He was sitting to my right, naked. I had a very uneasy feeling, remembering something, that something wasn't right.

When I returned to work on Monday everything was askew. Papers were piled high, higgledy-piggledy, swamping my in-box; reports were thrown over the keyboard. I didn't make it in until noon, when I settled into my ergonomic chair and booted up the computer. Swiping the reports from the keyboard panel, I watched the monitor flutter by numbers and graphics only it could understand.

At last it settled on the familiar screen. A photo of somebody else's puppy drooled through the photonic void at me as I tapped the little mail button and watched it depress electronically, the box near my foot cranking out little whirs and clicks as it struggled to open the grand file. Twelve new messages waited, all of them highlighted to prove their newness, and all of them just for me.

I could still smell Blaine's cologne, stiffly plastered over my wrinkly blue dress. He was sleeping when I left, snoring right through the grating alarm, and I had to pry the dead weight of his arm from my clavicle before I could turn it off. Not so much as a "good-bye," he was so out cold, and I hesitated before I left him there in my apartment. Our history was spattered, but not so much so that I should worry about my belongings, and I slammed the door a little too hard, hoping he would get the hint.

The first message was work-related, a company meeting next Friday. Somehow Jill thought our group of nine composed a "company," and I shuddered at what that little marketing whore had in store for us. She spoke to us like we were a group of two hundred, not a small gaggle of ex-friends who had decided to invest in a start-up adventure in e-commerce. Well, we'd been friends when we started, but business will do cruel things to a friendship; constant company quickly became tedious, and once our familiarity with each other exceeded the comfort level, the friendships petered out to nil. So it goes.

The next message was from Peter. He was a kidder, a loud, small man whom I'd at first fallen for due to his resemblance to Blaine (who I assumed was still snoring in my bed). When I realized his similarities were all I liked him for, I stopped calling. From then on, my sole contact with Peter was through joke e-mails. This one was the same, an anecdote of an Irishman farting at the dinner table or some such thing. I read it through quickly, could hear the office door opening out in the main corridor: someone back from lunch.

"Yoo hoo!" I heard, and a shadow immediately descended upon my frosted office door. The knob turned and Frieda peeked her fuzzy head in. "Hi Sandy."

"Hello." I tried to seem busy - the screen was facing me, away from the door, so I could have been working for all she knew. But she slunk in, letting the doorknob latch clunk back into its place behind her, and grabbed a chair.

"So how'd it go last night?" she whispered conspiratorially.

I froze, trying to remember what information I'd given her. If the office got wind that I was back with Blaine I'd never hear the end of it. Not that I was with him, really, I'd just let him persuade me to let him come over, and chances were that I'd wanted it in the first place anyway. Then I remembered: I'd run into Frieda at The Bar. She left before Blaine had walked in out of the blue. Back from hell.

"Oh fine..." I was trying to maintain my busy facade, but it didn't matter. She wanted my full attention, even at the expense of our business. "I went home right after you left."

Her face fell a little -- no juicy gossip for her to spread about me -- and I could see her great big thighs relax into the chair underneath her flowered hippie skirt.

"What about you?" I asked. I refused to let my eyes fall from the monitor, didn't really care about the answer. While she was describing going home to her loveless cat, I opened up another two e-mails, both of them junk. When I heard the earnestness in her voice I looked at her.

"You should. You should get out there," she said, looking straight at me. She wasn't the office gossip any more, but the friend she'd been at one time, maybe even as far back as high school.

"I know," I sighed.

"And you should stop going for those angry little men. Learn from your mistakes, okay?" she continued. "Blaine really did a number on you. You can't let people step all over you like that."

That familiar defensive twinge overwhelmed me, but I bit my lip and kept it in. She was just trying to help, just being honest, and I resisted the urge to bring up Jacob. That would only be vindictive and cruel. Instead, I opened up.

"I really miss him," I said, provoking her eyes to widen significantly.

She appeared speechless, a rare thing for Frieda. When she finally spoke, all she said was "Don't give in," before she got up and left. Mission accomplished.

I considered calling home to see if Blaine was up yet. It was almost an hour since I'd left, and my hands were itching to dial. I decided not to - he probably wouldn't even answer - and instead continued opening my e-mails.

