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    Sacramento Latina: When the One Universal We Have in Common Divides Us
    Sacramento Latina: When the One Universal We Have in Common Divides Us
    Sacramento Latina: When the One Universal We Have in Common Divides Us
    Ebook590 pages8 hours

    Sacramento Latina: When the One Universal We Have in Common Divides Us

    By Anne Hart

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    About this ebook

    The one thing that we have in common always divides us, Dr. Consuelo Lopez, thought. Known by the inmates as "that Latina forensic 'shrink'" at Folsom, she arrived with several personality classifiers in her briefcase. The Folsom Warden, Don Redling, and Detective Kendall, who guarded the correctional officer escorted Consuelo into anarchist, Lenny Carr's cell. Kendall explained to Lopez, "I didn't follow you here. I'm here on research."

    "At the same moment of my appointment?" Consuelo smirked as she and Kendall entered the cell, squeezing behind Redling.

    "I'm not going to leave you alone in here," Kendall said, rolling his eyes in contempt at his colleague, Warden Redling.

    Carr had the circuit boards spread across the computer shell. "Controller failure." He jabbered at the innards.

    "Watch those tools," Redling specified. "We count 'em."

    "The computer is a fetish," Consuelo said. "Watch how Carr is magically influenced by the power of the fetish."

    Carr was a convicted murderer. The jury judged him a cold-blooded killer. Consuelo wondered whether he felt any empathy, or would the many tests reveal that he is a sociopath without conscience?

    She turned on her camcorder. "Look into the camera," she said. "I want that unblinking look in your eyes on video tape."

    "Since when could you resist the power of the media, doctor?" Carr chuckled. " Too bad the power's down, the generator is sputtering, and soon you'll all be locked in here with me, Dr. Lopez."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisheriUniverse
    Release dateMar 13, 2002
    ISBN9781532000102
    Sacramento Latina: When the One Universal We Have in Common Divides Us
    Author

    Anne Hart

    Popular author, writing educator, creativity enhancement specialist, and journalist, Anne Hart has written 82 published books (22 of them novels) including short stories, plays, and lyrics. She holds a graduate degree and is a member of the American Society of Journalists and Authors and Mensa.

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      Book preview

      Sacramento Latina - Anne Hart

      Sacramento Latina

      When the One Universal We Have In Common Divides Us

      All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Anne Hart

      No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

      Mystery and Suspense Press

      an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

      For information address:

      iUniverse, Inc.

      5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200

      Lincoln, NE 68512

      www.iuniverse.com

      Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental.

      This is a work of fiction.

      ISBN: 0-595-22061-4

      ISBN: 978-1-5320-0010-2

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      About Author

      To all those who love to read mystery and suspense

      novels with female sleuths and their teams.

      CHAPTER 1

      Image319.PNG

      FRIDAY 9:00 A.M.

      Dr. Consuelo Lopez, known by the inmates as that Latina forensic ‘shrink’ at Folsom, arrived with several personality tests in her briefcase. The Folsom Warden, Don Redling, and Detective Kendal, who stood guarding the correction officer escorted Consuelo into anarchist, Lenny Carr’s cell. Kendall explained to Lopez, I didn’t follow you here. I’m here on research.

      At the same moment of my appointment? Consuelo smirked as she and Kendall entered the cell, squeezing behind Redling. I’m not going to leave you alone in here, Kendall smirked as he rolled his eyes in contempt at his colleague, Warden Redling.

      Redling informed her at the last minute that Lee Vans and Lenny Carr were cell mates, best friends, and white power brothers at Folsom—and that Consuelo had better watch out. They might not talk to an outsider, Redling warned.

      Vans didn’t bother to look up at Consuelo as he unplugged a dot matrix printer cable and fingered the pins. Lenny Carr sat hunched over his computer. I fix ‘em. Carr wheezed.

      Redling explained. Good behavior goes a long way here.

      Carr had the circuit boards spread across the computer shell. Controller failure. He jabbered at the innards.

      We gotta watch those tools, Redling said. We count ‘em.

      The computer is a fetish, Consuelo said. Watch how Carr is magically influenced by the power of the fetish.

      The two finally made eye contact with me. My purpose is to break the computer’s hold on you for two hours to answer these questionnaires. They’re personality type indicators, Consuelo said.

      She waved the personality tests in front of the cell mates. No way, Creen grunted. Lee Vans spat.

      Consuelo felt no empathy here, but empathy is an art form, a mystical identification, according to C.G. Jung whose books she collected for years.

      Hey, how much power are you giving that computer anyway? Consuelo asked. Jung wrote that the primitive charges the fetish with potency. And Carr was no different than any other magician.

      Jung wrote that the basis of empathy is the magical significance of the subject who gains power over the object by means of mystical identification. Surely Carr identified with his white pride group as much as with his computer repair expertise.

      The question was, Consuelo thought, did he feel empathy, or was he a sociopath without conscience? Carr was a convicted murderer. The jury judged him a cold-blooded killer.

      The lights went out. Suddenly the pitch black cell block howled with voices.

