Chapter 5

The next morning was quiet as I went through the ritual of getting John up, bathed, shaved, exercised, and dressed. I asked about the new album and he told me a little about Revolver. When he said that ‘I'm Only Sleeping’ was on it I said, “But that was on Yesterday and Today!”

To my amazement he started laughing. “We never made that album, luv,” and proceeded to educate me on the way Capitol Records put out albums in the U.S, including the hoopla over the "Butcher" cover that I had never heard about..

Totally confused and disillusioned about the albums I had bought, loved, memorized and thought were the essence of the Beatles, I asked, “Then Rubber Soul isn't really Rubber Soul? I love that album!”

He tried to remember the songs they had put on Rubber Soul, and I was totally confused. “Now I'll have to go home and sort out all the songs and decide if I still think Rubber Soul is the best album ever made!”

“Oh, so you actually are a fan,” he said.

“Of course! You thought I wasn't just because I didn't scream or faint?”

“No, I have met the occasional fan who didn't but if they aren't screamers, they usually want to know the ‘real meaning’ of every song on Rubber Soul, like it was some kind of puzzle they were solving.”

I thought about that for a minute as I lathered up his face and started shaving him. “Well, I have wondered about “Norwegian Wood”, but I guess for the rest I just figured you were writing songs, some about real people, some made up. I read someplace where Paul said that if all you ever wrote were songs about real people, all his songs would be ‘Jane’ and yours ‘Cyn’. Besides, I know what they mean to me.”

He shrugged his good shoulder. “They mean whatever you want them to mean. Even if they meant something to us, they are yours when you listen to them.” He laughed a cynical little laugh. “Most of the stuff people go crazy trying to figure out is just words that sounded right for the music. Just crap.”

I finished getting him dressed, took my shower, got dressed, and joined the others for breakfast. Brian, Mal, Neil and the two other remaining security people joined us. Brian had banned visitors from John's suite so that he could have a quiet place to retire when his head hurt so there were no outsiders. It was a fairly large group, but all British and for me that emphasized the isolation from the outside world.

There was nothing of interest on TV and the living room was soon littered with newspapers. They had papers from London and New York and trade papers as well as the local paper delivered daily. John was full of sarcastic remarks as he read.

“Why do you read all that if it irritates you?” I asked, laughing at him.

“Gotta live and life irritates me,” he growled. “People irritate me. Stupid bloody bastards all over the place.”

“Oh come on. It only looks like it in the papers because you have to do something stupid to get written about. Most people are nice and so they don't get written about.”

He started laughing a sarcastic laugh. “Your theory of life? Most people are nice?”

I had no theory of life, had never thought about it. I shrugged meekly, but he had no intention of letting me off the hook.

“And that explains everything? Gives some meaning to all the insanity? That's the whole point of living, a reason to get out of bed in the morning? Most People Are Nice?”

“You got something better?” I asked. I asked it lightly, hoping for a witty response that would turn around the course of the conversation. He was getting off into area that was way over my head and he would chew me up and spit me out.

No such luck. His answer was blunt and irritable. “No, but at least I am still searching for the answer. Not like all the thick heads who can't even see the question!”

I had the feeling I was lumped in that pile of thick heads who never thought about why they were put on this earth. I wasn't going to answer, but something popped into my head, something I had been thinking for a while but never quite thought of in terms of being the meaning of life.

“I don't think there is any big mystery of life,” I said hesitantly. I knew he could wrap me into a pretzel when it came to words, but he was looking at me with more interest than disdain, so I plunged into the murky world of philosophy. “I've seen people being born and I've seen people die, and there is nothing mysterious about it. It's all just a matter of chemistry.”

“Chemistry?” Obviously not what he was expecting to hear from me.

“Yeah. Sodium and bicarbonates and DNA and stuff like that. The individual cells use oxygen and glucose to produce the energy they need to do their thing. Brain cells think by turning potassium and sodium into electricity. Just like a battery. That's all there is to it. Chemistry. We are born because DNA is programmed to replicate itself, and when we die it is because the chemical balance is too far out of line to keep going.”

“Getting hit by a car or getting cancer—that isn't chemical.”

“Yes it is. Blood loss means not enough oxygen to the cells. Bad chemistry and the heart stops. Tumors keep your lungs or pancreas or liver or whatever from doing the chemical things they are supposed to do. Bad chemistry and the patient dies.”

“So we are supposed to go through life seeking perfect chemistry?” He was laughing at me.

“No! You don't have to seek it. It's just… there. That's it. You do whatever you want with your life.”

“Eat, drink and be merry because tomorrow you have bad chemistry?” George put in with a laugh.

I hadn't realized the others were listening and now I was really embarrassed.

“She's a hedonistic atheist,” John proclaimed. “Who'd have thought it from a sweet little dolly?”

“I didn't say that,” I protested.

“Which?”

“Either one. I do believe that you should have fun, but it just makes sense that the only way you can really be happy is if other people are happy too, so—”

“So we're back to being nice!” He was being sarcastic again.

“Yes.” I really believed that so I replied firmly. “And I never said I was an atheist.”

“What do you need God for if you're nothing but chemistry?” He was setting me up. I could feel it, but I had no place to go but into the trap.

“The two ideas are not mutually exclusive. If there is a God—”

“If? Now you are agnostic?”

I was so confused by this point, I wasn't sure if I believed in God or the Tooth Fairy or anything at all, so I ignored him. “If there is a God, I just don't think he is involved in keeping the body going. He doesn't give people cancer or get them hit by cars.” As I said it, I realized he hadn't chosen those two examples out of the blue. Paul's mother and his; cancer and hit by a car. I stopped abruptly, looking at him with dismay.