The next one was a forward from my mother, regarding e-mail viruses. "THIS IS REAL AND NOT A JOKE," it announced. I scanned the list of recipients at the top of the page. All my sisters were there, friends of the family, the family doctor. Old Mrs. Baker, my mother's oldest confidant, was at the bottom of the list. I was surprised that she was even on the internet; her arthritic fingers could barely hold a pencil!

"If you receive an email titled 'Missing you,'" it read, "DO NOT OPEN IT. This is the Candice virus."

I laughed at the irony, remembered the night before. "I missed you" was the first thing out of Blaine's mouth, almost knocking me right off of my barstool. I considered this, was annoyed my mother sent so many impersonal e-mails my way. She might as well have been Peter, or any other failed dating attempt. Again I thought of Blaine, his tight little ass on my floral sheets, and realized that I liked him best when he was sleeping.

I continued reading: "If you open this, it will erase files from your hard drive, and destroy all the remaining files."

It felt so strange to know where he was. What had it been, a year? And I was still wounded, still not over him. Apparently. Every fiber in my body had wanted to turn him away the night before, to pull a Gloria Gaynor on him and tell him to get lost, but I was so lonely sitting on that barstool, sipping cosmopolitans and trying to keep my level of malaise minimal. And trying not to think about Blaine, but then there he was.

That whole last year I'd been practicing my speech, in case he should eventually turn up in my life again, "You go girl!" type stuff, a speech that would make a stronger woman proud. After about six months I decided it wasn't going to happen, and evidently the speech slipped out the portals of my brain from lack of use. Even in bed the night before, trying to look sexy despite my drunkenness, I tried to remember it. Not to recite it necessarily, but just so I could know. The past was hazy, and I tried to recall all those nights of crying and trying to convince him of my faithfulness. He'd been a jealous lover. And then, the finding out the hard way that those who suspect are probably worthy of suspicion themselves. Even then I couldn't leave him; even then I begged him to stay with me. He said his guilt was too much, that he couldn't bear treating me that way, and I swore I forgave him and convinced him to stay. For a little while. At least until she came along.

"If you receive this e-mail, delete it immediately," it read.

Of course you can't know what's best until you go through something. You can guess, but you can't know. But after I went through that once, shouldn't I know? I picked up the phone and dialed. It rang four times; the machine picked up, and I began speaking.

"Blaine? Are you there?" I hated how desperate my voice sounded, but it worked and he picked up.

"Hi Doll," came his sleepy voice. "How's work?"

"Just fine," I said, not sure where to go with this. Really I'd just wanted to know if he was still there, and now that I did… I didn't have a whole lot to say to him. I became suddenly very aware of the sweat beneath my armpits, the lump in my throat. It seemed like a piece of cake to him, and that bothered me. Why was it always so easy for him? It was because he was always in control; the ball was always in his court, and I felt sick.

"You gonna hang around?" I meant just that day, but it could have been taken all sorts of ways and I waited anxiously for his reply.

"I've got to go check out a job interview later, and I'm meeting some people for drinks tonight, so probably not," he replied. I felt my face flush. It had been more than a year without communication, then he could just waltz back into my life and put me on hold? Stroll back in and fit me in with his other appointments. He did intend to fit me in, didn't he?

"All right," I said, trying really hard not to let my disappointment show. I watched some kids play outside the window, considered how complicated life gets as you get older. "Well have a nice interview, okay?"

"Sure," he said. I could hear coffee percolating in the background. "Maybe I'll call you later." Like it was some sort of privilege.

"Okay," I stalled. If I stopped talking I might never see him again. "Hey, where you staying these days?" I suspected from the forthcoming pause that maybe I had gone too far, but then I understood that he was just tinkering around in the kitchen.

"I'm staying at my sister's," he said, slurping his coffee. I wondered which mug he was using, and if he was planning on washing it. I imagined coming home in the evening and seeing his lone cup on the dish rack, possibly my last souvenir of his existence in my life. A wash of desperation sickened me further.

"I'll leave you the number," he continued.

