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    Kyesha
    Kyesha
    Kyesha
    Ebook284 pages2 hours

    Kyesha

    By Jay Greenstein

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    About this ebook

    Kyesha Nobody, she called herself—at least in her thoughts. Used, abused, and discarded by the men in her life, she’s reached the edge of an emotional abyss, with suicide looming in her near future.
    But this day Kyesha met a stranger who gave her a magical ring. Tomorrow she’ll wake wearing the body of a ninety pound timber wolf. And tomorrow her adventure begins.
    Ken Dalten is a writer. Blinded in an accident, and learning to get around on his own, he blunders into a gang-related murder, marking him as a loose end that needs cutting off. Desperately fleeing, trapped in a dead-end alley, death seems imminent—until the noise of the confrontation wakes a sleeping wolf.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJay Greenstein
    Release dateFeb 2, 2014
    ISBN9781311899545
    Kyesha
    Author

    Jay Greenstein

    I'm a storyteller. My skills at writing are subject to opinion, my punctuation has been called interesting, at best—but I am a storyteller. I am, of course, many other things. In seven decades of living, there are great numbers of things that have attracted my attention. I am, for example, an electrician. I can also design, build, and install a range of things from stairs and railings to flooring, and tile backsplashes. I can even giftwrap a box from the inside, so to speak, by wallpapering the house. I'm an engineer, one who has designed computers and computer systems; one of which—during the bad old days of the cold war—flew in the plane designated as the American President's Airborne Command Post: The Doomsday Jet. I've spent seven years as the chief-engineer of a company that built bar-code readers. I spent thirteen of the most enjoyable years of my life as a scoutmaster, and three, nearly as good, as a cubmaster. I joined the Air Force to learn jet engine mechanics, but ended up working in broadcast and closed circuit television, serving in such unlikely locations as the War Room of the Strategic Air Command, and a television station on the island of Okinawa. I have been involved in sports car racing, scuba diving, sailing, and anything else that sounded like fun. I can fix most things that break, sew a fairly neat seam, and have raised three pretty nice kids, all of who are smarter and prettier than I am—more talented, too, thanks to the genes my wife kindly provided. Once, while camping with a group of cubs and their families, one of the dads announced, "You guys better make up crosses to keep the Purple Bishop away." When I asked for more information, the man shrugged and said, "I don't really know much about the story. It's some kind of a local thing that was mentioned on my last camping trip." Intrigued, I wondered if I could come up with something to go with his comment about the crosses; something to provide a gentle terror-of-the-night to entertain the boys. The result was a virtual forest of crosses outside the boys' tents. That was the event that switched on something within me that, now, more than twenty-five years later, I can't seem to switch off. Stories came and came… so easily it was sometimes frightening. Stories so frightening that one boy swore he watched my eyes begin to glow with a dim red light as I told them (it was the campfire reflecting from my ...

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      Book preview

      Kyesha - Jay Greenstein

      Yawning, Kyesha stopped for a moment to ease her tired feet. The miles she’d walked since morning had her body demanding she find a place to rest. Hunger, too, was making demands. She gave serious thought to snatching a hot dog from the vendor on the corner, then running. But it hadn’t come to that. Not yet. First came rest.

      Across the street, a tiny service alleyway might provide some privacy to think and plan. But most of all, it might provide a place to snatch a nap. Being the center of attention, with suspicious and even fearful glances following her appearance was becoming difficult to handle.

      She angled across the street, dodging traffic with the ease of the long-time city dweller.

      The alley was trash-littered and damp, with the musty, sour, ancient-garbage smell of all big city alleys. The rounded old cobbles, a remnant of colonial paving, were slick with dampness and grime.

      Next to a loading dock sat a tired old dumpster, damp cardboard boxes sagging over the battered rim, its top cover long since gone. With a snort of disgust, she searched the alley beyond the dumpster and found what she was hoping for, a pile of boxes too big to go in the dumpster—the kind that once served as childhood playhouses. Just the thing to crawl into and sleep, or hide in while she decided what to do next—shadowed, so she wouldn’t be seen and enclosed enough that her body heat would warm it enough for a comfortable nap. The box below sagged a bit as she climbed in, but it held. Sighing, she lay as comfortably as the space permitted, then closed her eyes. It had been quite a day.

