

Two Lost Souls

Book II of the Chosen Words Series

Written by: Scott D Wagner

Published by Rengaw Raves at Smashwords.com

Copyright 2012 Scott D. Wagner

1st Edition

Cover Art and Digital Preparations by Kane W. Woodward

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is the follow up to Incident at Monticello. The Chosen Words Series, in order to be fully appreciated by the reader, needs to be read in the proper order.

This **eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.**
The First, centered.

In, or out, laws.

There is a virgin layer of new snow, covering the back porch and beyond. The Colorado Snow Gods have blessed the Front Range with four inches of crystallized water. As I stare out the sliding glass door, the foothills appear as majestic as they ever do.

It is about eleven p.m. on February 6, 2011. In order of relevance: my daughter Sarina's 25th birthday; Super Bowl Sunday; and what would have been President Ronald Reagan's, 100th birthday.

Faintly, distinctly, emanating from the second floor, my daughter's ring-tone is heard. Our kids, the trio, all have dedicated ring-tones tagged in Pamila's phone. Phone; I know that name is still attached, but come on! Calling people, actually talking to people, seems a drying riverbed.

The caller, my eldest, decided choice is Ramblin Man by The Allman Brothers Band. Chosen not by Rebecca; Pamila's selection of course has satirical meaning. I love it; its symbolism always delivers a father's deviant smile. Pami has never told me of her reasoned selection; there is no need. Our time together has led us to recognize like items. You know how they say that dog owners start to resemble their pet; I have no doubt that married couples start to think alike. And because of this theory, there is no doubt that I feel sorry for Pami.

I should have learned my lesson, but I don't seem to have. Mere pages into this text, I am going to tempt the wrath of a family member. A failure that is recognized by those of you that have previously traveled with me. Although I choose words for a living, I don't always present the best ones. So here are my chosen, but probably not best.

Rebecca's ring-tone is representative of her youthful wandering away from the future, and often the present as well. She has a very difficult time... well, with time. Rebecca has no more clue what she is going to do with tomorrow than she does with a month from now. One year from now, forget about it. Pamila calls it Mental Goal Wandering, MGW. (Now Pami will be wrathed as well. Two wrathings means one for me as well. Not the first time; won't...

Her husband Wade has MGW as well. His unorganized spirit of youth fuels the fire of her unsettledness. Rebecca lives in a world that is only inhabited by the two of them. The rest of us orbit her planet, constantly questioning its ellipse, and hoping there is not a sudden catastrophic cosmic impact.

My watch coming to a stilling end, I lock, inspect, and insert closing entry to daily log: '2311 hours, all is as should be. Signing off'. I push the house into a shadowed corner as this day is closed. A day that has overflowed the rim with an event of family, friends, and tales. One tale, long and detailed, more than the many others.

With a smothering power outage, my mind and body identifies that it is time to shut down. Ascending the stairs with recognized tiredness, I feel the subtle calmness of a house that has spun down to a tranquil resolve. Resolved, I find it to be one of those moments daily when all is good.

Stepping onto the twelfth and final step with my left foot, always my left, I hear Pami's voice fading in and out amongst the sound of a running furnace and her motioned direction. Entering the bedroom, amongst her passing of me, she shares a tinge of parental frustration. "That was Rebecca. Wade, your son-in-law, is not feeling well and they are off to the hospital. Again!" 'Your son-in-law', banged hard my ears. Not important right now. What is important to you is that her departing words did not elaborate. Turning and facing her bathroom location, she blessed me with; "Rebecca thinks he has food poisoning."

"From my food?" I immediately toss with indignation.

Leaving my self-identified culinary insult alone, Pami slid the bathroom door closed. Describing it nicely, it was an over-use of inertia.

Turning from her self-imposed privacy, I hear with loudness delivered; "Food poisoning? I think he's got brain poisoning." Not a great medical diagnosis from a nurse. A warm smile entertained me.

Now, since you have willfully chosen to read this novel, you will be forced to accept an occasional dumping of my thoughts. Often, this placement of my un-wisdom has nothing to do with this story. This is one of those times.

Being a new Father-in-law, there is something I never considered. Something that my parents, catholic schooling, or life experiences, have not taught me. How to be a good Father-in-law. Really, if you are not there yet, wait, it is not that easy. I mean you have to love him right. After all, he is married to my daughter. But I have to tell you, at times, son-in-law love is dark deep. A lifting enlightening takes energy. Now I am certain that he does not think me a wonderful gift in his new married life. However, that is not my problem. Or is it? I think I need a seminar.

Transitioning back into the story, I have noticed one thing. Lately, Pami has been tested by her lack of formal training as well. As is the case tonight, she has had to dig deep within as well.

You need to understand that my wife is one of the most loving people you will ever meet. She feeds squirrels and birds, removes worms from puddled sidewalks, and I have been in the car when she has jumped from our vehicle to stop traffic. Thus allowing Prairie Dogs to safely cross. However, being a mother-in-law has displayed a chink in her armor.

Obviously, Pami's concern for Wade's current health issue was at this time slight at best. However, I knew it to be there. It was certain that I would hear of her concerned night's restlessness over our morning coffee. I suspected, and she probably knew, that this anticipated restlessness was the cause of her current frustrated state. See, I told you it wasn't easy. Me, I did not anticipate losing sleep.

Am I hard of heart? Right now, let us pretend that I am not. Here is why I do not anticipate losing sleep. This is Rebecca's World. Wade, Rebecca, and the hospital staff of Wade Memorial Emergency Room, are all well acquainted. (No not the real name.) They are all BFF's. The three of them have shared much time together. Time that was always resolved with antibiotics or placeboes. Sometimes, a doctor or nurse that does not want to play anymore administers a hypochondriac teaching moment. I like those best. (Hmm? Maybe I am hard of heart.)

'Lantus', 35 clicks, 35 units, flex-pen injected; my Hemoglobin needs were addressed. I was tucked and settled. The soft white light that was slicing from beneath the bathroom door loses its source. Pamila, weary and still tumbling in thought joins me. The silence was interrupted only by my feeling that the Rebecca's World situation was not yet ready for a night's rest. After few seconds of 'Sleep stage 1, Calming', Pami justified my feeling. "That child..." Quick that I am, I deciphered Rebecca as being that child. She continued; "Danny, did she seem happy to you today? I worry about her. I know something is bothering her. I don't know what it is, but something."

She seemed finished so I started; "I-"

"Never mind you weren't really around much. Thanks for that by the way." She apparently was not finished. I felt it was probably best to leave that alone. Tobias and the Incident at Monticello had consumed most of my time. She continued on my path of rudeness. "That stupid story get over it Danny. Damn Daniel you are consumed by that stupid story." Story? It cannot just be a story, not anymore, not now.

Worlds were colliding; Rebecca's World was crashing into mine. Pami turned from me; there was more colliding. "Did you really have to tell that story today?" Rolling slightly back toward me. "Super Bowl Sunday. Your daughter's birthday." She regained her resting position. In a softer voice, but with no less meaning, she ended the cosmic disaster. "That creepy little man. Tobias! What a freak!" By now, I had become a victim of a Black Bear attack simply trying to survive. I laid motionless and silent. Seconds passed, and in a new voice, a friendly one, she said; "Goodnight. I love you Danny." I chuckled as silently as I could. I knew she couldn't hear me, but she must have felt motioned jocularity through the mattress. "Stop laughing! Jerk!" I rolled from her with sounding laughter. Another day done.

The re-count.

For those of you that Rush'd with Tibbons to Monticello, your story began a volume ago; historically, it began centuries ago. (I smile, thinking myself clever. Rush'd, Rush, Benjamin Rush, get it? Well maybe not.) For those of you on your first excursion with me, you need to travel to a place of understanding. Those of you continuing your travel, your patience is briefly asked for. Relax, have a cup of coffee; I will get back to you shortly.