"Thanks," I said, and wondered why I'd just thanked him. In my head I made up excuses for why I didn't just hang up the phone, but I was resigned when he said good-bye. I did all I could not to say "Call me," before I hung up, and when I did I felt empty and sad.

Looking around the office for hints or papers or anything to keep me busy, I tried to recall the task at hand. When I looked at the monitor I realized my mom's e-mail was still up there. I closed it without finishing, then looked at the others. With a start, I noticed the one entitled "Missing you." I didn't recognize the name on the header, and there was an attached file. I wondered if this was a joke, envisioned my entire hard drive destroyed, and could feel a morbid curiosity overwhelming me, possibly the same morbid curiosity that prompted me to hold onto Blaine's ideal, to invite him into my home that night.

It wasn't for the sex. Sex had never been a cohesive factor in our relationship. Not that there wasn't any, it just wasn't very good. He had a definite self-obsessive streak when it came to the bedroom. It could have been because the trauma of our relationship was comfortable to me, safer than the unknown. When I met Peter over three months later, I barely gave him a chance. He had the same stance as Blaine, the same weepy eyes and brown hair, but when the resemblance ended there… that's when I pulled out. He wasn't quite as serious as Blaine, nowhere near as pretentious. He made me laugh, but that wasn't what I wanted. I wanted Blaine, in any form I could get him.

Why Blaine? I tried but I couldn't put my finger on it. He was a great kisser, but that wasn't it. He made me feel special when it was just the two of us, alone. As soon as there were others, though, I always felt abandoned and secondary. I was an ornament on his arm, possibly one of many. I shuddered at the thought, then deleted the file.

All day long I thought of nothing but love and loss, and got absolutely no work done at all. When I returned home the bed was unmade, and Blaine's coffee mug was sitting on the table, half full. I was lonely, but no lonelier than I'd been while I was with him. When I searched for his number so I could tear it up, it was nowhere to be found.

"If there is a God, why is there so much human suffering?"

I do happen to believe in God, and invariably those friends of mine who know of my faith pose the aforementioned question as the stumper it is. I have a friend who cares for every living thing. In addition to four children, she has two dogs and a cat, plants. Life is sacred to her. It was her earnest, nearly desperate presentation of this question -- as well as her valued friendship -- that demanded more in the way of an answer, I felt, than the mere shrugging of shoulders.

To answer her that God is almighty and has his own reason for the events that befall humanity would have been far too arrogant. (And it is this arrogance on the part of religious people that rubs those not quite sure what to think the wrong way, I'm sure.)

To answer that it shall all be made clear to us one day -- that we now see, as the Apostle Paul said, "through a glass darkly" -- would have sorely begged the question.

To answer that it is all a matter of faith -- that we must believe despite all the madness and evil to the contrary -- would have fallen far short of its target, like a poorly thrown dart.

There was no answer, alas.

But, then it came to me like these things often do: during some inane activity that busies the hands but leaves the mind idle. The answer is: the question does not have so much to be answered as it has to be asked. Yes, this metaphysical question has to be asked, at one time or another, by every human being on Earth. Only by seriously posing and pondering this question can we ever hope to gain human dignity, purpose and insight with concern to our personal lives and our responsibilities to those around us.

"And that's your explanation for human tragedy and natural disaster: that it's some sort of moral litmus test for the lucky ones who survive?"

"As to natural disasters and the individual madness of men," I said, "we will never have the answer. But we do and probably will always have the question."

She frowned.

"Hey, just think of it as the proverbial first step of a long journey, all right?" I insisted.

"A poet you're not," she gibed.

I guess I'm not an evangelist, either.

I, at one time, also thought this to be true, until this past summer when I was bitten by a deer tick that was infected with lyme disease, which led to Bell's Palsy. I had no idea what this meant, and wish I had paid more attention in Physiology class while in college. If I had done so, I would have been more prepared for the news the doctor delivered to me.