      The crash of a steel sheathed door slamming against its stop brought her awake. She eased forward far enough to peer around the box edge, just in time to see a man run over the edge of the rear steps of the store, dropping the cane he was carrying and throwing his arms outward, wildly seeking something to grab onto. There was nothing. Falling free, missing the steps between the loading dock and the alley, he desperately tried to keep his legs under him. Unfortunately, he landed off-balance, forced to run forward to keep from falling on his face.

      The dumpster caught the man’s shoulder in passing, spinning him almost fully around and bringing him down with a thud and a grunt of pain.

      Surprisingly, he didn’t either lie where he’d fallen or stop to gather himself together before he got up. Instead, he scrabbled furiously for a few seconds, seeking his cane. Then, giving that up, face clenched in a grimace of pain and fear, he lurched to his feet, hand clutching his hurt shoulder. He began to move forward, limping, striking the opposite wall of the alley with his outstretched hand, then his hurt shoulder. Unbalanced by the impact, he slid along the wall until he regained his footing, hardly slowing as he struggled to flee. Unfortunately, he was headed for the end of the alley rather than the street.

      Intent on what was happening in front of her, she failed to notice the emergence of a second man.

      Hey! Blind man, the new arrival shouted. Where the hell do you think you’re going?

      She turned, trying to make sense of what she was witnessing. Then she noticed the gun.

      The man was big, with a face that would never inspire trust and confidence. He wore hoodlum plush—an expensive but flashy suit that did little to improve his appearance. Nothing could, save major surgery coupled with extremely flattering lighting. The gun he pointed at the hurrying man didn’t help his image a great deal, either.

      Hold it right there, the man with the gun called. The blind man might have continued, hoping that a shot would miss, or not be fatal, but his leading hand encountered the end-wall of the little alley halting his flight. For a moment there was an air of defiance, then he sagged against the wall, beaten—forehead against the grimy brick and breathing hard. In the still air of the alley, the stink of his fear grew stronger.

      She began truly to worry then. There was little reason for the man to point a gun at someone who couldn’t see it. Not in threat, certainly. The man wouldn’t know it was being done. Either the attacker was stupid, doing it from habit, or fully intended to kill his quarry, which seemed likely. In any case, she had to act as though that was true.

      Unsure of what to do, she crouched in the carton, breathing quietly, so the man wouldn’t know he was observed. Then, as he passed in front of her, angling for a clear shot at his frozen victim, she made her move. With a growl, deep in her throat, she launched herself at the man’s back, reaching out to wrap her arms around his throat.

      That was a mistake.

      ° ° ° °

      Chapter 2

      Kyesha Nobody, she called herself—at least in her thoughts she did. Her real last name was unknown. The city gave her the unimaginative label of Doe, picked for bookkeeping purposes, and then kept out of laziness. Abandoned just after her third birthday, she owned few memories of her mother, who moved out, leaving the unwanted little girl locked in the deserted apartment.

      Undernourished and filthy, she might have died there. Instead, shortly after she woke to find herself alone, she piled debris, left behind by her mother’s move-out, in front of the apartment door, then climbed the stack to open the deadbolt latch her mother had keyed closed as she left. After a bit of experimentation, she moved her makeshift platform to a spot beside the door, to allow it enough room to swing open when the knob was turned. Pleased with herself, she opened the door and headed down the stairs to the floor below, where music drifted from another apartment. The door was open, so she marched herself inside and announced that she had a dirty diaper, and then demanded something to eat. That night, she slept in a city shelter for the homeless, but on the one following, she was back in her old building, in the apartment to which she first wandered. With the city paying for her care, Kyesha was thrown in with the Mimms’ family children, who accepted but never loved her. For one thing, she was smarter than they were. They had each other, but in that home, she was forever the outsider.