“Then why does it happen?” he asked. “That's the answer I want! Chemistry doesn't explain it. Being nice sure as hell doesn't.” He was loud, scathingly sarcastic, and I didn't know how to stop this.

Paul got up and tapped John lightly on the arm with a newspaper. “Leave off, John. At her age your whole theory of life was, and I quote, ‘It's all dick.’”

Everyone, including John, laughed. “It's still me basic religion.”

Tension broken, the old reliable deck of cards appeared. Brian was on the telephone, Mal and the other two security guys went off to do whatever security people do, and Neil was playing cards. The air was blue with cigarette smoke. They all seemed to smoke constantly. I had to step out on the patio now and then for fresh air but that made the fans standing guard in the parking lot start yelling for the Beatles. The lack of privacy was exhausting.

I sat down with the book I had grabbed as I left the apartment two days ago. Or was it three? I was losing all track of time in the real world. Here, in the hotel, there was always something going on. Across the hall a parade of people were coming and going. Reporters, fan club officers, hotel staff, city dignitaries and everyone else who could wrangle their way in for an audience with the Beatles awaited them. There the phone rang incessantly and there was constant commotion. In spite of all the activity, nothing really ever happened. Nothing was accomplished. People came and went and the Beatles answered the same questions over and over. On our side of the hall we were stuck here in a holding pattern of John's headaches and pain pills. Sleep, a period of activity that lasted a short time before sliding away into pain, then pills, then sleep again.

A little later that morning, Dr. Latham showed up and John lied and said his headache was a lot better. “It still comes back before the next pain pill is due,” I said, not wanting to contradict John, but the doctor needed to know. “They are still pretty—”

“They are better,” John repeated, glaring at me.

“Come off it, John!” Paul said suddenly. “They are bad, Dr. Latham.” Now John was glaring at Paul but Paul met his gaze steadily.

“Maybe he can do something,” George said to John.

“We'll, we can try a different pain medication,” Dr. Latham said. “Something you can take every four hours. Nothing is going to get rid of it entirely though. It could be a couple of weeks before it goes away.”

John looked up at Dr. Latham. “And if it doesn't?”

“It will. It just takes some time.”

“But if it doesn't. If he keeps getting them?” George persisted.

Dr. Latham gave him the usual “Now, now, it will be fine,” responses. I caught a look between Paul and George that clearly said they were not reassured.

John asked, “When can I go home?”

“I'm going to change the pain pills. I want some time to make sure you are doing OK on them.”

“Tomorrow?”

Latham laughed. “Well, maybe the day after.”

Cheers around the room, and even I felt happy for them. It was like letting a lightening bug out of a jar. I wanted them to stay, but seeing them stuck in the hotel ranked right up there with putting them in a mayonnaise jar with holes punched in the lid.

Brian walked Dr. Latham to the elevators and after a few minutes of happy talk about going home, everyone decided to head for the pool. It was really hot out, so John and I decided to stay inside. They scattered, heading to their rooms to change into swim suits.

Brian came back in and sat down next to me. “Well, Tess, you've put up with him this long. Do you think you could stand being cooped up in an aeroplane with him for eight hours? The doctor wants a nurse along on the flight to England.”

“England?” London and Stonehenge and Jane Eyre!

“Of course we'll pay all your expenses and your salary. It will take about four days, there and back, but I am sure I can arrange it with the hospital for you.”

“England!” I barely heard Brian. The moors in Wuthering Heights, the heath from Return of the Native, Arthur and Guinevere and Merlin…

John was objecting. “Come on, Brian. She doesn't want to go to England, spend four hours at Heathrow and fly back. Get her a couple of weeks.”

“Yes, well, I expect a little holiday is in order after dealing with the lot of you!”

But the images of the Crown Jewels and Changing of the Guard in my mind were being replaced by the image of my bank account. I couldn't afford it. In spite of the fact that I had made a weeks’ pay in the last couple of days, I couldn't afford to take time off and spend money on hotels and sightseeing.

“It’s OK Brian. I'll fly back with him but I can't stay.”

John saw the disappointment on my face. “Brian can fix it with the hospital.”

“It's not just that. I… I really can't afford it.”

Paul stuck his head in the door. “Sure you don't want to join us?”

“I can't afford it.” I said again, stuck on the idea of going to England.

“What?”

“Oh, the pool. No… ”

Brian explained the situation to him. Paul came on into the room and crouched down in front of me. “That would be great, Tess. I could show you 'round a bit. Take you dancing at Sybilla's, shopping on Carnaby. We would have a fantastic time.”

My mind was reeling. All he was wearing was an open shirt over his swimsuit. I clenched my fists to keep from reaching out and touching him. He was smiling broadly. A few weeks in England, spending time with Paul! I wasn't sure I could afford that either, not if his “fantastic time” included what I thought I was seeing in his eyes.

George was at the door. “Paul, the lift is here.”

Paul didn't move, just looked up at me.

“Well… Maybe I could stay a day or so.”

Paul's smile brightened. “Good. Then I'll talk you into staying longer.” With a quick squeeze of my knee, he got up and sprinted after George.

John made a leering face. “I bet he will,” he said.

“I can't afford it. Maybe one or two days but…” I said in a daze of wanderlust and plain old lust.

“You can stay with us. You'll need to show Cyn how to do those damned exercises.”

No hotel bills. Even if Paul meant nothing more than sightseeing, this was still the best chance I might ever have to see something farther away than the fall foliage at Red Wing and the Grotto in Iowa. With the pay from the remaining five or six days as a private duty nurse, I'd be a little ahead, but there would be extra expenses for sightseeing, especially if I wanted to see anything outside of London. By the time I got back, there would be only eight weeks or so until school started. I was behind in saving up for school already and I didn't think I could make that up if I took off for any more than a couple of days.