Shortly after moving to the country back in May, I was bitten on my left cheek by a deer tick. I did not realize this until the first week in July when the fatigue, migraines, and neck pain all started, focused on the left side of my face. Then one day, I started noticing a strange rash underneath my eye. My first reaction was that I had been bitten by a spider and was allergic to the bite. I wish this had been the case because a simple shot would have cleared it up. Instead, I found out I had an incurable disease called Lyme Disease. To make matters worse, I woke one morning feeling as though something was weighing down the left side of my face. It just so happened that, just as I woke up, my sister walked into the room and discovered the horror. Putting my hand to my face, I ran to the bathroom. What I discovered in the mirror horrified me. I looked as though I had suffered a mini-stroke during the night. The whole left side of my face was drooped down. I looked like something out of a horror movie. Terrified, I ran out to my mom, and the look on her face was of pure shock. She could not believe what had happened either. When I went to speak, I realized that my words were not coming through clearly, as I was only using one side of my face for every movement.

That is when my mom made the doctor's appointment for me, and when my summer moved to a new level. Since my regular doctor was on vacation, his office referred me to another doctor nearby. That is when I first met Dr. Girgis, who, after doing an examination and questioning of my daily activities, finally diagnosed me. I had Bell's Palsy, which he strongly suspected was Lyme Disease-induced. My face was paralyzed. I would only be able to have control over the right side of my face until the paralysis eventually wore off. With only an 85% chance for full recovery, the process could take months to complete itself. I was given two shots of Cortizone steriods in both hips as a beginning treatment for fighting the Llyme Disease. After leaving the office very discouraged, I went to a medical lab to have a blood test done to confirm what was already known. My paralyzation was found to have been caused by Lyme Disease. Even though I would not receive the actual results until a week later, the medicine started working immediately, and I started feeling better. The next day, I returned once again and was given prescriptions for eye ointment, an eye patch, steriods, and an antibiotic to fight the infection.

I soon began a routine of taking medicine morning and night, and wearing the eye patch at night to protect my eye since it would not close. My speech was infected, and so were my eating habits. I even had to depend on a a straw to help me drink liquids. I was suffering from constant drooling, which I could not control, and I felt like an outsider each day I was in public. I tried hard to ignore the stares, but one can never take away the curiousity of humans. We all have a tendency to stare and wonder, no matter how rude it may be.

Slowly, with the help and support of family and friends, I started to make a comeback. Then came the day when I went to my regular doctor for another check-up, and was referred to physical therapy. There was a chance it would not work, but I was ready to try anything. So, for the whole month of August, I attended Tide Water Physical Therapy three mornings a week and endured electrostimulation. My nerves were directly stimulated by electrical currents. When I was not attending this treatment, I was practicing facial exercises to keep the nerves stimulated.

The treatment seemed to help a little, but my doctor felt that I should see a neurologist. So this past October, I visited Dr. Mark and began a series of tests that included an MRI to do a scan for any underlining nerve damage, and an EMG to test the strength of my facial nerves. I am very pleased to say that my tests both came back normal and that my neurologist feels that I should return to 100%. It will take time as some nerves need to regrow again, but cosmetically, one could never tell anything is wrong. I am able to smile normally now, and my regular eating habits have returned. The best news of all is that my Lyme Disease is finally under control. This summer was a learning experience for me, and in the end, I learned to appreciate and understand how a paralyzed person feels each day. They say nobody ever really understands someone until he or she has walked in their shoes, and I truly believe this. As a victim of paralyzation, I can feel for them. However, in the end, we only become stronger from our weaknesses. I have come to realize that one should never give up because pain is just weakness leaving the body.

Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction by Kurt Vonnegut Putnam Publishing Group August 1999

Bagombo Snuff Box is the first Vonnegut short fiction collection since 1968's Welcome to the Monkey House. Scholar Peter Reed has tracked down no less than twenty-three nearly-forgotten stories from the early years, and written a praise-filled preface. While some fans will be surprised at how relatively amateurish and formulaic some of the stories are (even Vonnegut himself revised a few before re-publication, out of embarrassment), others will be fascinated to see how the author grew and developed his familiar, ironic style and voice. This book presents Vonnegut the struggling young hack, not Vonnegut the mature artist.