      Instead of beginning the tests, she turned on her digital 8 camcorder. Look into the camera, she said. I want that unblinking look in your eyes on video tape.

      Since when could you resist the power of the media, doctor? Carr chuckled. Too bad the power’s down, the generator is sputtering, and soon you’ll all be locked in here with me, Dr. Lopez.

      Then the lights came on as suddenly as they went out. The backup generator kicked in, said Kendall.

      Carr silently keyboarded on his laptop computer. Kendall briefed Consuelo right in front of him. Carr believes he alone has the power to give his computer life and soul. Carr’s cellmate, Lee Vans, pretended not to listen as he read an old newspaper.

      The world’s filled with dangerous objects that fill you with a fear of your own impotence. Consuelo humored Kendall with her one-liners fine tuned to her fifteen second radio analysis.

      As a psychiatrist, Consuelo said, It’s obvious that Carr withdrew years ago from intimate contact with the world in order to weave his plan with which he hoped to gain the upper hand.

      Yeah? Carr said, not looking up from his computer.

      Consuelo spoke to Lee Vans. Carr thinks of himself as the underdog. You are the empathetic type. You face the world with confidence. Your computer holds no terror. It’s an inert object. You delight in yourself through your work. I bet the kind of software you use reflect your thoughts about your own feelings. Your feelings are everything in your work. Your own thoughts about your feelings are needed in artistic creation.

      Lee Vans laughed. Who told you I do computer graphics?

      Consuelo smiled and nodded. How else can you satisfy your need to get outside of yourself in here?

      Faced with being in prison for life, I guess you need a defense against experience. Otherwise, life might disturb your enjoyment of beauty. Consuelo laughed, exposing a perfect set of white teeth between full lips painted blood red.

      Beauty? Carr broke into loud laughter. Here? Get a whiff of the beauty. He broke bowel wind loudly in Kendall’s face and laughed again. Kendall quickly left the cell and hurried down the corridor, impatiently pushing past the guard.

      Well, abstract beauty, Consuelo said.

      Redling left the cell and motioned to the guard to keep an eye on them.

      I need your help, Consuelo said.

      You lookin’ for a cause to fight for? Carr closed the lid of his computer case and finally looked down. He stood a foot higher than her.

      I’m sick of the neoanarchist murders. I’m tired of the crap, Consuelo said. My mother’s a holocaust survivor from Salonika. My father’s an Egyptian Out of Many Diverse Peoples, One Government, an eye surgeon, from the Geniza district of Cairo. I’m tired of getting kicked from both ends from people like you so I can find a job with an old age pension.

      And I’m tired of being threatened, Lee Vans yelled. Lenny taught me to read...got me the best phonics books...Teachers lied to me...said I was retarded. Lenny also taught me to repair computers. I was going to hang myself when I first came here. What good is learning to repair computers when we’re in for life? What crap have we got here? He pulled the personality tests out of Consuelo’s hands and tore ripped them in half.

      Shut the hell up, said Carr. Vans tossed the questionnaire in the air and flopped on his bunk. The guard rushed in, but Consuelo motioned him back. He leaned against the door and waited for Consuelo’s next signal.

      Look at me, Carr said. I’m the one who shot that eleven-year old race traitor five years ago. I got that Viet Cong kid too. Right on the playground. And we got more comin’ up. I know it was Creen who killed Tom Kayton. I know that’s why you’re here. Creen’s taken over my...

      Will you help me put Creen behind bars? Consuelo asked. By the way the little boy was second Miguelration American Vietnamese.

      What can you do? You’re no lawyer. Vans said.

      All I can do is testify as a psychiatrist, a medical doctor.

      You need proof.

      I need your help. How are the environmental terrorists involved with Creen’s hate groups?

      Carr began jabbering his computer. He didn’t look up. He spat twice. Multiculturalism is a tool of revenge. I know you speak for one culture, many races. I heard it on your radio talk show. To understand the environmental time bombs you have to know the difference between pride, resistance, and hate groups.

      We’re talking resistance now, when we talk about what Creen’s got going. Don’t think I’m dumb because I’m in for life.

      What industry is he going to hit next?

      Carr and Lee Vans howled and whistled together.

      I know all about the Prosecutor being murdered. It was no carjacking, Carr laughed fiendishly. Redling came out of a dim hallway and entered the cell with a tape recorder.

      What’s in it for me? Carr wheezed.

      We’ll see, Redling said.

      Maybe I’ll help you get Creen.

      Creen turned you in, Carr, Consuelo said.

      Redling looked at Consuelo suspiciously. She knew the vigilant personality type she’d be dealing with—Creen and Redling were similar ISTP (introverted, sensing, thinking, perceiving) types on opposite sides of the law.

      They needed their freedom of movement to be hands-on pilots of life. They were weapons masters who lived by their senses. They thought for themselves.

      Consuelo had copies of the MBTI (TM) questionnaires both took last year. So she knew their personality types were introverted, realistic, logically objective, and open-minded. Consuelo also had their DSM-III-R diagnostic categories.