I gave them the basics of my financial situation. “I need to earn enough yet this summer to make car payments and pay my share of rent and utilities for the school year. I really can’t stay for more than a couple of days.”

John laughed. “Maybe you better go find that reporter’s phone number. There’s a sure bit of jingle in your pocket.”

“You mean they pay for interviews?”

“If that's the only way they can get you to talk, they will.” Brian answered. “Hold on a moment. I've an idea.” He left and came back twenty minutes later.

“I was able to reach Tony and he agrees that the reporters won't quit until someone gets a story from you. If you will agree to work with Tony, we will put your story in the Beatles Fan Club magazine we publish. That will get the reporters out of your hair, give us complete control over what goes out, and give you the money you need for school.”

I sat for a moment in shock, trying to figure out the flaw in his plan, since obviously it was too good to be true. “I cannot discuss a patient—”

“You'll have John's permission for anything medical but the focus is to be on how you felt, what is was like to meet the Beatles, stay in the hotel with them.”

“How… how much money?” I finally stammered.

Brian answered in pounds. I stared blankly, not having the slightest idea of the rate of exchange. Brian translated it for me. “That is about $300 dollars per article and Tony would like this to be a series of three articles.”

$900 dollars! A fortune! Even if I could find jobs, they would be minimum wage, and at $1.25 an hour I would have to work 80 hours a week for a couple of months to earn that!

By the end of the afternoon, it was all set. Brian spoke to the hospital and arranged unlimited time off from work for me. That had been easy enough as they didn't have enough work for all the starving students anyway. With a single phone call to the British Consulate and their intervention with the State Department, the red tape for my passport was expedited. A copy of my immunization records from my nursing school physical was delivered and Neil was dispatched to my apartment to get my birth certificate and a photo from my hysterical roommates. The passport would be delivered tomorrow afternoon. Brenda and Sandy had pledged every article of clothing they had not already loaned me. All I had left to do was call Mom and Dad. I had plunged into this without really thinking about what they would say, and things had moved so quickly I couldn't back out now. I had to talk Mom and Dad into allowing it. Dad would technically have the final say in the matter but Mom was the one I had to convince. I decided to wait until about seven when I knew Mom would have had a chance to rest after work.

I had hoped to tell Paul I would be able to stay a few weeks instead of a few days—I wanted to see his reaction—but someone else told him. Paul came to find me. “I understand I owe Brian a favor. He tells me he has arranged a job for you at the office so you can stay in England for a bit.”

“Yes! Now all I have to do is tell my parents about it!”

“I'd offer to talk to them for you, but I don't think it would help your case at all if they knew how glad I am that you are coming with us!”

Paul was flirting with me! He really was a flirt and he was flirting with me! Nothing, not even parental objection or flat out refusal was going to keep me from going to England!

The afternoon flew by. I was too excited to sit still, but in the constant commotion, no one noticed. I eventually settled down and found myself engaged in an embarrassingly pleasant pastime. Crotch watching: Checking out the hang of their trousers, taking surreptitious peaks as they lounged around. You would think that just looking at them in person would have been enough. Loving their long legs and strong hands and deep voices. But no. This was something I had done with other males, not obsessively, but just as an occasional look when the opportunity presented itself. Now, knowing what John's physical endowment was, I could comparison shop with a more accurate idea of package content. I had seen naked male patients and had seen guys whose jeans or trousers revealed an interesting degree of bulge, but now I had someone I had seen both ways. I could relate the shape hidden by the jeans to an actual size and thus evaluate one and all based on this standard. Scientific inquiry, nothing more!

Among the four of them, I suspected George would win the blue ribbon.

Not being elitist, I did not confine my research to the fab four. Mal won hands down, but then he was a exceptionally large guy. I couldn't tell who was proportionally largest. It was an interesting way to pass the time.

The others were taking advantage of the privacy of John's suite and actually got to the point where they worked in shifts. Two of them held court across the hall while the third hid in John's suite and relaxed. John did a stint with the visitors now and again to prove he wasn't dead.

Later that afternoon after giving John a pain pill, I could tell he was hitting that point where the pain pill was making him sleepy but hadn't completely taken care of the pain in his head and shoulder. I suggested he lie down for a while and instead of the usual grumbling about the fucking headache and damn pills, he just gave me a tired look and nodded. Ringo and Brian happened to be in the room at the time and I caught the look that passed between them as I got John to his feet. They were worried. Really worried.

As I helped John to his room and got him settled on the bed, I thought about all the messages I had been getting from the others. They were all worried about John. Every time he complained about his headache or asked for a pain pill they got funny looks on their faces. I had seen it in Mal and Neil as well. Several times it was one of the others, not John himself, who asked if it was time yet for his pain pill. That lead me to the conclusion that the others weren't concerned with the possibility he might get addicted to the pain pills. From there the only logical conclusion was the exact opposite. They were worried because he wasn't getting some other drug he used regularly.

I didn't know much about illegal drugs or the symptoms of drug withdrawal. There wasn't that much use of hard drugs in the city at that point, but it was increasing and we had discussed it in school along with alcohol withdrawal. I knew drug withdrawal could be dangerous as well as miserable. Patients could have seizures and even heart attacks. I quickly ruled out calling either of my back-up nurses for more information. This was a really private matter and if I talked to anyone it would have to be Dr. Latham, but I had no real reason to do that yet. I needed to find out if it was a possibility.

