A passenger closed the door to Timothy’s coach. As it latched, silencing the screaming, shouting students, raucous cheers, and off-color songs from the next car, he got a whiff of the smell of coal, burning wood and steam from the engine. He settled back, and listened to sounds he was familiar with, the beat of a railroad car: clicking wheels, compressing coach springs, and rattling windows, as the train picked up speed and rolled south in Illinois.
         Honking horns, train crossing signals, whinnying horses, and people laughing turned to silence as sections of his coach and the train began to disappear. He was startled and started to sweat as windows, people, seats and doors became invisible in rapid succession. The shrill engine whistle grew subdued and wailed like it was many miles away, traveling away from him, like a night train across a Kansas prairie.
        His fear heightened when his vision blurred: gray, blue, black and red colors merged into white. Images faded from sight. Sounds became muted.
        The last section of his coach, the frame and the wheels, turned into brightly lighted white snow colored fissures, faded slowly, almost majestically, as tinkling bells replaced shrill sounds. Passengers vanished and he sat on air, feeling it as it rushed passed his face. He rubbed his butt against a wicker seat he felt but couldn’t see, though he tried. He saw the steel tracks below and the railroad ties passing underneath at high, dizzying speed, but he heard no sound. He was deaf and could not hear his heart beating rapidly, as he knew it was. Passing trees changed from luscious green, yellow, and brown to gray then white and finally only brilliant white outlines, like camera negatives, before they disappeared. The grassy hills and wheat fields turned white then became white voids, and he was finally sitting alone, still sitting on nothing but rushing forward at an increasingly rapid speed, down the railroad tracks that sparkled and shown blasts of light as he passed over them.
        Timothy coughed as he inhaled rubbing alcohol fumes. He breathed deeply and coughed harshly several times. The silence of his body hurtling along railroad tracks gave way to distant sounds of muffled conversations. He listened. Gray and white landscapes passed rapidly and he breathed deeply again, trying to gain his composure, as he opened his eyes and stared at his wife. “Sarah?” he asked, puzzled as the vision of the bleak landscape and the railroad tracks changed into a small white with green trim hospital room. The landscape changed to white walls with pale green ceiling borders of a room and how did he know it was the Hollywood Central Hospital? They smiled at each other; he knew she was his wife, but he didn’t know her. He turned his head away from her and glanced out the window. It faced west and he knew directions. Why? His room faced west where he could see the orange evening sun slowly dipping into the blackness of the Pacific Ocean. It was almost as though he had written the dream, although he didn’t remember this dream.
        Timothy inhaled deeply, he didn’t know where he was, glanced away from the window, and ran his fingers over the white sheet that covered him to the foot of his bed. He was naked under the covers. He wondered why.
        “My love,” she said looking at him.
        My love. She’s beautiful. Who is she? He thought.
        She continued rubbing his lower legs with alcohol. She rubbed him as though she knew he liked to be massaged.
        “You fell asleep, my darling.” She pushed a light brown curl up away from her face, puffed at it, then bent over him, and kissed him, first on the cheek, then on his chin, and continued with more soft kisses on his lips. She aroused him. “My darling,” she said. “How are you feeling?” He imagined her hand up high between his legs.
        “Fine, I guess,” he said as he started kissing her. He frowned and knew he had begun to perspire.
        “What is it, darling?” she asked, straightening up again. She took his hand in hers and held it to her breast. He felt her beating heart.
        Timothy wasn’t sure what it was. Where it was. Who she was. He knew her name, but knew he had never met her. Thought flashed through his mind as fast as the train had rolled down the tracks. He was on his way to college and suddenly he’s in a hospital room with a beautiful woman, older than seventeen. There was no fear. I feel like I’m numb. Almost like I’m out of it. Like when they gave me a shot when I had my tonsils out. He wanted to shake the cobwebs out of his head. I can’t think. It’s like my thinking has stopped. He started to turn his head.
        “The doctor says you dare not turn your head, darling,” Sarah said.