      She liked the DSM-III-R’s systematic way of diagnosing most of the mental disorders treated by mental health professionals. The MBTI (trademark) asked for self-disclosing preference responses from normal people.

      The Warden and Carr were both vigilant, adventurous types, Consuelo thought. Redling revealed a streak of antisocial plus idio- syncratic. Carr showed antisocial plus schizoid leanings. Carr built a wall to keep people out. Redling needed a few good people to build on.

      What do you know about Bob’s murder? Consuelo asked. Redling recorded Carr’s statement. The men in black got him, Carr laughed. Vans joined in, chuckling.

      I’ll tell you who the men in black really are, Carr added. Shut that tape off.

      Why? Consuelo asked. Who the hell are the men in black—the Feds or their hired goons?

      Earth has never needed to speak with one voice until now, Carr said. And that one voice had better keep its head.

      Are you talking about the white resistance/pride tech-networks? I asked. Redling listened carefully, recording anyway against Carr’s demands.

      Lee Vans hit the recorder’s stop button. He faced Kendall eye to eye, as if a life sentence made them equals. "I’m talking about the secret government on our side.

      Even the President isn’t given the highest grade above top secret clearance. The guys who do—the guys who give out the top secret clearance numbers are backing us.

      Ah, you’re a bunch of uneducated, violent thugs, Redling said.

      Are you coming, too? Redling asked me.

      I have a lot of patience.

      He turned his back on Carr and Vans and left Consuelo alone with them. You have something to tell me that I don’t know? Consuelo asked.

      Who did a job on the Prosecutor? Hmm? Consuelo stared down Carr and Vans.

      I asked Redling to call the Coroner less than an hour ago. Who shot Bob Emerson point blank in the face with a Whitney—a handgun made for a rocket cartridge; extremely rare?

      Of course rockets, said Carr. "Rockets in the face stand for the IDIOSYNCRATIC IMAGINATIVES. movement’s link with white power. The men in black got Bob Emerson. But of course, the men in black are Russian Mafia goons from Los Angeles who deal in black-market computer chips.

      They’re hired by the CIA and the military and a few private mean dog security guards hired by the military to scare people into turning IDIOSYNCRATIC IMAGINATIVES information over to the military.

      Of course, the Russian Mafia in the USA takes a cut in blackmarket computer chips if they can get access to the wholesalers. Who thinks of connecting these different movements with white supremist hate groups in the USA preaching secret governments, coverups, and white supremist space aliens doing Migueltic research at underground military bases? Look at all the money these seminars bring.

      Peanuts! For crissakes! White men in black? Rockets in the face? IDIOSYNCRATIC IMAGINATIVESs? Consuelo sighed. And are these men in black your own boys, robots, feds, the CIA, some secret government, or what?

      Government goons? Carr laughed. "Military-paid goons. Private paid security guard types, tough guys paid by the government to scare witnesses...and nosy prosecuting attorneys. They’re recruited straight out of prison or worse. They got Whitneys, Springfields, and M-16s out at the Dreamland site—near the military base.

      Why don’t you call those private security companies out there in the desert—near the military base and see how nervous they can get with tourists stopping to watch lights in the sky on public land? He handed me a photo of a row of men in some type of security guard uniform posed on a bleacher. See how they train the red laser beam of their rifles on your chest if they catch you poking around there at night to watch secret aircraft being tested—even if you stand on public land?

      Which base? Consuelo tucked the photo into her briefcase.

      Try Dreamland first. Vans walked too close to Consuelo for comfort.

      They work for the same company that hires private security goons to frighten tourists who drive too close to military property to watch secret flight tests in the desert. It’s about 200 miles from Vegas...the dirt road’s unmarked.

      I hear you. What’s the connection between serious and lunatic fringe IDIOSYNCRATIC IMAGINATIVES investigators and the white hate groups, Carr? Vans? Come on, fellas, there’s a connection here. It’s in the fringe publications I find on the convention tables. Who’s got the money here?

      The big, Fortune 500 companies, the billionaires in the U.S. and elsewhere, Carr said. Go look for yourself. Go out to the desert and watch the curiosity seekers. The Russian Mafia dealing in computer chips out of Los Angeles are only small fry to district attention from the real culprit. Not all of them are white priders or in the resistance movement. A lot are investigative reporters. Talk to them, not to me.

      You know something about Creen. How’d you know about Bob Emerson’s murder? Consuelo repeated. Emerson was killed near his office in L.A., not out in the desert near Vegas and not near military testing grounds.

      Creen’s a bopper, but he got kids working his beat. I bet the coronor will give you a report the body’s been dumped or put back in his car, Carr said.

      Carr spat too close to me. Everybody in Folsom’s white pride movement knows Emerson was marked by Creen. Creen knows who did a job on him. Nothing can touch the man. You don’t even fit into the puzzle. You think you can pin anything on Creen?

      You hate the man.