Once John was settled on the bed, I sat down next to him and plunged into a subject I really, really didn't want to get into but was scared not to.

“John, I need to ask you something and I need an honest answer.”

He looked at me in surprise and waited.

“I need to know if…” It was hard to say it. “… if you use drugs. If you do then we have to let the doctor know before you go into withdrawal. He can order something to help you.”

In spite of his headache he laughed at me. “Good God, Tess! If I needed drugs I could get them!”

“John, this is serious. Withdrawal can be dangerous, and everything will be kept confidential.”

He took my hand and said tiredly, “Luv, I don't need drugs. I am fine.”

I must have looked doubtful. He gave my hand a little shake. “Come on, girl. A reefer now and again, and I've tried a few other things. I like tripping on acid, but I don't do that while we are on tour. That's about it. I'm not hooked on anything.”

I sighed with relief.

“What the hell put that idea into your head?” he asked.

“Well, everyone seems so worried about you. More now than they did at first, I think. Every time you say you have a headache or need a pill, they get this look on their face… George asked me this morning if the headaches were getting worse. He seemed so worried.”

With that, he got a funny look on his face. He let go of my hand and turned his face away from me.

“John?”

He didn't answer right away and when he did his voice was husky. “Stu,”he said. “He got kicked in the head. He had headaches…”

“And he died,” I finished for him, feeling stupid for not having remembered the story of Stu Sutcliff sooner.

He nodded.

“John, I don't know what to say. I don't know what happened with Stu, but the doctor says you are going to be fine.”

He managed a little smile. “Yes, of course. Only the good die young. Tell that to the others so they'll quit pulling those long faces.”

I smiled at him but inside I was feeling less than confidant. I told myself I was being silly, his headaches were not as bad as they had been, he was getting better. All the same, I resolved to watch him more closely and discuss it with Latham in the morning.

The rest of the afternoon went by quickly for me, but they were all getting seriously bored. The usual parade of people made their way into the rooms. At one point a beach ball found down by the pool was turned into a soccer ball. Neil, Mal, Peter and Alan let security lapse to join in a loud and violent soccer game that went on up and down the hall. When they knocked over a huge vase of flowers that stood on a table in the hall, the game was abruptly ended and the players scattered.

On my trips across the hall I watched them interacting with the reporters and business men and fan club presidents. One woman was bound and determined to get them to agree to write a song for use as a fund raising theme for her charitable organization. It was funny to watch each of them deal with her. Ringo bowed out saying he didn't write songs.

George just said, “We wouldn't have any songs left for ourselves if we started that, now would we?”

John answered her with obtuse questions and comments like “Well, there you have it! It's the government after all isn't it then?”

Paul listened attentively to her pitch and then guided her over to Brian saying, “Well, that's a bit out of our hands. Contracts, you know. Perhaps Mr. Epstein can explain it to you. I'm not much on the business end.”

Around seven I retreated to my room to call home. Five minutes spent staring at the phone didn't give me a clue as to how to approach my parents on this. The distractions of being here (all four of them!) had kept me from giving it much thought. All I knew was that I was going, no matter what. They would refuse permission if I asked, so I was going to inform them instead. I figured that even if the worst happened and they threatened to withdraw further financial support, the money I would make in England would get me through until spring, graduation, and the long awaited well paying job. I was close enough to financial independence to risk it. The only game plan I could come up with to reduce their level of resistance was to make it clear that this was a job related assignment. I would downplay the “who” and stress the “why.”

My parents had good reasons to object—I was grown up enough to see that—but since being on my own I had learned a lot about the limits of my parents world. I didn't think I knew it all by any means, nor did I consider them to be nothing but old fuddy-duddies. They were intelligent, hard working, rural Americans, but their point of reference was life in southern Minnesota. They had never met a Negro, a prostitute, a pot smoker, a pregnant thirteen year old, a person trapped deep in schizophrenia, a draft dodger sneaking back into the country, a rape victim, an old beatnik or new hippie. Through my work at the hospital and connections to the University, I had, and everyone of them taught me something. I didn't have all the life experience of my parents, but I felt I was a lot more world-wise than they.

Mom answered the phone. “Terry! I see your hospital has been in the news!”

“Well, yeah… I guess you didn't happen to see the ten o'clock news last night.” She probably wouldn't have recognized me from that quick shot of me being hoisted into the ambulance the first day, and I seemed to escape the cameras the day we brought John out of the hospital, but obviously she had not seen last night's coverage of the press conference.

“No. He didn't die, did he?”

“No, he is doing fine. In fact, he's been dismissed from the hospital.”

“Really? They made such a big deal of it on the news the other night. It sounded like he was in bad shape.”

“Well, he wasn't exactly dismissed. The fans and reporters were driving the hospital administrators crazy. They sent him back to the hotel with a private duty nurse.”

“Oh.” Having exhausted any interest she had in the topic of the Beatles, she changed the subject. “Have you been able to get any hours this week?” she asked, well aware of the problem I was having in finding work hours.

“Um... yeah. Quite a few actually. As a private duty nurse.”

A moment of silence. “Not with…”

“Yes.”

“Oh! Oh my. Oh dear!” Not at all the same tone as Brenda and Sandy. Same degree of shock, but different twist. Dismay more than delirium. “How did you get dragged into that?”

I resisted the urge to laugh out loud at the idea that I required any dragging and explained about taking the job at the first aide station at the hotel. “So I was there when he got hurt, and I went with him to the hospital and then he needed private nurses.”

“You didn't go to the hotel with him!”

“Um...yeah.”

“Oh, Terry!”

“Mom, he is really nice. They all are, and the pay is really good.”