Your understanding of what follows should begin with introductions. You have met Pamila and the dwellers of a unique world. My second child is Sarina, whose birthday I so rudely did not participate in; at least not with undivided attention. The attention that Sari always demands. Always cannot be punched hard enough here. Sari... well, let's just say she is a little high maintenance. Sari is a sweetheart, but there are times. Time that her fiancé Kent (Stick) has surely gotten too close to.

Briefly, a story to define my previous thoughts. Please, be aware that Stick and I have a relationship that makes what follows happen without much damage. A strong enough understanding of each other for me to pull this off. Pull it off? You decide the answer.

Months ago now, I started to believe that Kent was going to ask Sarina to marry him. Also as believing, I knew he would first ask me for her Hand in Marriage; eventually that moment came. Stick called me and asked me to lunch. Not Pamila and I, not Sarina he and I, just the two of us. Having prepared for this moment, I was ready. Yada, Yada, Yada... We enjoyed our meal amongst fluid conversation. Of course because what surely was a unique father situation, I took it all in and hid it deep. Yet I put it somewhere that I could easily recall it. My plate more empty than I should have left it, I sat back. My chair seemed hard against my back. I tried not to stare into his eyes. But I'm sure that I did and I was sure that he knew that I knew. I waited, all the time working it. Mentally replenishing my planned response. It had to be perfect. I knew that if I did not nail it, it would slip away from a one-time perfect moment.

His words that I knew I would hear I did. I cannot tell you exactly what they were; 'Main engine was a go.'

I let the request hang heavy. His brow glossed as I let his words build Florida humidity. He sat rigid. His eyes searched my face. He squirmed a little. That was it! The squirm was what I was looking for. My gullet snatched a sudden urge to laugh. The choked urge told me I was in trouble. I had to lay down my cards.

Leaning forward, I placed my hands into prayer position and slowly flicked my fingertips toward him. "Kent..." I let his name make the desired pause. "Look Stick, I think of you as a friend." I sat back and stopped flicking; this another pause.

All public speakers feel this warming moment. That moment during the early part of a speech when you instantly calm. A moment when you are into it and the rest will be an easy perfect. I felt warmed.

I finished the rehearsed moment. "Because I do think of you as a friend, I have only one question for you." I leaned forward with my arms tight on the top of the table. Looking as serious as I could, I asked; "Are you sure you want to do that?"

I did not get the response I had played over in my little mind. He froze, no response, the ultimate poker face. His 'no Tell' lasted agonizingly too long. My reply, he had not rehearsed in his mind. Kent stunned, I could see his anticipated laughter was not going to happen. This poor kid was drowning in the deluge that I had swamped on him. I had to save him. I tossed him a life-preserver awkward chuckle. Trapped air rushed from him. He laughed way more awkwardly than I.

This moment, this once in a lifetime moment, had left me deep in disappointment. What I had played over and over was raucous laughter, not a brutal stunning. Maybe our relationship was not as understood as I thought.

As my planned self-indulgence spiraled slowly downward, I did not know it, but the worst was to come thirty minutes after Stick and I parted. It came in the form of a call from Sarina. I had poked the bear. A plan gone horribly awry.

Continuing the introductions, my son Derron. Derron is currently serving in Afghanistan. He is proud to be a United States Marine. As I do for all of my children, I have plenty of fables for him as well. However, I will save those for family gatherings. Trust me, that is, best for you.

Lastly, my name is Daniel Rengaw. Some call me Doctor Rengaw, some do not, some refuse to. I like to write things.

One score and seven years ago.

From the beyond, comes All Hollow's Eve. The year of our lord 1982. Or perhaps, just perhaps, for this single conjured Eve, the year of our demon 1982.

A young Airman First Class, still green to the military, new to Colorado, and bunking at Lowry Air Force base, is out and about. Out, spending a fall day playing tourist. With two companions at his side, the trio is in search of entertainment; the kind young men desire. Their quest has brought them to Golden Colorado.

According to any book on New York City tourism, a Circle Line Cruise around Manhattan is nearly mandatory. According to any young Airman that has ever passed through Lowry, a circle of the Coors Plant is a Direct Order.

With all of the political correctness that consumes many these days, too many, I do not imagine that they do it anymore, but in 1982, ice cold Coors beer was free to visitors. They were offering, so the three of us consumed all the '3.2' beer they presented us. It wasn't much, just enough to give me a tremendous headache. This is the beginning of the Headache Story. However, this must be your lucky day; I'm not feeling it. Be warned though, if you hang around me long enough, you will get the Headache Story.

The sun was slipping its hide beyond the Rockies. Perhaps it was because of the ghoul-filled darkness that was about to lay its blood stained cloak upon us. Perhaps it was because we were young and devil horned. Whatever the eerie reason, the three of us were looking for ghouls-play from the scantily clad vixens of this night.

Two local She-Devils told of a goblin infested mansion that would provide us with that Witch we sought. This Bar was not far from our current location; so we headed up Lookout Mountain to... wait for it... Joe's Bar.

Joe's Bar, it is named Joe's Bar, so you might think it to be a hole in the wall. Well stop thinking, it was. Joe's outer façade was done in an 1885 Tombstone motif. The length of the front porch was garnisheed with Barn Siding, it was antlered, and it was pelted. Rocking chairs and hitching posts were plentiful. No faithful steeds were currently posted. However, aromatic proof that they recently had been, was heaped.

In the same space that was Joe's, it was like diving upon a coral reef. It was blooming with visual memories. A painting for my future daydreams. As if from a childhood Christmas, there were many presents from Colorado that I can easily recall with exact clarity. Gifts I shall never discard. Joe's, in 1982, my rustic saloon. Joe's, in 2010, a wedding chapel. Both as the same, nestled high upon Lookout Mountain.

The inner décor was... well... it was a nauseas garage sale. It was; we don't want you to see too much so we will keep it moldy dark. Aged pick-nick tables were geometrically dysfunctional throughout. They sat upon a concrete floor. The once gray floor was a collage of stains. These stains weren't there for the Halloween affect. Although I was certain that a horrible senseless act had taken place here once. Maybe twice. As far as I could tell, the floor was there to collect peanut shells. Each table held several baskets of salted un-shelled peanuts. And Joe the owner's name was Lilly.

Being who I am, I was completely enamored with the personality of Joe's. It was just me sensing a feeling. Joe's has something special for me. Therefore, I paid little attention to the opinions of my friends. I visually photographed; taking in all of the nuances that Joe's presented. Items and appeals that many people never see; the same that I find wonderfully distinct.

Even on the cloud that I was, there was a long-toothed something that grabbed me. Most missing teeth and none under fifty, the bar was mostly men. There were a few women; Cougars would have been a stretch for them. In the 80's, at Joe's, they were just Nasty. Maybe not an official term, but as a twenty year old, a term I would have used.

Standing alone noticeably, there were two young women. They were costumed for the evening. I thought; 'Yoos ain't from around here is ya?' It seemed that the She-Devils that steered us up this mountain had had some good fun with the stupid Air Force guys.

A bad Country Band was preparing to play. Tuning, picking, percussion-ing instruments that I did not recognize; preparing to delight the locals and surely annoy me. As you may know, I am a dedicated Classic Rocker. I do have Little Feet catalogued, but that is about as far as I stray. Yet before the evening was over, these good ole boys would be a good remembrance.

I was still profiling Joe's and was not quite ready to leave yet. I sat down in front of a basket and looked for my travelers to join me. With a questioning look, they reluctantly did. 'Questioning look', maybe not the best chosen words. Smiling fake, I pushed a basket toward them. "Peanuts?" I asked, very full of myself.