      Carr laughed. I hate his guts, but the billionaires are financing him. Creen’s juggling the white resistance movement on one side and the IDIOSYNCRATIC IMAGINATIVES, New Agers on the other. Now that he’s wormed his way into the IDIOSYNCRATIC IMAGINATIVES. conspiracy as king of disinformation, he’s turning toward the new age conspiracies. So many people are looking for the light.

      The light’s inside you, Consuelo said. Creen’s a sociopathic killer. If you help, I’ll put in the word that you cooperated.

      I’m a lifer Carr said. Remember five years ago you diagnosed me in court as the same kind of sociopathic cold-blooded killer? We all end up the same—bug food.

      So why try so hard, eh? Consuelo said as she left.

      Maybe it’s a setup for you, out in Dreamland. Carr said. "The tourist bus loads. Creen takes a group near there on Wednesday nights to watch the lights in the sky, the test flights from public land.

      He tells his tourists they could be crashed or captured disks flown by our own pilots. You’ll find the guy who shot Emerson in Creen’s crowd. Watch out for the private security guards. They’re mean shots.

      I’ll get back to you. Consuelo left a gift for Carr on his bunk—a half dozen supermarket tabloids. She had another 50-minute evening housecall appointment with Andy, Sara and Ben after dinner.

      Lee Vans yelled as she walked down the corridor. One of these days Creen’s son will nail him before you do. He likes the taste of blood. It was a long drive from Folsom to Tahoe.

      Consuelo picked up Ben outside Creen’s dial-a-neoanarchist radio and cable program. The public access station gave him studio time and even training. He helped Creen put together a cable T.V. interview with some of his white pride-and-resistance spokesmen. Ben carried audio cassettes from the radio talk show.

      Ben’s fatigue showed. He dozed off in my car as Consuelo sped him not home this time to her place, but to his mom’s. I’m sick of listening to that neoanarchist crap, Consuelo said, shaking him awake as she turned into Andy’s Tahoe driveway. He stirred and brushed her off.

      We’ve been threatened all our lives, Ben said, yawning.

      Think I’m all small talk?

      Consuelo motioned for him to get out of the car. Creen’s a killer. He’s confessed without knowing it.

      Confessed to what? Ben lied.

      You know how Creen killed Tom Kaybott, Consuelo said. Did Creen pay you anything?

      Creen don’t have beans. He’s nothing, small fish, a link in the chain. He’s always asking me to get money from my stepdad.

      Who masterminds all the killings of fourteen-year-old kids for snitching to the police?

      Ben laughed. Creen’s too radical. The kids don’t buy his attitude.

      That’s not what I hear.

      Creen’s not the mastermind.

      I used to be Carr’s court psychiatrist. He says you’re planning to kill Creen. Don’t do it, Ben.

      I not killing anybody, for chrissakes!

      No one’s giving Carr a second chance. He’ll never be paroled.

      He said you like the taste of blood.

      He’s scum, Ben said.

      Ben still had his key. Sara and Tiffany were waiting. She nursed the new baby beneath a golden shawl. Andy was on the phone in the next room.

      You’re too good for this, Ben, Sara said. You’re too smart, too proud.

      He twisted his head and looked back at Consuelo . She said that about a million times.

      You don’t believe it?

      You’re out for revenge because you know your payoff is to make your dad angry. You want to injure your dad, Consuelo said, or your biological mother who doesn’t want you.

      You mean my overbearing mother? Ben laughed and sat down.

      Sara put the baby in the nursery to take her nap. She returned to the kitchen and slowly quartered tomatoes. We don’t have a maid or a cook because Andy’s too cheap. He withholds cash like he withholds hugs. The only emotion I get from him is anger.

      How many times have I told you that whatever emotions a woman holds back, the man expresses? Consuelo said.

      Sara whistled as she prepared the salad. I’m making that Egyptian dip—eggplant whipped with mashed chick pea and sesame seed paste the way you showed me.

      You mean babaganouge?

      Eew what’s that disgusting crap? Tiffany whizzed by.

      Ben gave her a quick bolt in the side of the head. Shut your face.

      Please, don’t. Sara bargained with Ben.

      Why not? He guffawed. You’re Andy’s punching bag. You’re so stupid, you don’t even have the sense to leave because he’s got some money. You’ll lick my boots for money, won’t you?

      Andy thinks all women will degrade themselves like this for money.

      Does he know you have low-self esteem, that you don’t believe you can support yourself on your own for the rest of your life? Consuelo said.

      The door chimes rang. There was mumbling. Andy let somebody in. Sara glanced at Consuelo . I wonder who that is?

      We have a special guest, Andy said. Put another plate on for Anna Kow. Andy ducked into the kitchen to take a look.

      Who’s Anna Kow? Consuelo asked.

      It’s Andy’s leading actress from his new movie. Sara mashed the eggplant and added two tablespoons of Tahini—ground sesame seed paste mixed with a tablespoon of olive oil.

      She’s twenty-four and blonde. I don’t have to say any more. You can tell by the expression on my face.