Silence.

“And the hotel is fantastic. The rooms are beautiful. We've got the whole wing.” Might as well break it to her. “My room is enormous—”

“Your room?”

“Yeah, it’s in John's suite so I—”

“You are staying there?” The dismay in her voice had ratcheted up to Parental Overdrive with that tidbit.

Yeah, I was staying at the hotel, and so far I hadn't spent either night in my room or in my own bed but I certainly wasn't going to mention that. “It’s around the clock private duty, Mom. I'm making lots of money and I'm having a… a good time.” Best not to say a great, incredible, fantastic time.

The exchange went on. She worried if I was safe with “those people,” what people would think, and wished I had called before Dad had left to go bowling. I had forgotten it was his bowling night and considered this a stroke of luck. If I could get one parent to approve, the other would be less likely to refuse. I stressed the fact that the hospital allowed me, a mere student, to provide care for a VIP. That heavy handed appeal to her motherly pride finally made a dent in her resistance. Maybe this was not such a potentially embarrassing situation. Her daughter the nurse was selected to do private duty nursing for a famous person!

Taking advantage of that bit of approval, I took a deep breath and plunged into the real reason for my call. I told her that the doctor wanted a nurse along on the flight back to England and that Brian had offered to pay all my expenses as well as salary for my time—and that I had already agreed to do it. She was stunned into momentary silence and I was able to point out that it was just a continuation of the private duty assignment I was already doing. I stressed how much money I would make for just a few more days and Mom dithered about everything. The idea of me being with “those people” was bad enough, but adding the business of a transatlantic flight was pretty overwhelming for a woman who had never set foot in an airplane or out of the United States. I stressed my responsibility as a nurse and the opportunity to make easy money and that combined with the simple fact that I had already agreed to do it left her with little to say but “Well, I guess…” That was tenuous approval. Having accomplished that much, I chickened out. I'd call tomorrow and drop the other shoe; I was planning on staying for a couple weeks.

“Well, I’ve got to go now. Oh, and Mom, don't tell people I am John's nurse. The reporters are already asking me for interviews, but I can't talk to them. If they find out where I live they'll drive me crazy.” At the risk of reminding her that there were three other able bodied—and how!—Beatles hanging around, I couldn't resist a message to my sister Anne. “Tell Anne that George says hello!''

I called my roommates and brought them up to date on events, left them shrieking with excitement, and went back out to the living room where yet another card game was in session. Ringo looked up. “Are they on the way to rescue their little girl from the Teddy boys then?”

“No, but we didn't quite get around to talking about my staying on in England for a few weeks.”

They laughed. “Just going to drop them post card from London then?” George asked.

“Yeah. 'Having a wonderful time. Glad you don't know about it!'”

John was bored with playing cards. George disappeared and showed up with a Scrabble game. I must have looked shocked. “We can spell, you know,” John said, sounding aggrieved.

“I don't know about the others but I know you can't. I've read your books.”

That got a big laugh from him. John challenged me to a game and I accepted. My Dad was an avid scrabble player and we tended to sit up way too late at night playing. I figured I could at least hold my own against John. It was a close game and about halfway through we were within a few points of each other when a miracle happened. XIPHOI appeared on my tray and there was an open D on the board— and the X would stretch all the way back to triple word score! I held my breath, hoping he wouldn't use the D. He didn't and I counted out the score as I put the letters down. “And triple that is sixty six.”

He looked at the word, then at me, skepticism all over his face.

“Xiphoid!” I said.

He looked around at the others.

“Never heard of it,” Paul said.

“Its a bone, the xiphoid process.” More skeptical looks. “A little triangular bone right at the end of the sternum.”

Sternum registered. “Show us yours,” John requested to everyone's laughter. Brian was pulled away from his book to see if he could help. He recognized the word but didn't know if it was spelled correctly.

“Aha!” said John.

“Go look it up!” I retorted but there was no dictionary. I grabbed the phone and called Brenda. “Brenda, tell them what the xiphoid process is!” and handed the phone to Brian. Straight A student that she was, Brenda responded promptly with the answer.

“How do you spell that?” he asked.

She spelled, he said “Thanks, luv,” and hung up. “Sixty six points for Tess,” he declared.

I was now in the lead, but John had all of them helping him and I was cursed with really lousy letters. John closed the gap. We moved on to the last few rounds where all you can do is search for a spot for a leftover letter. I was left with an I and N, good letters when the board is tight, but not much for points. John found a spot to use a J and pulled ahead of me by six points, but he was stuck with a C he wouldn't be able to play. My turn. I searched the board and after a bit I found it. Dangling over the X of xiphoid was FOR. I slipped the N and I onto the board turning FOR into FORNIX.

“I'll bet she won't show us that either.” John observed.

“Sounds filthy to me,” Ringo agreed.

“Its in the brain, between the ventricles,” I explained. I had no idea what its function was, it was just a word with an arrow on a diagram of the brain and therefore dutifully memorized for a test. “Should I call Brenda?”

“No need. Eighteen points for Tess. She wins.” Brian announced.

The rest of the evening was quiet. Brian retired to his room early and we watched TV. Neil and Mal were in and out, watching TV with us at times. About eleven, there was a little excitement with the discovery of two young women posing as hotel employees delivering extra towels. They were very pretty and so, unknown to Brian, who had made several remarks about being on their best behavior while stranded here, what with the press watching so closely, they entertained the girls. The girls were still there at 1:00 A.M. when John and I went to bed. I suspect things got even more entertaining.

In the morning, we had a final visit from Dr. Latham. He gave his final OK for John to leave and started to say goodbye when I stopped him. “John's headaches have got everyone a little worried,” I said, and explained about Stu.