        He tried to get his bearings but knew he had never seen this room before. Crazy. Well, heck, that’s it! I’ve lost my—No. That’s not it. He thought about Ferris. This thought was followed closely by the feeling of his hardness between his legs.
        She stroked his arm.
        “I dreamed about Ferris,”
        “Who?” Sarah asked.
        “Ferris. Ferris Morgan. A guy I met on the train when I first went away to college. At DeLong University.” He looked at Sarah’s dark, brown eyes. He wanted to hold her and kiss her. He raised his hand and caressed her breast. He wanted her to feel him all over. Rub him. Arouse him.
        She smiled at Timothy and held his hand tightly then kissed it and stepped quietly to the foot of the hospital bed. She capped the rubbing alcohol bottle, opened the door of the night stand and placed it inside and asked, “What’s wrong, my darling?”
        “Do you hear tinkly bells?”
        “No, darling, do you?”
        “Yeah.”
        “Well, don’t worry about it.”
        “I’m not going to worry about it,” he replied gruffly. He was disappointed in her response. I wish I understood it. “But you know, I haven’t thought about Ferris in so long a time,” he started wearily. “It’s been such a long time.” What am I saying? It hasn’t been a long time. I just met the guy. It hasn’t been over. He couldn’t finish his sentence. He could not recall how long it had been. Ferris, where are you?
        “It doesn’t matter, Dex,” she said. “You’ll . . . ”
        “It does matter, Sarah. Sarah!” He grabbed her hand tightly. She cringed. “He was a good friend of mine, we saw less and less of each other the years I was at DeLong. Give me a drink of that water, please, honey,” he said. Who is saying those words for me?
        Sarah handed Timothy a wet wash cloth. “Only wet your lips, darling,” she said.
         He rubbed the cloth over his lips, smacked his lips, and handed the cloth back to Sarah. I just accept everything she tells me to do. This is a nightmare. “My lips are so dry,” he said, as he looked up at the wall clock then back at Sarah. “The time came when he acted as though he didn’t want to see me. I guess. I couldn’t figure it out.” Sarah pulled up a straight chair, sat, and put her hands on Timothy’s arm. She stroked him again. “And then there were the rumors about strange things going on in the basement of Havilland Hall!”
        “Havilland Hall?” Sarah asked. “What was going on in the basement of Havilland Hall?”
        Who knows? I don’t know. “I don’t recall if the truth ever came out. It certainly didn’t while I was at DeLong.” He arched his eyebrows and guessed that Sarah knew he was trying to remember more about his early days there.
        “Did Ferris?” Sarah started to ask, looking directly at Timothy.
        “Ferris Morgan,” he said, emphasizing Ferris’s last name to Sarah and angry she didn’t remember it.
        “Yes,” she said, “Morgan. Ferris Morgan. Did he graduate from DeLong?”
        I haven’t graduated yet. How would I know? Hell, I haven’t even been to school yet. “I don’t know, sweetheart; it was so long ago,” Timothy said, finding his words were coming with more difficulty. “I really don’t remember.” Remember, isn’t the word for it. I don’t know. I don’t know. I know it hasn’t happened yet!
        “Well, what about the basement at Havilland Hall?” she asked, smiling and lowering her head as though she expected a naughty answer. Timothy smiled but began tohate the conversation. Her tone had become patronizing and he finally understood the woman named Sarah had no idea what Timothy spoke about.
        “No, honey,” he said, patting her hand. “Nothing risky or frisky.” He hesitated for a long time. “But, strange and somewhat frightening.”
        “Dex,” Sarah said, as though asking a question. “Dex. Are you telling me things went on in that basement that were illegal, dangerous, or unethical? You make it sound terribly mysterious, Dex. How did we get into this conversation anyway?”
        My thoughts, exactly. He let go of her hand, put his hand under the sheet and felt himself. Still, hard. He laughed to himself. What’s going on? Did that drink do this to me? Was there something in that drink? No! Not Ferris! He wouldn’t do that! I’ll never believe it!