A Clairol 55 red haired woman approached us. She was fifty-ish, and not a good anything-ish. Our server to-be was playing in the outfit of a twenty year old. The critics would have panned her wardrobe. It was applauded by the Joe-ers. Melany's bra, that must have had the tensile strength of a cable from the Golden Gate Bridge, lifted her breasts to the sky. Her Daisy Duke shorts left things untucked that should have long ago been stowed away. All to the delight of the same patrons.

She amply displayed what the cables were unable to bind as she leaned down toward our young eyes. No doubt toying with us, she received several hoots from her fellow players in this game. Realizing my lips were parted, I swallowed and parted them again. "Three Coors please," I shouted. Pretending that I hadn't been staring and her breast and I did belong here. Melany exaggerated a smile and swung from us. Proudly displaying her more than ample back-of-front. A back that would surely explode into a large throw pillow if released from its denim grip. Although she didn't have it, she flaunted it as she headed back to the bar. Again, Joe's echoed with Cat Calls. Even with her departing away from us, I knew she had a playful smile in place. She had entertained herself and the raucous Regulars. Melany played well the game; a game that she had played many times over.

Here, my visit to Joe's Bar comes to an abrupt end for you. However, not to leave you wondering why I brought you here to begin with, you need to know two more things that I found at Joe's. 'Things', may not define them properly.

Wondering our future at Joe's, I sat staring at the long row of smeared windows running the length of the back wall. Needing to escape the silent stares of my friends, I rose to my feet and headed to view the out of doors. As I approached, my vision began to detect glittered colors. I peered into the night's darkness. What I saw, I have described often as indescribable. Simply put, a visual sensation. The Colorado forest parted, displaying all of an eastern view that my eyes could consume. Sloping gently downward, the brightest and sparsest of the lights before me was the foothills of Golden. At the base of the slope, opening expansively, flickering with all the colors conceived, were the millions of lights brought forth by the High Valley of Denver. Flowing furthest, the ornaments of the plains blinked into infinity. Infinity, as my eyes could pull in and place amongst context. It was a magnificent vision, a sight rare, maybe never to be for me again. One that fixed me in this place, one deserving ceremony. Ceremonies that the wedded now share with this lit carpet that spreads eternal; bound only by the restraint of vision. Perhaps, and maybe always, anatomy is the only boundary that challenges us with things we cannot overcome. Perhaps.

As much as I was certain at this moment that this view would be the one thing that I would bring home from Joe's, bring home remembered, I was wrong. Something happened that I play with every day of my life. That night at Joe's, my life's path turned in a new direction. Four months and five days after my evening at Joe's, one of those out of place young women took me as her groom. We were married in a Lowry Chapel. I met my wife Pamila in a bar. Not just any bar, Joe's bar, high atop Lookout Mountain Colorado. That night, I did indeed witness the most beautiful view of my life.

On March 5 1983, we would be married. That vision looking out the dirty windows at Joe's was magnificent. That slightly scared, and full of love view that I witnessed as she joined me at the altar, is the only view that I will ever refer to as: The only view.

Those of you who read Incident at Monticello, you know what I just did there. For those of you who have not, well, I guess you will have to figure it out.

Still with me? This brings us to the present, March 5 2010. It is Pamila's twenty-seventh wedding anniversary. (Come on; you know anniversaries are for the woman. Again, if you read Incident at Monticello, you know why I can safely say that.)

With Pami's anniversary dinner just hours away, and she in full preparation, I have time to update you on Rojer. Remember Rojer? We left him at Monticello. And don't worry; I am pretty sure Pamila is bringing me along with her.

Leaving Rojer last, he had just stepped through the door of life and entered the challenge. However, for Rojer, his new direction would be a challenge of the good kind. It would not be a Significant Life Changing Experience. Changing jobs for Rojer is less change, more transition. For Rojer, transitioning is an expected adventure. Rojer's intellect, his ability to instantly grasp and retain concepts, makes employers salivate. If it had been done at least once in the last forty years, and Rojer read about it, witnessed it, or was told about it, it was skilled knowledge tucked away into his portfolio.

By simple definition, Rojer is not a 'Job Hopper'. However, six to seven years seems to be about the medium. After six to seven years, he gets the wonder lust. Six to seven years that employers would love to have. Inevitable in time, Rojer moves on. New scenery, different people, a new challenge of a task of knowledge.

What always amazes me when he goes through these transitions, are the opportunities presented him. In a nonprofessional's term: The really cool jobs. His last three jobs have been: Curator at Monticello; Authenticity Researcher for the Smithsonian; Historical Documenter for NASA. Are you kidding me, whose resume reads like that? And yes, once again this makes me jealous.

However, there is one thing that is different about Rojer's current transition; this time his challenge is shared. Rojer is in lust, love, or a combination. His new girlfriend, Miss Kaitlin, will certainly have a bearing on his current job search.

Through the receiving of Rojer's last e-mail, I knew Rojer's last day at Monticello was two days from now. The Evil Step-Chairman of the Foundation had bought out the remainder of Rojer's contract. An act that showed me how pissed Peter was. I did consider if the Chairman of the Foundation was mad at Rojer, or was he venting on Rojer at me? Even though I was sure that Rojer was good with his contract termination, I did feel bad. Had I not gone to Monticello, this might not have happened. I rationalized; Rojer did invite me. He should have known better.

Besides our impending dinner, which I was looking forward to, if invited, several happenings had put a little more pep into my step. Also, and however, and despite this, one self-consuming thought was holding me one step back after two forward.

First, I will give you the two forward. Rojer's last e-mail hinted of a possible future visit to our little hamlet of Morrison. His tease was: The Rockies may do me some good.

There is a second pepped step. I earlier received a call from someone who always quickened my pace. For me at this moment, this conversation added the most to my current anticipating emotion.

The call began thusly; "Hello this is Daniel." A booming voice that probably needed no cell connection vibrated my Hammer and Anvil.

"Danny boy! You old son-of-a-bitch. How the hell they hanging Danny boy?" It was a familiar voice that I briefly could not place a face to.

Not attached, I responded with caution; "Okay, I guess." In the same time that it took to deliver these three words, I placed the face. It was the 'Danny boy'. It was the William Keefe. I only knew one The William Keefe.

"Oh Danny boy... It has been a mole's life Danny. How the hell are ya my friend?" He assumed I knew who he was. He assumed everyone knew who Billy Keefe was. I thought he might be right. With my luck of him, I smiled. He continued; "The last time I saw you, you were on the channel 9 news. You were running from the press like you were running from a pissed off Scotsman with a Grain Sickle whose little Lassie you'd just boffed in the hay's."

With child excitement I nearly shouted; "Billy! William Keefe! You Emerald Isle reject. How's retirement Billy?"

"Retirement! Who's retired? I'm not retired. I'm not getting paid either but what the hell." Billy let out a rumbling laugh. It was loud and jovial. The type of laugh that you never would expect from a man of his diminutive stature. It was Billy.

William Keefe was barely five feet three inches tall. However, in any tale you would tell of Billy, he was a giant. William Keefe's personality dwarfed most. He was a fourth generation Irish American. However, his personality in costume, he played the role of a newly arrived immigrant in the land of opportunity. Billy loved this country with all his being; this enamored him to me. William Keefe was as sharp as they get. He was capable of making you believe whatever he was preaching. He was articulate; when he let his over-stated brogue settle amongst the clover. He was confident in his boisterousness, and a loyal friend. When Billy was around, all of these things drew me to he.

All this was not all this for all. Billy was also an unforgiving enemy. I had seen him wronged; he always toothed for tooth. He was not mean, more vindictive. I'm not sure the definition of those two words is far apart. I guess I am trying to say that if Billy had wronged you, you had wronged Billy. William Keefe would not go after someone that wronged him, but when the Wrong-err screwed up, Billy would be right there to make sure all the pieces stayed broken. He'd toss the first spade of dirt on you.