      Andy spent weeks out of town with Anna filming on the east coast. After his third movie starring Anna K., Andy spent more time with his new mistress than he ever did with me. It’s amazing how a man’s fancy changes after a new baby is born. She followed Andy to Europe last year. And he didn’t beat her—yet.

      Sara topped the babaganouge with chopped parsley and hot, quartered slices of pita bread brushed with olive oil and minced garlic. Go on, get out of the kitchen, Andy’s coming. Sara waved the kids into the dining room.

      Andy walked into the kitchen for a moment with his arm around Anna Kow’s bare shoulders. Look who’s here, Andy announced. Sara and Consuelo gave quick smiles and nods.

      Don’t keep our guest waiting for dinner. She’s ravenous and drooling, Andy said. Consuelo thought Anna Kow smelled like a fresh melon. It reminded her that one of Marilyn Monroe’s friends once said Marilyn, too, smelled like a melon. Anna’s cologne wafted through the air, overpowering the minced garlic.

      On Andy’s way out of the kitchen he bumped into a loaf of pita bread pushed too far out on the breakfast nook and knocked it to the floor. He swooped it up, gave Consuelo a cold stare, and kissed the round bread pockets loudly and with a hostile heart.

      What the hell are you starin’ at? Andy grinned. I’d never seen an angrier smile. To an Egyptian, bread’s the symbol of life, isn’t it? He shattered in nervous laughter.

      I’m making fried garbanzo bean sandwiches, Sara said. Dr. Lopez taught me Mexican-American cooking.

      Nobody added the words Mexican-American Out of Many Diverse Peoples, One Government, to their usual emphasis on ethnicity or religious differences. Consuelo wondered why.

      Watch out for fava bean fever, Consuelo said. Use my Pinto beans instead.

      Pinto? Maybe also garbanzo, too, eh? Better to break wind with, my dear, Andy laughed. He laid a heavy hand on Anna’s shoulder and swung his partner into the dining room.

      You maybe don’t know how to prepare the pinto beans. You have to soak them in water in the fridge overnight, and then pour out the water with all the gases in it. Finally, you rinse and cook the beans.

      He’s having a problem with his director. Don’t pay attention to him. Sara sighed.

      A psychologist or a psychiatrist or any therapist is paid to be a juggler: read between the lines and digest the details at the same time. I care about Ben’s future. I know I’m here as a friend, but I have to think about what he says to each one of us. It’s my job. Besides, I love making evening housecalls. Why else do you think I run the only Personality Squad in town?

      You must be crazy, Sara said. "You made a terrible mistake. You listened to your feelings instead of your head. When Ben’s case stopped being a job, your troubles started.

      Are you saying helpers should stop caring?

      No, only that they shouldn’t become involved. How come you stopped knowing when to draw the line?

      Consuelo looked long at Sara, thinking logic is only the beginning of wisdom, and remembering that Consuelo heard that line on Star Trek, not in medical school.

      It’s the ethnic hatred that got to me because I am a minority. Hate made me want to make Ben like me. That’s why I need to adopt him, to mother him. Consuelo blurted.

      You have a crippled neice to mother. Sara’s eye narrowed to slits.

      I want to be mother to the world. It’s better the stretch marks be on my wallet than on my belly. Consuelo gave Sara a warm hug. It was hard to do, being an introverted feeling type trying to extravert feelings to a patient Consuelo wanted to like her as a friend.

      And a stranger in your own home, Sara said. You must be desperately lonely.

      Personality Squad’s position is to get the patient in control again, to become the analyst, and then switch roles back. It lets the patient know he or she hasn’t lost power or control to better his or her life, Consuelo explained.

      I need to feel—to act on my personal values. I react too much. Consuelo added.

      You certainly know how to make people feel.

      I wish I could show people how to think, but thinking’s my inferior function. Once out of graduate school, I leaped back to what felt comfortable, my dominant feeling. Consuelo helped her carry a salad platter into the dining room.

      Did you ever think of going back to school and becoming a therapist, Sara?

      Sara laughed. "Sometimes. I wish I weren’t so scared of taking tests. It’s hard to concentrate, and I prefer reading novels that make me feel alive. I’m hooked on excitement and in a time squeeze.

      At my age, life is too short not to seek enjoyment. Why study? It’s a pain in the butt for me. I’d have to study statistics, and I failed ninth grade algebra twice and changed to typing and clerical practice. The I.Q. test at thirteen said mine was 106. Besides, nobody will hire someone over forty.

      What do you mean with all those excuses? You had a baby a few weeks ago! Your mind’s active longer than your body’s fertile. Don’t you have any hope left for tripping the light fantastic?

      Hope is an excuse for doing nothing. Sara carefully placed the platter before Andy. I await your praise, she said. Well, is anyone going to say thank you?

      Don’t you ever listen? Andy said to Sara. He looked at the plate of sliced tomatoes. Quarter slices take up the whole plate.

      Why is a busy man so interested in dominating my womanly kitchen or telling me how to slice my tomatoes?

      He’s losing control at work and doesn’t want to lose it in the home, Consuelo told Sara in front of everyone.