After questioning John on the specifics of Stu's death, Latham shook his head. “Well, I can't say for certain, but if the autopsy showed the cause of death was a brain hemorrhage there is no way that was related to a blow to the head months before. Head injuries kill within days. The patient doesn’t return to normal and then die. With his age and the history of severe headaches I should think it was the rupture of an aneurysm, a weak spot in a blood vessel. Not predictable. Not treatable.”

John listened to all that with a strained look on his face and when Latham finished he said “Thank you,” in a very subdued voice.

I walked to the door with Dr. Latham and when I came back, John was staring off into space. I left him sitting there and went to my room to give him a little privacy. I was thinking about how relieved the others were going to be when I told them what Latham had said. John's headaches were to be expected and they were easing up a bit. He wasn't going to end up like Stu. I allowed myself to envision them being so grateful for easing their worried minds that they would have to express it with a hug. Maybe a kiss on the cheek. I had to laugh at myself but at the same time I was wondering if perhaps I shouldn't tell them right away. Why hold the information back any longer? They would be up by now and if I hurried over, I might find one or two of them in their pajamas. That happy little daydream was interrupted by the sound of George's “Hey John, where's breakfast?”

Brian arrived next, then as soon as the breakfast cart arrived we were invaded by the rest of the crew. John announced that Latham had pronounced him fit for travel and there was a cheer all around.

“And,” John said, “he also says to tell you all to stop being a bunch silly old women. I am not going to keel over dead like Stuart.”

The room went into a shocked silence. Finally Paul said “You talked to him about Stu?”

“Yeah. Tess told me you greedy bastards were already dividing up my stuff and thinking about who to get to replace me. But he says Stu didn't die because he got hit in the head. Explain it to them Tess.”

I repeated Dr. Latham's comments about head injury and his assessment of Stu's death.

The silence hung on while they absorbed the information, then George said, “Does this mean I have to give back the Rickenbaker then?”

There was laughter and more cracks about what belongings of John's they felt they should be allowed to keep just for the inconvenience his injury had caused. As we settled down to breakfast, Brian asked me, “We were that obvious then?”

John heard him and laughed. “Obvious? Bloody hell, Brian! You were all getting the screamin' meemies every time I asked for a pill! You had the poor girl convinced I was a drug fiend and any minute I was going to fall on the floor frothing at the mouth and screaming for a fix!”

Brian nearly choked on his orange juice and the others were hooting with laughter. I tried to explain how any prudent nurse would have had to consider the possibility of drug use and taken steps to prevent the dangerous effects of withdrawal. They laughed anyway. So much for my dreams of undying gratitude and Beatle hugs. All I got for my concern was a day of “Stash the stuff mate! Here she comes,” every time I walked into the room. However, Ringo did find a private moment, as private a one as life in this goldfish bowl allowed, and thanked me.

“They'll never admit it, but we were all scared,” he said. I got my Beatle hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Brian was on the phone most of the day making final arrangements for the trip back to England. The afternoon went slowly with everyone feeling restless and wishing we could be on our way. More people were in and out. A few of them were now familiar faces. My passport was delivered and another suitcase arrived from Sandy and Brenda. They had gone shopping for me. The underwear in the suitcase included not just the plain white, no frills cotton that I owned since that was all you could wear under a white uniform, but pastels and lace. A note attached gave the old bit of advice, “If you can't be good, be careful!”

Finally it was time for me to make the second dreaded phone call home. I again retreated to my room to call. Mom answered and all was as I had hoped. Although she and Dad had reservations about my staying at the hotel, delivering my patient to London was a logical and acceptable addition to the job.

I took a deep breath and plunged into an explanation of the rest of my plan. The idea of my staying in London with John while writing the articles for the fan magazine, set off a new wave of objections.

“You don't know these people. How do you know what you are getting into? There could be drugs. They say a lot of those people are into drugs. They could put something into your food—”

”Mom, I will be in his home with his wife and little boy.”

More dithering.

“I am going to make more money in a few weeks there than—”

“Weeks!”

“It's three articles, Mom. It will take time. $900 is more than I could make in months here.”

$900 dollars got me a foot in the door but she was still resistant and I played my trump card: It would be hard to find another nurse by tomorrow morning, and I would have to teach her how to do John's complicated therapy which I, excellent nurse, was able to do. Finally, after talking to Dad (“money, nursing opportunity, nursing responsibility, wife, money, son, money, therapy, money”), I received worried consent. I guess you couldn't call it consent since I wasn't exactly asking permission. It was more of a stalemate. They were dead opposed to the idea but in the face of all my good arguments for doing it and the fact that I had already agreed, they wouldn't quite go so far as to to refuse to allow me.

That evening we had dinner in the hotel restaurant just to get out of the rooms. The price for dinner was constant interruptions for autographs. Halfway through dinner, Brian signaled to Mal. Peter and Alan appeared and intercepted the rest of the autograph seekers.

Back upstairs, John challenged me to another scrabble game. The ground rules for this game would have swung Dad the other way about letting me go. I could use medical terms, but dirty words would also be allowed and awarded double points! John figured his vocabulary in that area would make it a more even match. I couldn't argue with his logic and the game was on. Choice words were greeted with cheers. John scored big with a double on the F word. When he spelled out “SPAG". It was my turn to look skeptical.

“Tell her what it means," John said to our audience.

They looked at each other and laughed. “Um, well, its a way of saying a bird looks like she could be had," Paul explained after a moment. “Not like a prostitute, just a girl who looks at a certain guy and you know she wants it."