Billy Keefe knew many people; many people knew Billy Keefe. He always got information, and always gave information to those that would settle the score. Information was his weapon; and with it, he was deadly. Hs slate always stayed clean.

To me, Mister Keefe was 'dinner and a show'. Being with Billy was always a festival. However, I can only party so hard. Billy's personality was much like the sun; do not stay in it too long. Billy and I were not sit-on-the-couch and watch twelve hours of football kind of friends. But rarely did I miss an opportunity to be in his orbit.

My Pamila very much doted on William Keefe. She was very comfortable with his large personality. The same, in small quantities. She loved the part he played and saw him as a true gentleman. Billy loved women and always left them feeling beautiful and special. William Keefe had a gift, one that he always presented to the fairer gender. He playfully flirted, and Pami was no exception. He had a sense of humor that blushed women. Again, Pamila was no exception. Pami was teenage giddy when he gifted her. At seven and sixty, William Keefe fronted as a Ladies-man extraordinaire. Well-schooled in the art of the softer sex, he was a reflection of Benjamin Franklin. Shorter and louder, but similar in amore smoothness. This similarity is always an identifier in my Billy Profile.

Thinking useless thoughts as I often do, I swirled around if Billy played chess. Even if he was not a student of the game, I was sure that if a young woman offered herself for a game of bathtub chess, Billy would happily be her Pawn.

The phone conversation flowed through the polite exchange of news since we had last been together. I briefly wondered if he had ever called my cell before. That lead me to; how had he gotten my number. I grasped that it was William Keefe.

He suddenly sucked air as if it was the last he would have for a while. He started again with a tone that was more serious. "Danny boy..." Billy's Gallic-being rolled my name off of his tongue as if was spiritual. He loved my name and loved saying it. As any good Irishman would. Given a couple of whiskeys, he was predictable in his singing of 'Oh Danny Boy'. As any good Irishman would.

My presented presentation on Billy's use of my name complete, and my textual interruption of his words ended, he continued. "So I guess you want to know why this old Mick is bothering you. Well Danny, I miss you and lovely Pamila. I ask if you and she are free for dinner this evening. You would make an old man happy if you would honor me tonight. Ya know Danny that little lady dotes on me." Told you.

"Dotes? Billy you think all the ladies dote on you."

"Oh Danny they do they do my boy." With self-enjoyment, his laugh was deep. I finished the banter.

"And Billy no one is buying that old crap." He laughed again and I enjoyed the moment along with him. Taking another long breath, he continued his role. "Danny boy, this soul won't be old till me poor Irish bones is buried amongst the stones of me beloved Isle." Billy liked to holiday in the Caribbean. I wasn't even sure if he had ever been to Ireland. It was however good oral theater.

"Beloved Isle! You mean Saint Thomas!" I countered.

He laughed briefly and tossed it back at me. "You are as quick as ever Danny. How about it? Dinner?" He was going to be disappointed if I did, but I said no.

"Billy I can't tonight." He took my 'I' and ran with it.

"That's alright Danny. How about Pamila? Is she free? We'll bring you home a doggy-bag." I chuckled at this. But I have to say, when our conversation had ended, I did wonder. It did seem like people really wanted to be with Pami. Was it... was I just an inconvenience that they would have to put up with? People skills might not be my strongest suit.

"Danny you are watering down my whiskey."

"Sorry we can't Billy. Not tonight. We have reservations at the Charter House for seven o'clock. It's our anniversary and a bunch of us are getting together. You know family and friends."

"Me weak heart stops Danny. I thought I was a friend. I'm not invited?" My mind's gears began grinding. Yes, Pami loved Billy. But she might not think this a good Billy event. You know this moment; it is the definition of awkward.

I stumbled through my words. "Billy, well... Of course you are-"

"Danny I'm just busting your oysters." Billy was merciful and I was relieved. If I screwed up Pami's anniversary... Well let us not go there. "Danny when can we get together? Soon?" I thought for a moment about when.

"I don't know Billy. Pamila and I are heading for the East Coast in three days. I have an interview to do. Let me check with her and I'll call you tomorrow. I know she would love to see you. She does dote on you.

"Oh Danny I love ya like me brother."

"You don't have a brother Billy." He didn't pause.

"I'll speak with you tomorrow Danny if not sooner."

I didn't know what he meant by that, but with that, William Gentry Keefe was gone.

Sitting in my recliner, ambient CNN buzz lightly touched my hearing. Filtering the words that were broken into money, overseas something and a security leak, I sat with a soft smile. Feeling very much as a child on Christmas Eve. Anticipation of a future Billy Nights warmed my spirit.

Memories of other Keefe meetings blocked the broadcast. The first time I was introduced to William Keefe was at Press Club weekend in Vegas. It was the spring of 2001. I recall his first words to me; "I'm Billy Keefe. The Rocky Mountain News works for me!" Instant man crush.

Over time, I learned that it did seem like the News worked for him; and had for some thirty years. During this first introduction, he also told me that his title was; "Whatever fits well at the time."

In fact, Billy wrote a weekly column that posted in the Sunday edition, the World News Section. This homogeneous topic left for a lot of creativeness. It was the perfect display for Billy. Every column embodied stern seriousness floating in a pool of humor. Billy wrote with the snap of a bullwhip and the quill-ery of a master. Which is why the paper worked for him. After our first introduction, I never missed a column.

First perspective changed.

Closed within me, the tempest that was still swirling curiosity, stretching the line of truth, and ever expanding the limit of thought, was Monticello. At its core, and always orbiting the neutron, was the electron of what I was to do with this new gathered knowledge. A bit further to reach, what is my responsibility of this learned. Out of reach, visible to sight, did I indeed have a responsibility?

'My Dream', as I came to accept it as, or call it anyways, was that one-step back. My Dream still held me pinned between the rock of reality, and the hard place of reality challenged.

My rock and hard place challenge had left me pondering direction. Although not knowing where it would take me, I had chosen acceptance of my knowledge and my understood responsibility to indeed share. The how, why, when, and where needed not to be shared. Plausible deniability gave me comfort. In addition, I thought it kind of cool deep political cloak and dagger. Less cool, I did not want to be freak spouting crazy stained water.

Of course, first I would do what I had been doing for twenty-seven years. It was time to complete a pattern. I began my search for the board that would always sound. I went looking for Pami.

Pamila:

Feeling content and warm in a glow of reasonable satisfaction, my preparation for the night's events continue. I sit at my makeup table; a frilled setting that is an imagined part of a young girl's dreams. Seldom is it that I use this dream. Rebecca, who God bless her, so wants her Mommy to be a princess, gave it to me several Christmas' ago. I could not break it to her that her mommy is not a Princess; her gift should remain a part of her fantasy.

Within the event of this time, which is the beginning of this evening, I am delightfully letting myself enjoy my gift so very girlishly. Sights and aromas emotion me in the dream. A soft playfulness of a twinkle. My toys are just that, and I play with them. Colors of lipsticks, pencils, and shadows that I would never dare. Applying and posing for the mirrored paparazzi, I then wipe away what I wish I would dare. If just once. Even the giggle that recognizes that I would not ever, is a full of fun part of this. Fleeing from the reflective camera flashes, I lie to myself that one day I will dare.

This evening's preparation began with a long hot bathe. The water gently Jasmine scented was made wetter with a touch of Baby Oil. Self-manicuring was a needed task, relaxation a desired aspiration.

My aspired began, as my task was complete. Lying and enjoying the warmth that surrounded me, Danny settled into my thoughts. I wished him to join me. Him slipping into the prepared water, caressing my neck with kissing, lathering my breasts and finding that spot. All would be licks of gentle suckled pets. Me inches from the peak, he'd slip in.

