerful, and the room mercifully faded to black.

Sam Beason, class of 1988, sauntered into his old locker room. Not much has changed in fifteen years, he thought. He was back in Danville for the funeral of his Mom's only sibling, Jean Grogan. Sam had moved at age two. Her returned his junior year, after cancer claimed his Mother, to live with Aunt Jean. Two years later, Sam departed Danville, a football hero. Now the owner of the Chicago Bears, he felt he owed it all to the man he was about to see. Butch Patrick was still coaching the Tigers; sitting at his wooden desk, head slightly bent, glasses perched atop his nose, intently studying his playbook. "Hey Coach." Sam said, opening the door. "If I'm disturbing something, I'll stop back later." Coach lifted his head and smiled, "How much later? I've got a football team to piece together and I get nothing but interruptions!" He rose and grabbed Sam's hand. "Come in! The best damn quarterback in Danville history! Great to see you, son!" "Thanks Coach, same here, do you mind?" said Sam, pointing to the chair. "Please, sit!" Coach responded, returning to his desk. "Sorry about Jean, how's it going?" "Day to day," smiled Sam. "Sam, I'll get right to the point as to why I called to see you," Coach said, looking down at his desk. Sam curiously leaned forward, "Go on." "Well," said Coach. "Remember when you first asked if I had known your Father?" "Sure, you said he was like a brother to you," Sam responded. Coach paused, his eyes began to fill with tears. "Son, I lied. I'm your Dad." Sam laughed. "Yeah, and I'm your nanny." "No son, not a joke, I'm dead serious." "My Dad died in Nam, that's why we moved from Danville in the first place, what are you talking about?" Coach took a deep breath, this wouldn't be easy. "Your Mother made me swear never to tell you. She thought it better if I stayed away. We were so young and I did some stupid things. Anyway, before she died, she called me. Said that you would be coming to live with Jean. She asked that the secret remain for as long as possible." Sam stood up. "This is crazy, but if it's true, why are you telling me now?" "Purely selfish reasons. I've had a son for thirty-three years that I've had to watch from a distance. It drove me nuts. Now the two most important people in your life have passed, and I wanted you to know the truth." "Jesus," Sam muttered. For some time, he sat silent, recalling times on and off the field; the warmth, the laughter, those words of encouragement. Strangely, he'd always known this to be true. "My Father," he repeated. This explained his Mom's vague answers when questioned about his Dad, and the apprehensive look on his Aunt Jean's face whenever he & Coach were together. Then there was that bond, that unique feeling of kinship. Sam leaned forward, "So where do we go from here?" Coach smiled, "Let's start with lunch."