Arthur Hailey - Overload

"If you don't mind," be told Karen, "our annual circus is something I'd like to blot out for a while."

"Consider it blotted, Nimrod. What annual meeting? I never even heard of one."

He laughed, then said, "I enjoyed your poetry. Have you published any?"

She shook her head and he was reminded again, as she sat in the wheelchair opposite him, that it was the only part of her body she could move.

He had come here today partly because he felt the need to get away, even if briefly, from the turmoil of GSP & L. He had also wanted, very much, to see Karen Sloan, a desire now reinforced by her charm and re-1markable beauty. The last was just as he remembered-the shining shoulder-length blonde hair, perfectly proportioned face, full lips and flawless, opalescent skin.

A touch whimsically, Nim speculated on whether he was falling in love. If so, it would involve a reversal, he thought. On plenty of occasions he had experienced sex without love. But with Karen it would be love without sex.

"I write poetry for pleasure," Karen said. "What I was working on when you came was a speech."

He had already noticed the electric typewriter behind her. It contained a partially typed sheet. Other papers were spread out on a table alongside.

"A speech to whom? And about what?"

"It will be to a convention of lawyers. A State Bar group is working on a report about laws which apply to disabled persons-those in most states and other countries. There are some laws which work; others don't. I've made a study of them."

"You're telling lawyers about the law?"

"Why not? Lawyers get cocooned in theory. They need someone practical to tell them what really happens under laws and regulations. That's why they've asked me; besides, I've done it before. Mostly I'll talk about para- and quadriplegics and also clear up some misconceptions."

"What kind of misconceptions?"

From the adjoining room, while they talked, kitchen sounds were audible.

When Nim had telephoned this morning, Karen invited him for lunch. Now, Josie, the aide-cum-housekeeper whom Nim had met on his previous visit, was preparing the meal.

"Before I answer that," Karen said, "my right leg is getting uncomfortable. Will you move it for me?"

He stood up and approached the wheelchair uncertainly. Karen's right leg was crossed over her left.

"Just arrange them the other way. Left over right, please." She said it matter-of-factly and Nim reached out, suddenly aware that her nylon covered legs were slim and attractive. And they were warm, momentarily exciting, to the touch.

"Thank you," Karen acknowledged. "You have gentle hands." When he appeared surprised, she added, "That's one of the misconceptions."

"What is?"

"That all paralyzed people are deprived of normal feeling. It's true that some can't feel anything anymore, but post-polios like me can have all their sensory abilities intact. So although I can't move my limbs, I have as much physical sensation as anyone else. It's why a leg or arm can get uncomfortable or 'fall asleep, and need its position changed, the way you did just now."

He admitted, "You're right. I guess I did think the way you said, subconsciously."

"I know." She smiled mischievously. "But I could feel your hands on my legs and, if you want to know, I rather liked it."

A sudden, startling thought occurred to him, then he dismissed it and said, "Tell me another misconception."

"That quadriplegics shouldn't be asked to talk about themselves. You'd be surprised how many people are reluctant or embarrassed to have any contact with us, some even frightened."

"Does that happen often?"

"All the time. Last week my sister Cynthia took me to a restaurant for lunch. When the waiter came he wrote down Cynthia's order then, without looking at me, he asked, 'And what will she have?' Cynthia, bless her, said, 'Why don't you ask her?' But even then, when I gave my order, he wouldn't look at me directly."

Nim was silent, then be reached out, lifted Karen's hand and held it.

"I'm ashamed for all of us."

"Don't be. You're making up for a lot of others, Nimrod."

Releasing her hand, he said, “The last time I was here you talked a little about your family."

"I won't need to today because you're going to meet them-at least, my parents. I hope you don't mind but they're dropping in right after lunch.

It's my mother's day off from work and my father is working on a plumbing job not far from here."

Her parents, Karen explained, were originally from Austrian families and, in their teens during the mid-1930s, were brought to the United States as immigrants while war clouds gathered over Europe. In California they met, married, and had two children-Cynthia and Karen. The family name on the father's side had been Slonhauser, which was Anglicized to Sloan during naturalization. Karen and Cynthia knew little of their Austrian heritage and were brought up as native American children.

“Then Cynthia is older than you?"

"Three years older and very beautiful. My big sister. I want you to meet her another day."

The sounds from the kitchen stopped and Josie appeared, wheeling a loaded tea cart. She set a small folding table in front of Nim and fitted a tray to Karen's wheelchair. From the cart she served lunch-cold salmon with a salad and warm French bread. Josie poured wine into two glasses-a chilled Louis Martini Pinot Chardonnay. "I can't afford wine every day,"

Karen said. "But today is special-because you came back."

Josie asked her, "Shall I feed you or will Mr. Goldman?"

"Nimrod," Karen asked, "would you like to?"

"Yes," he said, "though if I do anything wrong you'll have to tell me.,, 1"It's really not difficult. When I open my mouth you pop some food in.

You'll just work twice as hard as you would feeding yourself."

With a glance at Karen, and a knowing smile, Josie retreated to the kitchen.

"You see," Karen said while their lunch proceeded, and after a sip of wine,

"You're very good. Will you wipe my lips, please?" He did so with a napkin as she tilted her face toward him.

Continuing to feed Karen, he thought: there was a strange sense of intimacy in what they were doing together, a sharing and closeness unique in his experience. It even had a kind of sensual quality. Near the end of the meal, their awareness of each other heightened by the wine, she said, "I've told you a lot about me. Now tell me more about you."

He began casually, speaking of his background-boyhood, family, work, marriage to Ruth, his children Leah and Benjy. Then, prompted by questioning from Karen, he revealed his current doubts-about his religious heritage and whether it would be perpetuated through his children, where his own life was headed, the future-if any-of his marriage.

"That's enough," he said at length. "I didn't come here to bore you."

Smiling, Karen shook her head. "I don't believe you could ever do that, Nimrod. You're a complex man and complex people are the most interesting.

Besides that, I like you more than anyone I've met in a long time."

He told her, "I have that feeling about you."

A touch of red suffused Karen's face. "Nimrod, would you like to kiss me?"

As he rose and crossed the few feet of space dividing them, be answered softly, "I want to very much."

Her lips were warm and loving; their kiss was lingering. Neither wanted to break away. Nim moved his arms, intending to draw Karen closer to him. Then from outside he heard the sharp note of a buzzer followed by a door opening and voices- Josie's and two others. Nim let his arms fall back. He moved away.

Karen whispered softly, "Damn! What lousy timing!" then she called, "Come in!" and a moment later announced, "Nimrod, I'd like you to meet my parents."

An elderly, dignified man with a thatch of graying, curly hair and a weather-beaten face extended his hand. When he spoke his voice was deep and guttural, the Austrian origin still evident. "I'm Luther Sloan, Mr. Goldman. This is my wife Henrietta. Karen told us about you and we've seen you on TV." the band Nim accepted was a manual worker's, rough and calloused, but looking as if it were scrubbed frequently; the fingernails were clean. Though Luther Sloan wore coveralls with traces of the work he had just left, those also showed signs of care and had been neatly patched in several places.