These thoughts went unfulfilled; I bathed alone. It seems that children, the real world, and time, have left us with fewer of these moments. However, not wanting my fantasy to be completely unattended to, I lathered and enjoyed a piece of pie.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, dessert has left me sitting here anticipating the main course. My current state of hunger was not lessened by this evening's choice of apparel. My current heightened state of sexuality was being promoted by my worn intimates. All carefully chosen, and I am proud to say, for me, all a little bit daring. From toe to shoulders: Ivory silk stockings; baby blue laced satin panties, which were less functional and more inviting; matching garter belt; and a ribbon drawn bustier that presented me very amply. My outer-ware would be a new Little Black Dress. One that presented my amply very nicely.

I was sure that when Sarina saw me in what I was not wearing, she would firmly grasp my hand and pull me aside. She would lean into me and in an attempted hush, would say; 'Mom! Your boobs... their... their popping out.'

Rebecca on the other hand, without any hushing, would say; 'Damn Mom you look hot.' I wasn't sure which statement would embarrass me more. Neither mattered, I wasn't dressing for either of them.

Picking up a Garnet-red gloss, one of those never-to-be-worn's, Mervin's collar jiggles his entrance to the bedroom. He leaps onto my bed with an emphasized exhale. Mervin's arrival surely means that his father cannot be far behind. Half-heartedly I yell at him; "Mervin get down." Looking into the mirror, I see him staring at me, asking if it is going to come. Hoping not for a second sterner rebuke. None coming he lowers his head in rested victory. "Spoiled dog," I weakly mumble. His eyes meet mine in the mirror as he exaggerates a sigh. He knows he is spoiled.

Danny walks in. Woman good! All powdered and perfumed. His walk pauses, telling me he recognizes this. His figure flows across the mirror from right to left. Joining Mervin, he sits on the bed. Only the back of my head is visible above the clothed pink and rose of the princess's chair. If he wishes to meet my eyes, he will have to take in my reflection. One that hangs like an unfinished portrait.

Danny gently pets Mervin. A deep green jealousy brought on by misguided frustration overwhelms me. Misguided, as this frustration is only a moment thing. It has not been a l lingering one. We did after all just share a romantic weekend within the Brown Palace. Danny was very attentive, and I crested repeatedly. It feels that my lone bathing has brought on this moment. Twenty-seven years passed, we are still very much in lust. Being with each other in pleasure, is youngness that we are not willing to let fade. It is my heart that tells me that our youngness nourishes our unity through the grief that wishes to stunt our marital growth. Perhaps I am just rationalizing; perhaps it is as simple as it is fun.

I did not feel it was my turn. I did not speak. My eyes stayed fixed on my playing. However, my playtime was coming to a sad end. Time dictated that I needed to start getting ready in earnest. Time being a factor, is what I spoke of earlier. Time now a factor told me to worry about Danny's arrival. Time. More concerning than his presence, was his position. As Danny would say; 'His fortified position. Hunkered down.' Doctor Daniel Rengaw had something smothering his mind. A something that would not be good for me, at this time. I would first try the simplest path, ignorance. However, ignoring Danny successfully was as elusive as the Fountain of Youth. When he wanted to be heard, Danny was a pesterer. When he wanted to be heard by me, Daniel was a pain-in-the-ass.

I sat fixed on my preparation, he sat fixed on me. This was the game. In this game, he was the King, I the Jester. Still I held out, I did not look upper left. If our mirrored eyes met, I was finished. The bastard just sat there. Waiting. My temple thumped. Again. Waiting. A sudden and unwanted pull lifted my eyes up and left. "What! What is it Danny? Go ahead! I know you have something on your mind." My words were weak in their effort to be strong. His slight smile chalked up another victory. Staring at his face in the mirror, I one last time conjured it to be no more.

Toned in an unconvicting apology, Daniel spoke. "I need you to listen to me." Lifeless arms dropped to my side, chin to chest. Danny taking some seconds warned me that indeed I was to listen. It would be Danny deep. During exchanges like the one we were about to have, Danny spoke with exacting words. Colors that added background to thought. That was his reasoning for me listening. At times, as I listened, he seemed to run beyond verbose. However, and mostly always, when I would revisit his coloring, the canvas would make brilliant sense. But damn, I really did not have time for the one hundred and twenty-eight box of Crayola's.

My eyes rose to gather in his mirrored. Palms up, I lifted my hands. "Well?" I insisted for him to begin. Upon this urging, he sat up straight and began a verse that I knew I did not have time for.

"Pamila I need to run something by you." Still searching his thoughts through the mirror, I tried to stave off this moment one last time.

"Danny, it is less than three hours till our reservation. Do we really have to do this now?" These words delivered, I swung my chair to face him. This fully displayed me to him. Displayed me in my current presentation of undress. Slowly rising to his feet, his face phased from one of intenseness, to one of playful inquiry. With a silly face fully in bloom, he moved toward me. "There!' I shouted. "There is the look I wanted earlier. Where were you fifteen minutes ago?" I asked pointing at a face with lustful intention.

Still coming toward me he asked; "What? Fifteen minutes ago... I-"

I cut off his ignorance explained. "No never mind." My arms firmly extended to fend off a letch. Emotion' d somewhere between sincerity and toying, I said; "No Danny! Not now! You had your chance." His look told me he did not know of any chance. Danny saw this as his chance. He lifted me by my lower back, pulling me close. I giggled insistently; "Danny stop." Over-acting an over-sexed vampire, Danny didn't hear it all that insistent. Staunchly I ended another chuckle. "Danny my makeup stop!" His hold eased. Self-entertained, he let me slip away. Free from his youngish approach, I found the Princess' chair. I spun to resume my preparation. Picking up an eyeliner that I would never wear, I raised it and stared into my thoughts. Warmed by the playing, I was a bit sad by its ending. I tucked it away for the evening's later moment.

Up and left, I watched him retake his bed'd seat. In an emphasized display of disappointment, he dropped his head and exaggerated a sigh. I wanted to be soft; I wanted to let him know that I'd tucked it away. "I love you Danny." I wanted to be light. "You know natural beauty does not come naturally."

His playfulness had mellowed my disapproval of his attempted verbal profoundness. "Danny if you need to talk we can. But I will have to keep getting ready. Okay?" Studying his demeanor in the mirror, I could see that the playful Danny had morphed into a stoic Daniel. This thought- filled-face was the same always displayed with his sharing. Yet, what this was, was different. It was a baffle I couldn't undo. He was deep a part of plain purpose. His cheekbones were points, his skin drawn thin. His brows trying to shade eyes were forced down. His lips were slits small and tight. His hands were fisted and buried into the mattress. He was tense, rigid, squeezing, and perspiring. The thirty seconds that it took to transform from where we just were, to where he was now, held my breath.

His words rasped a tone that further concerned me. "Yes Pamila. Yes I do." His 'Pamila' pierced me, ice, chilling. I didn't know this Danny. I didn't like this Danny. I did not want this Daniel.

My chair wanted to spin to him; I told in no. Slow and straight, he walked up to the bathroom door. As if it might burn him, he slowly raised his hand to the door. The fingertips of his right hand traveled along the thin of the open door. In a voice that seemed directed to no one, and not toning that a reply was needed, Daniel spoke; "This door, do you see it? You do right. Therefore, if it is seen, it is here. If it is here, it is seen, it is real. It is really here and really seen. However, think about this. What if it was seen but not real. Alternatively, what if it was real but not seen. I think the two are not necessarily exclusive of each other. Example: What if something we knew as not real, and not seen, suddenly was seen. Would not it then be real? Even though it had never before been seen, never before been real. I know now that there are things like that. I have seen them. Things that you know do not exist, but now, do. But even though you do see it, what makes it real? Conversely, if you don't see it, how do you know, how do you know it is not real?"

Finishing what I had to believe were his thoughts, Daniel chuckled a self-actualized snicker. As if something for the first time had become understood.

