| Next | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 |
| Table of Contents |

In view of the intensity of my feelings of anticipation about being, once again, in Jennifer's presence, I had convinced myself that my psychological state was going to inflate my perception of the passage of time. Happily, despite my condition, Friday evening arrived more quickly then I would have thought possible.

On my way to pick up Jennifer, I navigated my way through the lingering remnants of what is laughingly referred to as 'rush-hour' traffic. Thirty or forty years ago, if then, the rush from work may have taken only an hour, but, now, the rush started around two-thirty or three in the afternoon and began tapering off toward seven or seven-thirty in the evening.

I began to speculate that, perhaps, the inflationary virus which affects the value of money from time to time may have mutated, as has been the case with the causal agents of so many other treatment-resistant social diseases. The result of such a mutation might be manifesting itself as a continental grid-lock that was lasting for a length of time many times longer than the original rush-hour.

Continuing on with my traffic-induced flight of imagination, the thought occurred to me that just as we deal with adjusted dollars, we also deal with adjusted rush-hours. The unit of measurement, whether stated in terms of a dollar or an hour, may stay the same, but the meaning and significance of that unit has changed significantly over time.

Having arrived at this conclusion, it was a mere dive, paddle and float down my stream of consciousness to the realization of how the same altered relationship between units of measurement and their meaning or significance had permeated so much of our lives. Everybody spoke about truth, sanity, justice, rights, freedom, democracy, spirituality, health, soul, purpose, knowledge, family and community as if they were commonly understood units of measurement through which to assess the quality of life. Yet, the meaning and significance of these units had each become a mini tower of Babel.

A red light brought me back to the modern version of a rush-hour. Following Jennifer's directions, plus a few traffic related mid-course corrections, I, eventually, made my way to her house.

I parked the car in her driveway. By the time I had exited the car and approached the walkway, Jennifer already was outside on the porch, checking the front door to make sure it was securely locked.

As I watched her turn around and walk down the stairs of the porch, I felt both a deep emptiness coming from within me as well as a sense of presence emanating out of Jennifer. The presence seeped into my being and began pushing my emptiness aside.

I swallowed and said, rather self-consciously: "Seeing you is like receiving manna from heaven."

Jennifer smiled and said in a wonderful southern drawl: "My, my, David Phelps, you do say the most outlandish things." Then, apparently noticing I was blushing, Jennifer added in a normal voice, but with considerable warmth: "Saying that was very sweet of you, David. On an average day, one doesn't get likened to a Divine food. So, I do believe your words make today something special."

I walked to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. I did this not so much out of social convention or any kind of preconceptions concerning the roles of men and women, as I did out of a desire to be of service to the mystery that seemed to be entering my life in the form of Jennifer.

She accepted the gesture without comment. After she was fully in, I closed the door behind her.

I ambled around to the driver's side of the car, got in, shut the door and strapped myself. Once the car started up, I backed down the driveway, put the gear-shift in drive and headed for the river Charles.

As we drove along, Jennifer began talking about what had happened with Beth's venture into the domain of the FBI. First, Jennifer said: "Ellen Hudson called and indicated that everything went reasonably well with Beth's interview."

Expanding somewhat, Jennifer said: "Ellen did say there were a few rough patches which had to be weathered when the FBI asked Beth where she had been for the last several weeks. In the end, however, and especially in the absence of any countervailing evidence, they let Beth go but told her to be available in case additional questions needed to be asked."

Not waiting to see if Jennifer was going to add anything further, I asked: "Did Ellen say whether or not the FBI was going to look into Beth's abduction? Or do Native peoples only count when they are the designated target of apprehension?" I inquired, with a sprinkling of indignation.

Jennifer appeared to ignore my mini-fit of pique concerning the FBI. She responded with: "Ellen told me she had recommended to the agents conducting the interview that they might be well-advised to pursue the abduction angle.

"Apparently, the FBI intimated that as far as Beth's situation was concerned there was no clear-cut evidence demonstrating any federal laws had been violated. They promised, nonetheless, to keep Ellen's recommendation in mind during their investigation."

Jennifer dropped the subject of the FBI, at least for the moment, and returned to Beth. "Beth called to thank me again for putting her up for a few days and for getting Ellen Hudson to help out. Beth also said she had talked with people at the library where she works and that everything is O.K. there."

"Wonderful," I exclaimed with relief. "I was worried about how it would all turn out."

Adding to the information already passed on to me, Jennifer said: "Beth asked me to say 'Hello' to you for her. She indicated she would try to call you this weekend."

While processing the latest data on Beth, I remembered something. "I probably won't be here this weekend. There's someone I have to see in Washington, DC... an old friend who works for the Department of Justice."

| Next | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 |
| Table of Contents |