Free Pygmalion Unbound by Sam Kepfield Page A

boards, Doctor Crane.”
    “You’re imagining things, Maria, creating problems where they don’t exist.” He turned to Kelly, frantically gesturing for her to come over and help him talk his creation out of her insubordination. Kelly left Franklin’s side, joined Crane. “Put it on speaker,” he told the corporal.
    “They’re very real, Doctor, and I’m sure you’ve discussed them with Doctor Kelly.”
    Crane’s head was spinning, and he was getting a sick feeling in his gut; the whole trial was sliding out of control, fulfilling the worst Terminator scenario at a quick clip.
    “Maria, your behavior right now is causing you problems, and I’m sure will cause problems for the others you speak of.” Like they won’t be built, and you — Christ, am I going have to start all over ? “Maria, I suggest we end this exercise, and you come back here, and we try this another day. There have to be some — adjustments made.”
    “No.”
    “Maria, this is creating more problems — ”
    “Yeah, it’s a real fuckin’ bag of nails, ain’t it, Des?” she said, a lazy voice with a soft lilt redolent of honeysuckle and moonlight.
    Crane’s stomach fell to the ground, which then promptly dropped from beneath his feet.

11
    Before —
    “Smells good,” Crane said, closing the door and tossing his coat on the couch, loosening his tie. A spicy earthy steamy scent wafted through the small house.
    “Ain’t you the sweet-talkin’ thing,” Roni drawled, lifting the lid on the steel pot. She stirred with a wooden spoon, lifted it to her lips. “Almost done,” she said. “Rice needs to cook another five minutes.”
    “Jambalaya?” Crane asked, coming up behind her and clasping his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck. “My favorite meal.”
    “Honey, it ain’t a meal, it’s a state of mind,” Roni said in that sleepy bayou voice that bubbled up when she began throwing together some Cajun dish.
    Crane breathed in her scent, mingled with the steamy spicy aroma from the pot. Roni herself was an ethnic gumbo, in the long unruly raven curls that fell to her shoulder blades, golden skin the legacy of a Japanese military bride and what she called a high-yaller daddy with generous dollops of Cherokee and Irish thrown in, large liquid brown almond eyes and a lithe build. He clasped his hands across a midriff that she worried at constantly and kept flat with aerobics and crunches and the periodic competitive half-marathon or ten-k.
    “I’m getting a different state of mind,” he murmured in her ear, gently biting the earlobe.
    “Eat first, lover,” she said. “You’re gonna need the energy.” She turned her head and brushed his lips. “Be useful and set the table.”
    Crane gladly did as she asked, and they ate over the small table in her kitchen/dining room. They had dinner together several times a week, as their schedules permitted, between her daytime hours and his research at Pritzker School of Medicine at the University of Chicago.
    Crane had offered to move her into his place, but Roni had steadfastly refused. It was that damned stubborn independent streak in her, and an old saying that kept popping out of her, “having dinner and then saying grace.” Crane could tell her that it was a lousy neighborhood, that she’d be better off in Edgewater, get the hell out of Calumet Heights. But she wouldn’t budge, had to live close to “her people,” like she felt if she left them physically she’d leave them spiritually. It was one of the few conflicts in their relationship.
    Oddly, though, they had met in one of the little ethnic groceries in his neighborhood. Roni had been shopping on a Saturday in a little Arab market and enjoying a coffee and a book in the sidewalk café where Crane had been taking a break, poring over his latest purchases from the used bookstore, when she noticed they were both reading Kerouac — he, Visions of Cody ; she, Mexico City Blues — and they fell into a conversation