Pieces of what he had said made sense to me. However, I could not put the puzzle together. What I did grasp, what was unusual, was his passive voice. Danny never wrote with a passive voice. Danny never spoke in passive voice.

Daniel continued; "It is only as real as we perceive it to be, seen or not." Seeing the wooden door for the first time, he paused with his reciting. I was aware that my evening's preparation was still. "Pamila, do you know that physicists have a theory." He was aware of my presence. A momentary snapshot of reality. Seen or not. "Physicists claim that with only one exactly perfect alignment of the atoms of two separate masses, two masses could pass through each other without any molecular disturbance, any transference of energy. This means that if the atoms of my body aligned perfectly with the atoms of the door, I could walk right through it. Do you know what that means? It means that for one moment, one smallest fraction of time, neither the door nor I could be seen. Therefore, neither I nor the door would exist. Neither I nor the door would be real." Daniel laughed. It was cynical, it was unlike him, it was concerning. Chilled goose bumps rolled the length of my arms. "At least not as the door and I are perceived," he added.

Nestled flat amongst the urban sprawl of my make-up, my pressing hands were causing arm muscles to strain. Intent listening held so much of me that my buffed fingernails faded in and out.

Listening to these words that were chosen by Danny, he seemed unknown to me; a person who had never before spoken to me. Not so much the words chosen, as it was the presentation and how the strings tied his words. I was listening to that which I had never heard.

The door closed with a soft whoosh of carpet, a wooded stop, and a click. "But see, it is here, I just closed it. Does not that mean that it is here, it does exist? At least as we perceive."

Now it did not want to, but I forced my chair to swivel toward him. Daniel was still, facing the closed door. He wasn't as much motionless as he was expressionless. With a quivering lip I said; "Danny! Danny what do you mean? I don't understand!" My plead was spongy soprano. "Where are you going with this Danny?" I was sure he would eye me with my scared. He turned without the slightest affirmation that I was present. With a rigid, almost limping gate, he took an angled path toward the double windows. My fright passed around him.

I watched him reach one of the two. He stood sculpture chiseled; hands settled on the small of his back. Right hand turned outward and lying flat atop the other. Looking, staring, he seemed consumed by the view. He had not seen this view before.

In a tone I had been with, he began anew. '"I understand now that there is much we don't understand. This is what tugs at my resolve. I also understand that it does not matter. What does matter is knowledge; understanding gifted to me. The source is insignificant. The gift is not. While I mull over its source, struggling, I can not let the knowledge age into history. Perhaps waiting a century for another to light the torch and run with it. It is now. It has to be now.

"A brilliant woman once told me; 'It matters little how knowledge is acquired. It matters greatly if knowledge does not aspire to change. Change for good. Good change for all.' Many years ago, these words were told me. I never forgot them. However, they never held a prominent place in my mind. Now I believe these words were sentenced just for me. Just for this exact moment in time. Time, as George Washington referred to it. This change, change for the good, this is what they want. This is my task, this is my aspire to."

"Danny who? Who wants you to do this?" He did not break thought.

"To share knowledge with others and make change. That has to be it." He was selling it to himself. "Now accepting that the source is inconsequential, I can move beyond the stone wall that has pastured my reasoning. Understanding, battling reason within understanding, this now is a struggle that I can mute in my thoughts. All attempted deciphering of my thoughts can be barreled and discarded. The only remaining deciphered is this. I have to share, change, all for the good of the consenting. Simple, the simplest. Simple? Is it? Perhaps it is only simple in its recognition of task. Perhaps that alone."

His face still full of struggle turned to me. He grasped my eyes with his. Still, I did not know if who I was, was in his sight. His face snapped from mine. He looked downward to his right. In a voice vibrating with sadness, sadness that I had rarely heard, there was his new question. "Oh my God. How can I... how will I do this?" Again our eyes met, brief, and then gone. Should I answer? It did not matter, I did not have an answer. My heart squeezed and leapt for my Danny. I couldn't push away his sullenness. For the first time in our togetherness, I couldn't ease what troubled his mind.

I was full of emptiness. My best friend's eyes had welled with a smothering scared. So rare tears were so real. I wanted to go to him, to hold him. It didn't seem possible. It wasn't allowed. Seconds passed so slowly that they stopped all together. He had nothing, no movement or sound.

With a brief gust of wind, the rain stopped and the clouds separated. The storm that had come up so swiftly was gone. In him the sullen scared was frost harmlessly melting away. Weary tears fell to the sleep. Red eyes were draining to pink.

Daniel's tumbling words ended, closing upon themselves. There were words I easily placed; some sentences that seemed to work together. But in context, all was so strangely muddled. No glue bound it together. Mercury rolling atop thought. In order to taste its meaning, I needed more than the bouquet of its snifter swirled brandy. I sipped, sipped, and sipped. Unquenched dried to thirsty.

Within the place that Danny now was, he was visiting with understanding. His emotional calming headed toward a solution, a resolution, a conclusion. Energy eased downward face to floor. His body relaxed, tension washed into carpet. His face had settled back to Danny. Lips gathered tight had gone comfortable, a tranquil center. His blue eyes gone gray sparkled back to warm blue. A Daniel living without meaning to me returned to Danny that filled my life.

A completed Danny looked; finding me, he found my eyes. Maybe for the first time, he saw me. In a voice that was welcomed by me, he said; "I'm gonna grab a shower." Danny beamed a smile and turned.

Approaching and opening the real bathroom door, he disappeared within. Without getting a handle on it, I stared at the door, still trying to place this into... into anything. The shower handle squealed its friction'd awakening. Danny left me and came back to me with; "I love you."

I sat back in front of the mirror. "Huhh! That was new." The mirror did not reply.

Had I awaken from a dream? Had He?

Talking

Daniel:

With our reservation made for seven o'clock, and the Charter House only a few miles west of Morrison, our AIS was twenty-five minutes from now at six-thirty-five. I was dressed and waited for The Moment. Being what the evening was about, there certainly would be one. A woman's moment of gorgeousness exhibited. There would be a twirl, and then Pamila would say; 'Well? What do you think?' Freeze! Think! Men, what next comes out of your mouth may very well determine the outcome of your evening. Once, just once, I played the humor card. If you take anything away from this book, take this; no matter how funny you may think you are, no matter how perfect you think the joke, never ever use humor at this moment.

Fully prepped and ready in my suit, minus the jacket, I sit in my recliner. Two quick finger flips and I was rolling through the thirteen-minute cycle of today's news on Cable News. This cycle is the same on all cable-news channels. Each different channel forces their political ideologies upon us, but otherwise the news stories are all the same ones.

(I so wanted to digress into a tirade about the cable-news channels, but you are spared. I'll save it for my blog.)

If you were paying attention, you noticed that I wrote 'my suit'. I do mean my suit, my one suit. It is black and it is in excellent condition because I only where it twice or thrice annually. My suit is five or six years old and I believe it still to be in style. Whatever I believe, I really don't know if it is. My barometer is Rebecca. She being very fashion conscious, she would certainly tell me if I looked like Jake Blues of The Blues Brothers.

(Sorry, I cannot pass up a second digress: My college roommate and I were ticketed for urinating in public. My roommate was a thespian in the college playhouse. We showed up at court in matching Blues Brothers outfits. From bad Fedoras to black wingtips, we were Jake and Elwood Blues. They were perfect outfits. My roommate rambled off a ninety-second defense about how we were so rudely interrupted by the ticketing officer. The judge gaveled us, fined us thirty-five dollars, and told us to never show up in her courtroom again. Those gathered in the courtroom loved it. It was perfect!)

I am back.

It wasn't that I did not want more than one suit. Yes it was. I simply did not need more than one. I never had. The dozen or so times that I needed to be formal in my attire, I rented; it wasn't a big deal. (When the President invites me to a State Dinner, I will gladly rent a tuxedo.)