      One of her oldest memories was of someone commenting on how homely she was. At the time the comment pleased, because she reminded them of a home. Until she learned better, when the other children’s teasing became too much to bear, she smiled secretly and told herself that whatever the others might call her, she was homely. She said it smugly in her mind: I’m homely, you little shitface, and you ain’t!

      Later, when she learned what the word truly meant, she still often said it to herself, though it was no longer a happy expression.

      In school, too, she was set apart. As in many neighborhoods, formal learning was a thing thrust on the children. Unlike the more affluent neighborhoods, however, in her poverty-stricken slice of the city, education was thought of as useless. Those who did well in school were in the minority, and she was in that minority. She loved learning, though, because books never taunted or hated.

      Growing like a weed, uncared for except for the necessities, Kyesha blossomed, the written word her nurturing soil. Sesame Street and the other Public Broadcasting programs were the compass that directed the nature of her growth, holding her attention while the other children played chase games through the abandoned cars and ruined houses of the neighborhood. Those programs introduced her to the idea of books, captivating her with their possibilities. Her own life might be drab and colorless, but with a book in her hand, she could be anyone, and go anywhere. Long before she was able to check out books, the library became a second home. There, no one made fun of her. No one made kee-kee-kee Kyesha, monkey noises, and no one teased her till she cried and struck out blindly at her tormentors.

      Life wasn’t all it might have been, but still, there were good times, happy times—even sing a song of gladness times. She knew joy and friendship, sometimes of the strangest kinds—but never was there a time of loving and holding. She was too different, too bookish, and too homely. Love flowed from, not to her. She never even knew it was missing, at least not on the surface, but inside, in the place that has been called the heart, there was a void, and a hunger that could never be filled.

      There’d been sex, of course. How could there not have been? But it was sex without caring, at least on the part of the men. On her part, sex without joy.

      Only twelve when she lost her virginity, the choice was hers, the joy his. Eighteen-year-old Howard lived in the next apartment, and called her little sister. He allowed her to tag along when he went shopping, and ride with him as he made Saturday deliveries for the store where he worked.

      Starved for attention, and at the age where the opposite sex filled a great deal of her thoughts, she adored it when he had his arm around her as they drove, or when they walked to the store. They quickly progressed to her sitting on his lap as they watched television in his apartment. He watched, she cuddled and gloried in the warmth of him next to her. Because his parents worked a swing shift at the meatpacking plant, she took to spending evenings with him.

      There was nothing sexual in her words when she hugged herself against him on the sofa and said, I love you, Howard, in an outpouring of affection, and a need for it in return.

      He cocked his head and looked down at her, speculatively. He’d been fantasizing about her for some time, especially as he lay in bed and masturbated.

      Do you, really?

      She nodded. I really do.

      His eyes were unblinking as he studied her, fighting a battle in his mind. She wasn’t remotely attractive, though she was fun and silly and everything else a twelve-year-old girl is supposed to be. Nothing sexual about her body either. Her breasts, never to be very large, were nearly unbudded, though she’d recently begun menstruating erratically. But he was nineteen, not too smart, and hadn’t had much sex as yet—at least with anything but his own right hand. When he spoke, his voice was distant. He‘d lost the battle, but still, he almost hoped she’d be strong for him.

      How do you love me, and how much? He stared at her, waiting, his expression hungry.

      She slid out to sit on his knees and turned to look up at him, puzzled.

      What?

      Do you love me like a brother, or a boyfriend? He appeared to hold his breath, waiting for her answer.

      Having someone to treat as a brother satisfied, but having a boyfriend—one to brag about to the other girls—was intensely attractive, so she decided to hedge her bet.

      I don’t know...can you be both? Anticipating his response, she added, I don’t think I want to...uhh.... Her face went red as she realized she had no nice way to say what she meant.

      I don’t want to fuck you, Howard, if that’s what you mean. She wasn’t too sure of exactly what was meant by the term, but in the descriptions she’d heard thus far, it didn’t sound like something she wanted to do.

      In response to his frown of disappointment, she hastened to add: But I will if you want me to.