      Andy pointed to the little green stems and leaves she didn’t cut off the tomatoes. We have a guest. How can you put tomatoes on a serving platter looking like that?

      I don’t know how many times I’ve told you I distinctly like tomatoes served cut in fifths.

      I’ll cut them my own way, Sara said sarcastically. Who’s the cook around here, anyway?

      Are you sassin’ me again?

      They’re going to get cut the way they look the prettiest.

      Sara, how do you spend most of your day? Consuelo interrupted the escalating anger.

      Sewing historical ethnic belly dance costumes for twelve-inch dolls, Sara said. I told you I’m all about creative expression.

      There was a note of desperate neediness in Sara’s voice.

      Since we have a Latina psychologist as our dinner guest, I’m putting on Latina music, Sara said softly. She hid her rage well, but Consuelo detected the smoldering underneath the surface. She turned on the CD-player. It wasn’t Latina music. It was belly dance music from Morocco. The music echoed footsteps of whirling dervishes in wooden clogs, whacking a wooden floor as they spun like tops. It was all in the music, no visual clues were needed to hear the merging of sounds.

      Voices welled up. The pitch grew intense as the music faded into nuances of Oriental delight. The rhythm pumped. An Irish whistle in E flat, a double-barreled flute together piped out the shrill music of ancient Egyptian papyrus fields. A singer crooned.

      The twang flings of an ‘oud’ thumped in time with Turkish finger zills and hand-clapping. The dumbek tom-tommed it’s hollow echoes. A bass clarinet introduced castenets of wooden spoons. The music was innocent as Eden, but Sara ripped her skirt to show how she was cleft.

      Ben pulled out a gun and rammed it against the side of his mother’s head. She gave him a look of surprise. Her mouth hung open for a moment. Then she begged Ben. You’re not a neoanar-chist. I trust you with my life.

      Ben twisted his lips into a weird smile and clicked the chamber twice. The gun was empty, but Sara didn’t know it. She flinched, then stared at Ben. Why are you doing this to me?

      You’re weak, uneducated, and lazy, Sara, Ben said. You’re always complaining dad pushes you around, but you never do anything about it. You’re such a martyr. If you lived with me, I’d push you around too.

      Ben shoved the empty gun in his belt. Tell her, dad. Tell her you want a divorce and custody of the kids. Tell her the truth, that you’re sending Tiff and the baby to your mother and brothers in the old country.

      Why don’t you ever listen to Andy? Anna Kow said in her deep-pitched European accent.

      I don’t take orders from my husband’s whore!

      You nasty little bitch, Anna snapped.

      Get out of here, Andy hollered. Go up to your room.

      Ben sat at the table silently munching on roasted pita bread chips. Tiffany whined. Ben pulled her hair. The baby slept upstairs.

      No!, Sara said. Half of this community property is mine. I invested all my savings from twenty six films in your company. What did you do with all my money?

      Get the hell outta here! Andy pooled his anger.

      He lifted Sara by the back of her blouse collar, dragged her screaming through the kitchen, and threw her bodily out the back kitchen door where she fell noisily against what sounded like metal garbage cans.

      Aren’t you going to stand up to him? Consuelo asked Ben.

      Sara wants a relationship so bad, she’ll have to fight for it, Ben said.

      He was right. Sara walked back into the dining room.

      Don’t do anything passive-aggressive, Consuelo said. You told me that serenity and harmony were most important to you.

      You always ask me why I’m so damn avoidant dependent? Sara charged into me. "It’s because Andy smashed the car while I was nursing the baby. He was test driving a new van. My head bounced off the auto’s left window.

      "Andy took all my insurance money. That money was for my inner ear injury, my masked epilepsy, and my vertigo he caused me for the rest of my life. That’s why I’m financially dependent on him. If I try to work, my body goes to pieces.

      Food hits me like a bomb. I’m a mess of hypoglycemia racked with the shakes and tight breathing. I’m agoraphobic and housebound. You know I’m staying for economic reasons, not because I love the idiot.

      Cut out all sugar and fruit until you stabilize, Consuelo interrupted, breathless with empathy.

      Why are you telling us all this? Anna Kutkowsy said. She gazed into a compact mirror and applied an arc of peach lipstick.

      This time your wife isn’t going to run, Consuelo said.

      Last week Andy tried to strangle me with a thin wire for speaking up, for telling him my needs, Sara sobbed. The year before he turned on all the gas jets at night when we were all asleep. That afternoon I’d told him I was three months pregnant.

      You see, Andy Vincent, Consuelo said, Sara waits for an answer to come charging down on a white horse instead of going out and digging it up for herself. She still doesn’t know she’s being forced to clean up after the droppings of her knight-in-armor’s horse.

      The baby cried low and first, then louder. Sara ran upstairs to tend to her and locked the nursery door.

      I don’t give second chances, Andy said. You like oriental rugs? He beckoned me to see a pile of rugs in the den. They were delivered this afternoon. You can have two or three, Dr. Lopez, if you testify for me in court so I can get custody of my kids.