Here is the thing. I own six different Oxford shirts and eleven different ties. This gives me sixty-six different combinations. So if I only wear my suit three times a year, I can get through 2032 without wearing the same combination. In 2032, I will be seventy-four years old. With what Sarina calls my continual slide away from want of normalcy, I probably will not be wearing any clothes when I am seventy-four. See, I have a plan.

It is not that I am completely without social attire acceptance; I have dress shorts and dress pullover shirts. As well, I own three pairs of tennis shoes. One pair for workouts. Another for daily wear. The last pair is formal. This evening I wear my black Wingtips. Also several years old and in excellent condition.

If I were trying to focus on the news of the world, anticipation of the evening's events would be a distraction. Amidst a flash of clarity, the circled news returns to an earlier story. This time I half-listen to it and lazily attempt to give it meaning. It seemed that a large natural gas company, Briton's, purchased rights to something or another in Malaysia. Apparently still more distracted than I wanted to be, I did not catch what the money had purchased. I wondered how much money Briton's had paid. I speculated it was in the hundreds of millions. The story seemed to be more of a national security issue. We always have those. I knew that it was common practice for our intelligence services to monitor such transactions. So I did not care. A possible security leak also came with the Anchor's words. Still did not care. Any eight year old with the internet could monitor global financial transactions. I did not see the big issue. However, the cute late-thirties Anchor Lady, was telling me that I should care. The State Department called it a black cloud. It's all good, we need a little rain. If the State Department wanted it to rain, the news bureaus would happily seed the clouds.

"Would you take me out in public?" I turned to Pami's question. I stood.

"Wow! You look amazing! Beautiful." She twirled. I stepped to her. Careful not to supposedly smudge make-up, I lightly kissed her cheek. That, is how you do that.

My response may have been learned, and certainly thought through, but it was sincere. She had my full attention.

"Not bad for a forty seven year old." She proudly said.

"Not bad at all. But forty-seven?" I flinched with my words. She did not scratch my face. Good. I wondered how I had gotten three years older than her over our marriage.

Probably ending the moment before she wanted it ended, a presenting moment that she had worked through the evening toward, I did. Taking her left hand, I kissed it and said; "You're beautiful." That was fine. Here is where I forced the moment to end before its time. "Come on we gotta go." As soon as I said these words I knew they were poorly chosen. Making it worse, I turned from her and headed toward the garage. Pamila did not move; arms limp and lips slightly parted. If I had listened, I was sure I would have heard a sound of soft disgust. I knew not to listen or turn back. I knew I was a dumb-ass; looking back would only emphasize this. Done was irrevocably done.

Grabbing the full-length coat that she had prepped over a kitchen chair, I turned and held it out to her; offering the right sleeve for her arms insertion. This single and weak sliver of gentlemen-ness worked for me. Our eyes met. Her's told me that I had done badly; it had not worked for her. One of my best things, I played ignorant of her disgruntled gaze. This time I heard the sigh. I sigh was good. It left no marks.

With my right hand, I grabbed the car keys from the hung wooden placard that read: KEYS. I held my hangar'd suit coat in the left hand. It would remain hung until I exited the car. See, I do have the smallest amount of dress etiquette.

Opening the door to the garage for her, with a concerned look, she asked; "You want to drive. Are you sure?" Understanding that Pami thinks me a liability behind the wheel, I sensed that there was more buried in her question than the normal misgiving. We continued to my proposed sides of the car. Me more deliberately than she. Opening the driver's door, I looked to her. She was passing the front of the car. She moved as if she really did not want to. Her glaring at me asked much.

With only what a writer could come with, I asked; "What?" She continued to the passenger door. Reaching to open the same, her eyes never left me.

Pami now seated next to me, I slid the keys into the ignition. My peripheral grabbed the same searching look. I returned a visual questioning. She proposed her own thought. "Well, earlier, you seemed... you seemed a little upset. Distracted you know?" I swung my face to look out over the hood of the car. Starting the car I sat back into the seat.

"You mean earlier in the bedroom?" She didn't answer. I lifted my hands, examined the backs of them for dirt, and rubbed them as if they were cold. "I'm okay. I'm fine." I must not have been convincing.

"Danny what's wrong with you? Do your hands hurt?" I placed them on the steering wheel. I didn't know why I looked at my hands. I didn't know why I warmed them. I did not know what to say. Pami was leaning over to me and had placed her left hand on my arm. I met her kiss.

"I'm alright." I still didn't think she convinced. I wasn't myself.

Backing the car, we cleared the garage and graveled down our driveway. We were off. Therefore, and as usual, off was where I went. Off in thought, on the road. This made me an insurance liability. This was Pamila's normal concern.

'Well, earlier, you seemed... you seemed a little upset. Distracted! You know!" Those words by Pamila were the last clear words of my conversation. The remainder of our dinner drive conversation was a mere glitter of clarity amongst my translucent thoughts. We in the car, the road under our wheels, life all around scrambling to stay that way, all were a part of that translucent.

Clear to me in the translucent was that I had resolved. My mind now enjoyed a peaceful settled. A resolution warm spiritually, a logical understanding that let reality carry on. All left pending was what path to take? What path would I take to define what I had resolved? For now, this would be good enough.

It was this acceptance of resolved that let me in the immediate to drift in thought. My drift in thought in the immediate was my liability. It was Pamila's concern.

Dinner and a show.

'Stop!' 'Watch out!' 'Turn here!' 'Where are you going?' Pami spoke not a single one of these fragmented questioning exclamations. Her lack of driving guidance meant one thing. Maybe two. First, we had made it to The Charter House without incident. Additionally, and relative mostly to me and slightly to you, the driving that got us here, my driving, happened without relative time passage. There was no blinker-ing, no turning, slowing, or stopping. At least not as I perceived. We backed out of the garage and pulled into the parking lot. I got us here but it was without primary thought. It was not truly without passage of time, and there had to be driving thought. However, that thought came from the Cloud. My mind was focused on what was whirling around in it. Reader, you ask what it was that was whirling. That, I will nurture to maturity and harvest it on a future page.

Pamila gave me a long look that often ended a trip that I had driven. My right cheek tingled form its static, but I left it alone. We exited the vehicle and began Pamila's anniversary in earnest.

Pamila darted up the stairs and sashayed across the entrance. Extra rang out her greeting. "Hello all!" There was only one of the all.

"Good evening ma'am. Sir." The fake man had a smile for Pami and a polite nod for me. "How may I help you this evening?"

"Rengaw. Party..." She let the word dangle. "For Pamila Rengaw." Along for the ride. "It is my wedding anniversary." She glanced back at me. "Our anniversary," she corrected clumsily. I smiled clumsily. She continued; "We have a reservation this evening." I chuckled briefly to myself. Her accentuation of 'this evening', declared it an imperial holiday. She the Princess to be crowned Queen.

"Yes Princess Pamila. If you please. We have a lovely private room all set up and waiting for you." He did not really say that, but I heard it. "If you would. My name is Stefan. Let me show you to your room." He stepped in front of us; a Bell-cow leading. I grabbed Pami's hand. I wanted to make sure I was going as well.

"Thanks Steven," I said. Yes it was deliberate. Stefan's shoulders twinge'd. A squeeze of Pami's hand spoke. Nothing! Stefan did not want to play with me.

Carriage-ing past the adoring peasants, Pamila smiled, gave the royal wrist twist wave, and looked amazing as she passed the throng of thousands. I wondered if I had dark socks on.

Stefan stepped aside in the doorway and hand offered us the semi-private room. The back wall was lined with windows that were curtained. Three long tables were lined together and surrounded by fourteen cushioned chairs. The wall opposite the windows looked out into the restaurant through a half-wall. Huge green ferns hung and partially filled the open space high in the openings. The room itself was very nice, but it had been turned nicer by decorations. I was sure that Rebecca and Sarina, along with Trevor, had dressed the room's ensemble.