        Timothy looked hard at Sarah. She appeared to be tiring and as he looked closely at her face, she seemed to be becoming more transparent. He understood she tried to keep his mind off his operation, and operation he knew nothing about. “Other operations? I mean, other rumors?”
        Timothy laughed aloud and she smiled with him. For the first time, he felt funny in his body. Aroused and funny.
        “I like those sexy dimples in your cheeks,” she said, yawning and touching his face. “Beautiful teeth too,” she added and pressed her fingers against his teeth and lips.
        Put your tit there, honey. His thought embarrassed Timothy. Let me feel your tit and you can operate on me all you want to. Wonder what the operation is about? “I’m not concerned about the operation. I’ll be OK,” he said. He swallowed hard. I know everything will be OK!          “Of course you will,” Sarah said. The door, which had been ajar, flew open wide, and a pretty nurse walked quietly to the side of the bed.
        She even walks efficiently. Timothy glanced at her.
        “Hi, Timothy,” she said smiling, “Mr. Dexter.”
        Timothy nodded. Sarah smiled at the nurse. She set the tray down on the night stand. Timothy and Sarah noticed the hypodermic needle then looked at each another.
        “Nighty-night time?” Sarah asked as the nurse read Timothy’s chart.
        “You’ve been shaved, Mr. Dexter?” she asked, lifting his sheet. The three of them glanced under the sheet at his penis and shaved pelvic area. “Wow! I mean, Oh yes, you have been shaved. Excuse me, sir,” she said. She blushed.
        Timothy smirked at Sarah as if to say, “There was really no other way she could have said that.” He sensed Sarah’s concern as the nurse straightened the bed sheet and blanket. Timothy enjoyed thinking about the flatness of his belly.
        “Yeah. They shaved me a few minutes ago.” Timothy responded. Too bad I wasn’t here.
        The nurse marked a sheet on the clipboard, hung it back up on the bed, walked to the head of the bed and asked Timothy to turn over. “Yes! It is indeed nighty-night, Timothy,” she said, smiling at Sarah as she used the hypodermic needle.
        Timothy did not react and felt uneasy about the operation. He rubbed his buttock.
        “You give a good shot,” he said to the nurse as she walked toward the door. “Hardly felt it.”
        “Thanks,” she said, closing the door behind her.
        “Try to sleep, darling,” Sarah said as Timothy opened and closed his eyes slowly.
        “That must have been a strong one,” he said. “I’m feeling woozy. Going to go to LaLa Land—Hooray, Hooray—going—to.”
        “Go back to sleep, darling,” Sarah added. “Dream about your days at DeLong. Dream about your college days.”
        I’ll try.
        The train’s whistle shrieked, the coach lurched, bounced Timothy against the window and woke him. He looked around the coach, got his bearings and wiped perspiration from his brow. He felt wet around his collar, down his chest to this stomach and between his legs. He was erect. What kind of a dream was that? I was going to have an operation? I was married to a gal named Sarah and Ferris, that kid I just met, was involved in something mysterious at DeLong University? What is this all about? It’s like that other mysterious dream. The dream I don’t like to think about anymore. He wouldn’t let the other dream come in.
        The conductor opened the door and ambled down the aisle, jostled by the slowing train, touching the backs of the seats with his hands and his hips. “Green Valley,” he intoned, nasally. He exhibited no emotion. Timothy heard the man had said the phrase many times. “Green Valley neuuuuxt. DeLong University neuuuuxt.” He passed Timothy, gave him a friendly tap on his shoulder, smiled broadly and winked. “You get off here,” he said. Their bodies bounced with the coach, in unison with the other passengers, as the train slowed for the Green Valley station.
        Timothy’s two suitcases remained on the luggage rack. He found his prize gray porkpie hat on the floor and heard the conductor call the stop for Green Valley again in the next car. “Green Valley. Green Valley neuuuuxt. DeLong University nexuuuuxt.”
        




Ivy Walls, Book 1, Chapter 2


Book1, Chapter 1 Book1, Chapter 5 Book1, Chapter 10