      He did.

      ° ° ° °

      Chapter 3

      Sex with Howard wasn’t much fun. Nor did it last for more than a few weeks. In the beginning, he taught her to do the things he’d been doing for himself. Then, when he grew bolder, those tricks he watched the women in the porno films do for the overly endowed men shown there. Surprisingly, she enjoyed it. True, some of the things he expected of her were not very pleasing, esthetically, but the effect on him was fun. He twitched and moaned as she touched him and did things he liked, teasing him with pleasure and making him beg and pant for her attention—making him, she thought, love her. And he was so pleased afterward, holding her close and telling her how much he loved the way she made him feel. Of course, things progressed to true sex fairly quickly, and that was difficult at first. It got easier when he bought a tube of lubricant, but sex never became a source of enjoyment.

      She never saw him again after he paid for the abortion.

      Several years went by before she again essayed a relationship. By then she was smart enough to recognize that those girls who had sex with any boy who dated them were labeled sluts, and were passed from bed to bed with no more thought than passing the salt at the dinner table. She also learned that without at least a promise of future intimacy, few boys would look at her as a potential girlfriend. She became quite adept at stretching the chase, then, once captured, pleasing her men enough to keep them around despite the scorn of their friends for their choice of a woman. Unfortunately, the scorn of friends always won out in the end, and the man deserted her.

      When acne appeared and ravaged her face she hardly cared. Vanity was a luxury she could little afford.

      Still, her growing years weren’t unpleasant. She had friends, did well in school, and was a star member of the debating and mathlete teams. And then, there was The Game.

      She began imitating accents and voices while watching television, though only when alone, for fear of bringing more ridicule on herself. Once, though, wondering if she could convince someone that she came from the background she was imitating, she picked up the phone.

      The object of the game was to make calls at random until she heard a voice that sounded roughly her own age. Then she struck up a conversation, imitating the speech pattern of the one called, to convince them that she came from the same general background.

      Most hung up. Still, some remained on the line, and as the years went by, she became able to imitate the voice and speech patterns of immigrant and native alike, acquiring telephone friends ranging from ghetto dwellers to an aristocratic British ambassador’s daughter. Certain, though, of rejection, if they learned who she truly was, she never allowed face-to-face meetings, and invented an array of excuses, from being a bedridden invalid to having monsters for parents. The other members of the Mimms family shook their heads and walked away when they heard the accents of the Deep South or the twang of New England coming from her room. They never did understand.

      The unhappiness she knew was that of loneliness, and it left the kind of scars that were invisible to the eye. Still, except for that, Kyesha made it to adulthood, educated and relatively unscathed. Not an insignificant accomplishment, given the time, place, and circumstances of her upbringing. While she knew little in the way of affection, life had its share of pleasures. A good deal of it was within the boundaries of her head, true, but she found that not confining at all. Two days after her graduation from high school she started a job at a local bank. Two months later she packed her meager belongings and moved into a tiny apartment. On her own at last.

      ° ° °

      Working as a teller was, in many ways, an advanced version of the game. Without noticing it, she shaped her accents to match the person being served. At first, the other tellers thought it deliberate. Then, at the urging of her co-workers, she began to do it in earnest, waiting on customers in the voice of a current entertainment star or cartoon character, though the more exotic voices were reserved for those who asked, So, who are you today, Kyesha?

      All in all, her days were exciting and interesting. The nights and weekends, however, were another story. There are only so many books to be read, and so many plays and movies to be seen. Even the game was growing stale, as her telephone friends entered the stage of life where their news was likely to be an invitation to a wedding or the birth of a child.

      More and more was the companionship to be found in the singles bar. More and more the morning pick-me-up and the noonday bracer. More and more the near-stranger in her bed in the morning. More and more, the one-night stand.

      ° ° ° °

      Chapter 4 - Ken

      Well, you sound chipper today, Ken." Cheryl smiled up from the bed as he emerged from the motel’s bathroom, singing.

      He looked down at her, enjoying her loveliness as he said, And why, pray tell, should I not be happy? Today I’ll interview the most beautiful and talented woman in the entire world.