      I have rugs up to here in my own house. Consuelo pointed to her chin. I donate my old ones to charity.

      Have you told Sara you want to divorce her? Consuelo asked.

      No, Andy said. I didn’t want to say anything until she signs the quitclaim deed on this house and on my company. I’m selling out.

      Why would she unknowingly sign a quitclaim deed?

      I told her the divorce I asked for last year was cancelled.

      Anna Kow locked her arm in Andy’s. How can that woman be so selfish? Anna leaned her head on Andy’s shoulder.

      Ben followed Consuelo . Mom’s riddled with panic disorder. That’s why I had to move out. I couldn’t stand her asking me to shop for food any more. No way can she support herself, let alone kids.

      She never told me she’s agoraphobic, but I could see all the signs of avoidance and dependence, Consuelo said.

      Couldn’t you tell? Ben yelled. She gets a hundred panic attacks a day and won’t take drugs because she says she’ll get addicted to them.

      There’s no way she can step outside unless I drive her to her errands. In a restaurant she sits in the back where she won’t have to talk to anyone.

      Sara’s a total recluse, Andy said.

      He embraced Anna Kow. My wife’s afraid to talk on the phone. Did you know I sent her to a psychiatrist before she met you? The other guy told me Sara was borderline paranoid.

      How can she leave her children like that? Anna said.

      Sara ran back downstairs. If you leave me, I’ll kill myself.

      No you won’t, I said. You’ll throw me a thank God almighty I’m free at last party.

      I gave up a doctor to marry you, Andy. Sara cried.

      You’re a liar, Andy shouted. You’re nothing, a nobody. Why would a doctor look at you? Your belly is chicken-skin covered with stretch marks. You’re an old bag with gray hair and short legs that turn men off. The more he yelled at his wife, the tighter Anna Kow’s grip closed on his arm.

      Tiffany ran downstairs and leaped into Consuelo’s lap. Would you want your daughter to marry a man exactly like you? Consuelo said. Well, that’s what she’ll end up with if she continues to witness all this conflict.

      You lied to me, Andy, Sara panted. You said you went to college. I found out you dropped out of high school to work as a machinist before you started making slasher movies. Look how you brought down a girl with a college degree from an Ivy League school.

      So my money isn’t good enough for you? Andy said angrily.

      You’re a miser.

      Ben slapped his dad on the back. She’s a fortune-hunting bitch.

      I have dignity, Sara insisted.

      And I’m sitting on millions, Andy confessed. He squeezed Sara’s cheeks together with two fingers until her mouth puckered.

      You’re a cold fish in bed, and I’m tired of you being a heavy stone around me neck. I want to be free, Andy said.

      Please don’t break up the family. It’s all I have left, Sara whimpered.

      All you have left is your self-respect, Consuelo said.

      My face is going numb, Sara screamed.

      It’s because you’re breathing too rapidly. Consuelo put my arm around her and helped her sit back in the recliner. Andy bent over her, blowing his rancid breath at her as she pulled away from his face.

      Sara pushed back on his chest with her open palms. You’re the man who’s taking my babies, who took all my money to manage and made it disappear into your film flops. Do you think you can throw me out just like that?

      I never realized the family was more important than the wife’s individual rights, sanity, or health.

      Ben stepped between Andy and Sara. He hiked up his shirt and smothered a lighted cigarette in his bare armpit. Sara cringed. Andy whirled around with a look of surprise.

      He walked back and forth between Andy and Sara as Consuelo followed behind him wondering what Ben was up to. Ben gave Sara’s shoulder a hard squeeze. She jumped.

      He swaggared bowl-legged in his skin-tight faded blue jeans, stalking Sara like a slam dancer. He leaped after her, turned, and thrust his behind in her face. Can you find a tail up there? Ben barked.

      Consuelo interrupted his escalating taunt. A tail you can use to hold on securely while your hands are free to grab a higher branch? So you’ll never take a chance on falling?

      Sara shoved Ben’s behind out of her face.

      No tail? No horns? I’m not an animal, Ben said. I’m your stepson.

      Consuelo heard loud knocking on the door and jumped to answer it. It was Gamelan in her battery-powered wheelchair. Would anyone believe a friendship, more than that—an adoption between an orthodox, Sephardic, Egyptian Out of Many Diverse Peoples, One Government psychologist and a grunge and heavy metal, Halstatt Lofty People neoanarchist-worshipping ethnic hate-filled kid?

      Consuelo thought for a moment how Ben claimed that out of kindness for his own ethnic group he was protecting them and their job rights by planning for racial, religious, cultural, and ethnic wars and violence? Consuelo thought twice about it, about the idea of how, in the name of kindness, what pain is inflicted on other cultures or other economic classes, before she spoke to Gamelan.

      What’s up, kid?

      Ben invited Creen to dinner. Is he here yet?

      Gamelan wheeled herself in uninvited. Consuelo passed her the purse containing the video camera with the Vincent family’s dirty laundry on tape.