I knew my face was getting red, but Paul's voice and look did not indicate he realized he was describing basically what I felt every time he came near me. John did, and his grin was absolutely wicked. I avoided looking at him.

“Like 'She's really gone spag on him'," said George. Eighteen points for John.

That wasn't the only new word they taught me that evening. “WANK": what boys do after a bird gets them “LODDY" but won't “BONK". They explained them with increasing clarity and enthusiasm. I quit asking when John spelled out “LING" on the board. Knowing how people from Liverpool abbreviated everything,—ciggie for cigarette, cuppa for cup of tea, Ta for thanks—I didn't want to hear. I couldn't even look at John. I had little practical experience with sex, but giggling dorm parties spent looking up dirty words in a medical dictionary had taught me the likely meaning of that particular shorthand. Thankfully, the others were momentarily distracted by something on TV.

While I pondered my next move, John leaned over to check out the score sheet I had been keeping. “You gave me twenty. It's only ten," he said.

“Double points," I explained. John looked back at the board for a moment, then started laughing so hard he was in misery, holding his sore ribs and groaning, but he couldn't quit.

That got everyone's attention and he wheezed “She gave me double points!"

Once they pinpointed the word in question, everyone started laughing hysterically. George was literally falling out of his chair, and Paul was laughing so hard he had to stop to wipe tears from his eyes. I just sat there confused.

John finally managed to say, “That's a Northerner's name for heather! Do tell us, Tess, What did you think it meant?"

I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me but that image included a giant mouth with smacking lips and wiggling tongue. I started laughing helplessly.

Brian came in just then. He looked at us, bewildered as to why Paul, Ringo, Mal and Neil were in hysterics and George was on the floor.

“Don't ask, Brian" I pleaded. “Please don't ask."

“Very well," he said, grinning because he knew he would find out later. “Another scrabble game, eh?" He looked over the board. “What is Spag?," he asked.

“You know, a really spag bird," said George. Brian looked puzzled but shrugged. As he examined other words on the board he started to chuckle and said “I'll bet Lennon is winning!"

“A filthy mind comes in handy," John said. “Of course, I can't hold a candle to Tess!"

“Oh? And is she as creative as you? Spag? Loddy?" Brian asked.

I knew then that I had been had. They had all aided and abetted John’s ploy and I fell for it. They exploded again with laughter.

Our flight to New York was at 10:00 A.M., so we turned in right after the Tonight show. John had had a pain pill so he fell asleep promptly. I considered going to sleep in my own bed. John could manage to turn on his side by himself now, but I knew he wouldn't make it through the night without another pain pill, so I curled up on my side of the big bed. Sleep would not come. My mind was whirling with everything. I had been with them for what? Four days? So much had been packed into that time and I lay there trying to sort it all out. What would I say when my friends asked me the inevitable question, “What are they really like?”

Well, John was really rather quiet, even shy in a crowd. When outsiders walked in, John shut down. He was suddenly subdued, polite but distant. He didn't especially like having his picture taken and often made faces at the camera. He always looked like he was holding back when reporters were around. He wore a composed expression and sometimes his smile was forced. It wasn't just that he was trying to avoid saying something that would turn into another “Christ” thing, but he was also trying to keep from looking as disgusted with the stupid questions as he felt. You could see the difference when someone asked an intelligent question or carried on an intelligent conversation. He was suddenly relaxed and the smile was real. He was certainly opinionated, but he was more likely to listen than to talk, always looking for new viewpoints, new information. Among people he knew and trusted he revealed a far-out sense of humor. He did great voice imitations and characters, the more outrageous the better, and generally kept everyone laughing. The flip side of his personality showed up too. He was stubborn and had a temper and could be really rude, but he was more often funny than nasty. He teased me mercilessly and loved it when I gave it right back to him. He was the most fascinating man I had ever met.

Paul was just plain nice. Polite, funny. Sometimes, with reporters and obnoxious people, the niceness seemed a little too much. You knew he couldn't possibly like them, but to him that was no excuse to be rude. Besides, being nice to nosy reporters was part of the job, and he took his job seriously. When outsiders walked in, Paul laughed, talked, listened to their pitches, smiled for the cameras, and signed autographs all with a level of attention that reminded me of Mal patrolling the party the other night, on duty. It wasn't an act though. He wasn't really different with them than he was otherwise. Away from them, he was still out-going and talkative. Of course, away from them he was also perfectly capable of aiding and abetting John's caustic humor and able to come up with some pointed comments of his own. He loved to put people on. I never knew whether he was serious or feeding me a line of bull until someone else burst out laughing. He was more ambitious, more optimistic, and more self disciplined than any of the others. That could translate into a really obnoxious, self centered person, but Paul had a sense of humor about the whole thing that just made it fun to be around him.

George was not shy like the fan mags said. He was quiet, but if he had something to say he said it. He pretty much ignored the comings and goings, answering questions if necessary, but paying more attention to distractions such as food, TV, and any females who wandered in. Of all of them, he was the least likely to do things just because the cameras were on. He was as funny as any of them, setting up funny scenes and clowning around, but only if he was in the mood, never just for the cameras. His off-hand comments were made even funnier because he was so quiet they were totally unexpected. John ran hot and cold with the whole idea of being a Beatle, Paul loved it, Ringo was amused by it, but George thought the hype and hoopla was disgusting.

Ringo was the least complicated of all of them, and for that reason, the hardest to describe. He was more talkative than John and George, and more hyperactive than Paul. He was always starting up some game or getting something going. He was a little self conscious when outsiders came in, but if John turned into a recluse, Paul into a press agent, and George into a disinterested third party, Ringo turned into the genial host. He made everyone feel at home. His humor was in his expressive face and his smile was more contagious than the common cold, and he was the one who squeezed my hand when I was scared and gave me a hug when I needed it.