      Ha! She reached out and hit him on the leg. And what, pray tell, was it you told me last night? I thought I had that honor.

      He sat on the edge of the bed, tossing aside the towel he’d been using to dry his hair, to reach down and tap her on the nose with his index finger.

      You were, and are, when it’s you and me together. Especially, when you have your multi-talented hands doing evil things to my body. But neither you nor I are in the same class as Miss Kim Storms, my love. He cupped her cheek in one palm, then reached down to kiss her before going to the other bed to open the suitcase containing their clothing. Am I not right? he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

      She yawned and sat up, stretching. Well, it’s true that you’re not in the same class. Me? I’m not so sure. How did you get this meeting set up, anyway? When you stormed in and dragged me with you last night, I never got a chance to ask.

      One of the perks of being a world-famous writer is that you get to travel in the best of circles, he said haughtily.

      World famous? She shook her head and asked, Under what name? Or did I miss the announcement on the news last night?

      He had to admit she had a point. After six years of full-time writing, he had a good reputation. Unfortunately, it was in the field of ghost-writing. Though his resume listed five top-selling books, they were all the supposed self-written autobiographies of entertainers and statesmen. But that, hopefully, was about to change.

      You forget, oh woman with a knife in my heart, he said, waving an accusing finger. Twilight for Jericho hits the stores in less than two months. Then, we’ll see. He shrugged, and added, I hope. After nearly eight years of writing and rewriting the damn thing, it’s still a crap-shoot.

      Shaking himself out of his dip into self-pity, he resumed dressing.

      As I was about to tell you, one of the fringe benefits of being a ghostwriter is that you meet all kinds of people, and Kim Storms just happens to be my next client.

      Client?

      I’ll be doing her autobiography, and I—

      She leaned forward, inserting a fingernail into the waistband of his briefs to pull, stretching the rubber before letting it go with a snap. Uh-huh, and that better be all you are to her, too, buddy boy.

      He smiled, then sighed as his attention turned toward what was indeed a beautiful woman, one who for some strange reason thought him worthy of her affection—something that never ceased to amaze. He tried to look hurt.

      Me? Do you doubt my dedication to your loveliness? You think I’d be unfaithful to the woman who would cheerfully cut my balls off if she caught me at it? He hung his head in sorrow, overacting as well as one can while zipping one’s fly. Oh, how cruel is the spiteful lover. He posed in a position of mock sorrow, slowly beating his chest, then brightened and added, I do have to admit that of all the women in the world, Kim Storms is the one coming closest to making me want to be unfaithful. She’s not only beautiful, she sings, dances, and acts well enough to have a successful career in any one of those fields without adding in the others.

      With a kiss of reassurance he added, And, she has a great body too—almost as nice as yours.

      With that he stood and resumed dressing, motioning her to do the same.

      But why rush to get there?

      Because it’s all the time she can spare. She’s in the final week of a summer stock job. By next week this time, she’ll be in Asia working on a film.

      But can’t you talk by phone, or video call. I don’t understand why—

      "I can and will be doing that, but a face-to-face, and a chance to see her interact with others of the cast will give me a better feel for who she is. Hence the rush. With luck, we can be at the theater where she’s performing in time for dinner and an interview before the show.

      Cheryl stirred in the passenger seat, smacking her lips and grimacing as though at a bad taste. Opening her eyes, she cat-stretched herself awake.

      Was I asleep long? she asked, yawning.

      Maybe an hour. We should be there in another hour or so, if I can find the place.

      She worked her mouth with an expression of extreme disgust. Do you think we can stop someplace for a drink? I have a terrible taste in my mouth. Something vile must have crawled in while I slept.

      He smiled and patted her leg. At the next exit, my love.

      The exit led to a narrow road that took them to a hamlet boasting ancient clapboard houses and a store at the town center, billing itself as Perkins Drugs, that advertised a soda fountain. There was no sign of parking meters at the curb.

      As they passed through the old-style front door, Ken stopped.

      "My

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