      Creen’s car pulled up behind Consuelo’s. He sat behind the drivers seat looking at her a long while. Come on in. Soup’s on, Consuelo called to him, throwing him a sick smile, beckoning with a jerk of my head and raised eyebrows. We’re having light veggies and heavy rapport.

      Where’s the john? Creen asked as he charged into the house. Sara motioned to the left. He brushed by Gamelan’s wheelchair and Consuelo without looking up. He was going to be trouble.

      Consuelo had his military tests, I.Q. and all. Creen had a 141 I.Q. on the Stanford-Binet scale.

      Consuelo thought about how the highest ranking Neoanarchists, physicians, architects, and propaganda producers in office during World War Two Germany had I.Q.s around 138. The U.S. harvested a crop of foreign physicists with even higher I.Q.s after the War that were now in their seventies. Somehow, Consuelo’s and Creen’s paths crossed on a bell curve.

      She took hold of Sara’s arm. Only through pain you act instead of react to Andy. You’d go to any extreme to be the center of attention or even to get any attention at all.

      You’d marry someone like Andy, dote on Ben, carry on with Creen, in order to shock an audience into attention.

      Why are you turning on me? Sara screamed.

      I’m not. You weren’t put on this earth to be Andy’s or Ben’s emotional punching bag or to take crap from an abused kid.

      At least you complain with a purpose, Sara said.

      Like you. You think your selected friends would ever give you the time of day unless you made them feel sorry for you? When they show pity, you control and manipulate them as much as Andy and Ben manipulate you.

      Sara stood firm in her denial. Consuelo couldn’t get her to give Andy a specific ultimatum.

      "The more specific an ultimatum you give Andy, Ben, or even Creen, the better your results will be. Are you having an affair with

      Creen? If you are, and if he finds out your parents are Out of Many Diverse Peoples, One Government, he’ll probably kill you."

      I only want to help you, she begged.

      Something made her dance away at the most important moment, and Consuelo was willing to bet it was Creen.

      Who else is coming to the Fifth Anniversary concert? Creen barked as he hurried from the throne room, motioning to Ben. Let’s get the hell out of here.

      Ben whispered in Consuelo’s ear, He’s been on the radio five years.

      That dial-a-neoanarchist talk show that went to public access cable last week? Consuelo asked. Ben patted me twice on the shoulder and took off with Creen.

      Andy? Creen turned, but Andy waved him away and stuffed his mouth with a heel of rye bread dipped in Tahini sauce. Andy swallowed hard and tasted the sliced hot pita bread brushed with olive oil. Eeeww, how do you like it? Tiffany asked.

      Needs more garlic, he grunted.

      I’m going with Ben, Sara said.

      Business as usual, Andy barked. Wait, I’ll come along, Creen. I’m thinking about producing a slice ‘em and dice ‘em film based around a heavy metal punker slam dance contest.

      No one wants an oldtimer at a rock concert to remind youth of their mortality and control, Sara shrieked.

      Wanna bet being a movie producer makes me ageless? Andy said. "I’m a guy. White hair and glasses make me look smarter. It’s not like I was a gray-haired woman with short legs.

      That’s the symbol of death in America and wisdom in Tibet, Consuelo protested.

      Who’ll stay with Tiffany and the baby? Gamelan asked.

      Gamelan, can you help out, hon? Sara whined. The sitter service is probably closed by now.

      The Personality Squad won’t be on duty tonight, Consuelo said, unless I plug the phone back in the wall.

      Sure, I’ll stay. Gamelan held out her arms, and Tiffany jumped with glee, shrieking as she jumped into Gamelan’s lap. Wheel me around, Tiff giggled.

      There’s plenty of filled baby bottles in the fridge, Sara said. Don’t use the milk for your coffee, it’s my thawed breast milk.

      Gamelan smiled. It’s all right. I know what I have to do.

      Sara plodded up the stairs and carried the baby down from the children’s wing. Use the spare room downstairs. Consuelo almost left without realizing you’d never get that wheelchair up the stairs to the children’s wing if the baby started bawlin’.

      As Consuelo bent over to pat Gamelan on the hair, she handed Consuelo the large purse that contained her video camera.

      I put the night lens on while Creen was in the bathroom, Gamelan whispered as Consuelo bent over. The night goggles are in the bag.

      Creen brushed past Consuelo as he headed for the phone. Can you use a comic book script writer? Gamelan said.

      Creen laughed. Consuelo nudged him with my elbow and kidded, laughing as she spoke. I know how clever you are. Who are you tonight, Creen? You live in a world of fiction, you created yourself. You make yourself a fictive character—like Superman. Maybe you’ll jump off a ledge and think you can fly, too. So I thought it’s only fitting that you might need graphic artists or writers who sell imagination and escape.

      Creen cleared his throat and began to preach. "No. There’s always more creative help around than jobs to fill it.

      "Why don’t you start your own business? Nobody ever gets rich working for somebody else. Do you know how to get powerful people to help you? Tycoons like people exactly like themselves. Think like a billionaire.

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