After four days of getting to know the four most exciting guys in the world, now I was going to go halfway around the world with them. That was what was keeping me awake. I was so keyed up, and I was even having second thoughts. What if I got airsick? What if Cyn didn't like me? What if I couldn't write an article they liked? What if Paul was just flirting and hadn't meant anything? What if he had? On that thought I grew disgusted with myself.

“Stop it! Just turn over and go to sleep!” I told myself. I turned over, wrestled with my blanket, and watched John sleep.

It didn't help. It really didn't help. I might have the hots for Paul, but John… I'd have walked on hot coals for the guy. I loved being around him. Even groggy on pain pills he was more exciting than anyone I had ever known. Sharp, funny, irreverent, and wide open. He didn't hold anything back. When he fixed that nearsighted gaze on me, I swear he read my mind. And sexy? I had always thought that!

I finally fell into a jumpy sleep. John woke up around four and I got him another pain pill. We talked quietly in the dark for a while, and suddenly the conversation ended up back at the theological level I thought I had escaped from earlier.

“So are you agnostic, then?” John asked me abruptly. There was not the same testy edge to his voice as there had been during our last go ‘round of philosophical discussion but I was still hesitant to answer because it still sounded like a challenge.

He nudged me with his elbow. “Come on, you can tell me. I won’t tell your Mum you worship secret idols in the dead of night.”

The image that popped into my head was not of pentagrams and flickering candles, but of a bedroom wall covered with Beatles pictures, and of my sister and me drifting off to sleep to the sound of Beatles music from the record player. Worshiping secret idols in the dead of night indeed! I started to laugh. “Oh, but I have done just that. My sister and I worshiped The Unholy Quartet as opposed to the Holy Trinity.”

John understood immediately and laughed.. “John the Witty, Paul the Cute, George the Quiet and Ringo the Holy Drummer.” We laughed together, happily sharing this bit of blasphemy, but his laughter didn’t get me off the hook.

“So, what do you believe in?” he asked again.

“Well… I really haven’t given it a whole lot of thought,” I said hesitantly. “I guess I do believe in God because even though I am not very interested in religion, I still go through the motions. Go to church when I go home. Say ‘God bless you’ when someone sneezes, and swearing is pretty silly if you don’t believe in God, isn’t it?”

“Ah yes. That foul mouth of yours. If I hear you say 'Gosh darn it!' one more time…” But John was not in the least satisfied. “That is habit,” he said, picking up the interrogation. “Crap you do without thinking. What do you think? Does God exist?”

I didn’t for a minute think John really cared what a Midwestern American student nurse thought about much of anything. He was just being argumentative. I was casting around in my head for any possible reply and seriously considering feigning sleepiness to put an end to the conversation. When I didn’t answer, he said in a different tone, “Come ‘ead, just talk to me.”

I recognized the tired pain in his voice then and realized he was just using the entertainment value of baiting me to keep his pain at arm’s length until the pill took over. It didn’t matter what I said, anything would do. Freed from the necessity of revealing that I was not a deep thinker, something popped into my head that I had found entertaining and thought provoking when I had read it.

“Well, I read someplace that Freud theorized that God is just our image of the perfect father. That’s why we created him, to have a father to turn to who is all-knowing, all-powerful, wise, just, and all that. It really sounded logical to me, I guess.”

John was nodding. “I’ve read that. It makes some sense, but why create him as vengeful and unyielding? Seems if we were creating the perfect father, we’d invent someone a little easier to please. Someone you could go fishin’ with. Someone who would say,'That’s all right, son,' when you fucked up. That powerful guy with the white beard is fine for dealing with mine enemies, smiting them with plagues and boils and makin’ them toe the line, but I dunno as I’d want him for me dad!” John slipped into a patriarchal tone. “Forgot to bring in me paper again, did you lad? Well, here’s a bit ‘o leprosy to teach you to mind!”

I laughed at the image he created, and for a few minutes we laughingly swapped blasphemous misanthropic scenarios of an Almighty God seated on his heavenly throne dressed in flowing robes and trying to deal with a little kid’s transgressions. Lightening bolts for failure to eat vegetables and such.

“No, I think Siggy had better stick to sex,” John concluded. “I don’t like that version of God.”

“Well, maybe that’s why we added Jesus,” I suggested.

“Jesus? Why?”

“Well, God is the perfect father, Jesus the perfect mother to balance him out. Kind, gentle, forgiving, understanding, self-sacrificing.”

That was met with silence and I persisted defensively. “Well, he is, isn’t he? Making sure everyone got fed with loaves and fishes, healing the sick, washing dirty feet…” I trailed off, thinking I had gone too far.

The room was quiet for a moment and then John chuckled. “And telling bedtime parables!”

We laughed together again, and fell silent, John beginning to get drowsy from the medication and me just thinking what a warm comfortable silence it was and resisting a temptation to slide my head over just a few inches, just enough to sort of gently snuggle my cheek against John’s shoulder.

Well, so much for comfortable silence. Thoughts like that didn’t make me comfortable at all. “We’d better get some sleep. We’ve got to be up early,” I said. I got up and rearranged his pillows and pulled a blanket over him. He watched me, a soft smile on his face.

“Good night, you little heathen,” he said then closed his eyes.

I lay down beside him, listening to his quiet breathing until I was sure he was asleep then got up and went back to my own room, knowing he would sleep the rest of the night and if I stayed there, I wouldn't. I liked this man too much. This married man.