Hints of his later themes and personal obsessions can be found in "Souvenir", "Der Arme Dolmetscher" (both set during WWII), "Thanasphere" (an imaginative little sci-fi gem about outer space being a home for dead spirits) and "The Package" (a satire of financial status and materialism). In other stories, one can see the obvious influence of Mark Twain's comical sketches, such as in "Mnemonics" (a weak one-joke piece that ridicules memory-improvement technique) and "The Powder Blue Dragon". And there are near-duds, such as "Runaways," an obvious and predictable story about teenage lovers from families of opposite social class, and two dull entries about a music teacher named Mr. Helmholtz. "A Present for Big Saint Nick," about a Mafia boss at a Christmas party, is deliciously funny, yet not in the way you expect from Vonnegut: it's rather cartoonish, lacking the later subtlety and slyness.

While few of the stories capture the subversive satiric view, self-reflexivity or imagination that graces Cat's Cradle and Breakfast of Champions, there's one that you can't help describing as purely Vonnegutian: "2BR02B", which later loaned its title to a Kilgore Trout story. A clear precursor to "Welcome to the Monkey House", it deals with a future society in which disease and old age have been conquered, and the American population is stabilized at forty million, therefore childbirth must be accompanied by a volunteer's ethical suicide. The humour, craft, pacing and plot are first-rate in this one.

Reading Bagombo Snuff Box is like watching a series of Hitchcock's 1920s silent films, or listening to an album of lost Beatles recordings. You're excited about experiencing little-known works of a genius, yet you're disappointed because they can't live up to the ideal image you've developed from his masterpieces. Everybody had to start somewhere, once.

-- Reviewed by Jeffrey Cottrill

Winter Birds by Jim Grimsley Simon & Schuster Trade December 1996

Winter Birds was Grimsley's first novel, and proved to be both difficult and cathartic for him to write. The story is an autobiographical account of Grimsley's horribly dysfunctional family life as a child. Grimsley, his siblings, and his young mother, all suffered a life of brutal poverty and violence at the hands of his father. Grimsley has stated that he could not even write this story until after the death of his father in 1976.

This is a powerful story of personal strength and the sheer survival of spirit. Winter Birds is the story of an 8-year-old boy, Danny Crell, who wants for a better life and uses his imagination to picture himself outside of the life he lives. Danny talks to the trees and dreams of the "River Man," who will save him from the chaos that surrounds him. Early on in the story, Grimsley eloquently projects the environment in which Danny lives using one simple sentence, "As you walk you dread the things you have learned to dread: your Papa, your special blood, anything that shakes it."

The novel is written in quite an unusual point of view. It reads like a second person narrative, told by someone outside of himself. The narration comes from Danny, who refers to himself as "you," reflecting back on his life as if it were a dreamy memory, as though he had not been part of it at all. At some points in the story, the "you" begins to speak directly to the reader, extending an invitation into experiencing Danny's memories along with him.

The title of the book comes from a phrase Grimsley recalls using, which reminded him of his sister and two brothers huddled together in mutual protection, as they also attempted to defend their mother from their father. Through Danny, Grimsley tells the story of his family with such sentiment and intricate detail you feel as though you have become a part of them. Danny is a child who longs to escape; his form of escapism comes from his childhood innocence and a surreal, creative imagination, giving him the ability to disappear within his visions.

The story revolves around the events that led up to one particular Thanksgiving Day, a day that brought unchangeable chaos into the life of Danny's family. The characters of Danny's family are brought to life in full color by Grimsley and are portrayed with such grace that even the most abhorred character is able to evoke sympathy. The book is dedicated to Grimsley's mother, Mary Brantham, who was represented as 23-year-old Ellen Crell in the story. There is an incredible amount of empathy for this young mother on the part of her children, and she plays a particularly integral role in the life of her son Danny.

An incredible devotion and a desire for a semblance of normalcy are what sustain the members of the family in Winter Birds. It is a story that will stay with you and draw you back into re-reading the poetic subtlety with which it is written.

Children can often overcome amazing adversity because they are not aware that they should do any less, the challenge is then to overcome that which haunts them as an adult. The writing of this story appears to have been a healing process for Grimsley. He has overcome what could have been a debilitating experience, and turned into a creative talent and an incredible insight for others who have suffered the same.

-- reviewed by Christine Weyenberg