Under orders by Rebecca, I was not to disturb the table's ware; it was presently being artwork viewed. Six people stood around the masterpiece with fake adoration and light conversation. (If you tell anyone that I said that, I will deny it.) All twelve eyes caught our arrival. One set of these eyes looked nearly swollen closed. I immediately understood; Sarina was about to have a moment.

"Mom?" Sarina said, pushing passed Stick and clearing the far side of the table. Three hurried strides and she was on her Mommy. She grabbed Pami's arm and attempted to take her from the room. To where, I do not know. Pami slid her arm up and away from her bear cub's grasp. "Do you have a shall?" she asked her mother.

"No. Buy me one for my birthday. A black one." Sarina's Mommy escaped and greeted Rebecca. "Hello baby. How are you?" Rebecca's mom's asking seemed tempered. It was not so much a party greeting as it was a meaningful asking.

I forced a smile away as Sarina glared at me. I ran. "Wade, Kent, how are you guys." My greeting was not manners. It was a seeking away from what that was. Not wanting to, and knowing I had to, I turned back to Sarina. She was gone. Pami turned her attention to the beautiful table and went all melodramatic. I again checked for the angered bear cub. Still hibernating.

The evening's participants are both family and friends. There is Dennis and Tina. As you already know, our girls and their husband's are here. Another couple that will join us is Trevor and Neal. Liz, a long-time friend of Pami's, will be here. In addition, Michael, a short time friend of mine, is here. Both Liz and Michael are unattached. The reasons they are unattached are... never mind. I will let you figure it out for yourself.

Sitting here, fingers hovering above my keyboard, I am poised to tap anew. My mind winds continually round. It goes to here, there, there again, and back to here. The words to let loose on you all seem rightly wrong. Yet it is their wrong that seems to me to be the right of them.

That last paragraph was fifty-five wasted words. A stall if you will. (So says my editor.) I did not know what to write. A brain cramp. The words were right there, but I could not choose them in the proper order. Perhaps I choose unwise still. However, I will tell you why to me they seem to be in order now. 'Friend', I use the term without conviction. My friend Michael is indeed a very peculiar bloke. (Transferring William Keefe.) However, Michael himself knows that he is like very few. Moreover, the few that are like him are Wards of the State. Or should be.

Several days ago, I was walking Mervin past Michael's home. He suddenly appeared running across his front lawn. I stopped in Bubba's tracks. Michael pulled up a few feet from me. In a calm voice he said; 'The voices are listening to me.' His face puffed a large fulfilled smile. We shared eyes for a two count. He turned effortlessly and walked steady toward his home. Michael pulled the door of his home closed behind. A Home is exactly where he should be.

It had not happened yet this evening, and it would be days before Dennis would tell me of it. Dennis and Michael had introduced themselves for the first time. They were shallow in one of those first time conversations. The clumsy conversation Dennis thought was currently about the weather. 'I am certain I will scare you with the truths I hold dear to me. They will not be your truths. If I find they are your truths, I will change mine', said Michael to Dennis.

'Danny I just looked at him. I didn't... what the hell? What do you say to that Danny?' Dennis had met Michael Frick.

Always needing a unique character for my writing, I forced myself to get to know Michael Frick. I won't yet share more of Michael Frick. However, and against the profile I just gave you, I will tell you that Michael Frick is as harmless as a ladybug. However, still, and what the hell, I wonder who invited him here tonight.

Now I give the reason Liz is single. Liz is a man hating Bitch. In a sincere attempted compliment, she once said to me; 'I am glad you are married to Pamila. That is one less man out there.' (I'm not making this up.) She is forty-two years old, married and divorced three times. You do the math. Funny thing about her three beat down and broken ex-husband's, they all disappeared suspiciously after being divorced. This according to Liz. Oh... yes, I am quite sure Liz is dangerous.

The only consideration I ever have for Liz, is Pami. Pami's attraction to Liz is beyond reason to me. I would love to be able to tell you some philosophical analysis of Liz, but I don't have one. From others trained and professionally skilled, no doubt it would be deep. I saw it as just plain Bitchy. That is all the time we have for today. Please pay on your way out.

Pamila hates all women like Liz. But just not Liz. I will just say that Pami knows of my confusion in this relationship. She doesn't care, and I don't care when I talk with contempt for Liz. I don't know. I cannot figure it out. If you know, give me a call, we'll do lunch.

Sarina had returned from wherever she had pondered, and all were now present. The gathering was building from an initial subdued party etiquette to a loosened momentum. Trevor and cocktails were its loosening building blocks. Alcohol was good for this, but Trevor was better. Conversations were generally light and normal for this point on the party time-line. Since nothing particularly clever or funny occurred at this time, I will push ahead slightly.

Directed by Rebecca, we were all in our assigned seats. Pamila and I sat center with our backs to the windows. Pami was on my left. On my immediate right was Trevor; his partner was on his right. As Rebecca understands fashion, Neal's gray suited self was impeccable. Shoes to silk tie, all were delightfully picked and well fitting. Manicured, trimmed, and fit, Neal was 'GQ' designed. Tall, handsome, educated, and successful, Neal attracted the attention of both women and men. For me, Neal was an easy conversation.

As I understood fashion, Trevor, I did just as well. Trevor's displayed fashion was a cream-colored light sport jacket. The jacket's foundation was a button up shirt. It was four paneled; yellow red green and light blue. His red denim jeans were adorned with a jeweled yellow belt. His feet glowed green suede shoes.

Trevor's hair pretended to be a dirty blond. The frock was long and large; late Rod Stewart. Believing Trevor to be in his early forties, he was not as tall, fit, or young, as Neal.

Neal and Trevor were folklore in Rebecca's World. Moreover, all my girls very much enjoyed their company. Neal I thought kind of like me, along for the ride. Trevor was the real show. Thus, the reason they were here tonight. Let us not forget whose anniversary this is. Dennis was for me. Do I need to say that he was along for the ride as well?

Neal was well spoken, and formally educated. I was very comfortable with his easy personality. Trevor was flamboyant spoken, and worldly educated. I was not as comfortable with his stage-show personality. Hot flamed, Trevor was a bit of problem for me. That problem, I understood to by my problem. Trevor knew very well of my problem, and ne never missed an opportunity to toy with this problem. Moreover, my girls loved it, and he knew this as well.

Tina sat on Pami's left with Dennis to Tina's left. Tina was dressed to full bloom as well. Her blond hair was up, her neck was pearled, and her dress fit very well. Both Dennis and Tina are ten years less us. When Tina dressed for hot, Tina was hot. (Hay! I'm allowed to look.)

When she was dressed for presentation, and when she was not, Tina made Dennis look like... well, like Dennis. Dennis was Dennis, no different tonight. He read all the same fashion magazines as I. However, Dennis' style was not the only thing that pained his appearance. Stealing Tina's own words, 'Dennis is a little frumpy.' To me he looked like he was always shoplifting several bags of Russets. Tina called his stomach 'The Great Landslide'. Her words not mine. Although, her words, perfect! Now, I know that I have not had a swimmers-build since I was fifteen, but Dennis is... Dennis is my Bud!

Tonight Dennis was frump-ing in a dark blue suit. The Great Landslide was trying to push through his Oxford shirt and tumble over his belt. None of it mattered to Dennis, to Tina, or any of us. Dennis was a good person and a better friend. I do not have many good friends; Dennis was one and I loved him for it. (I know you are wondering how it can be that I don't have many good friends. If you are not wondering, keep it to yourself.)

The rest of the group sat across from us. Sarina fronted Tina; Kent sat across from Dennis. Liz was talking to Pami and Michael was staring at me. Rebecca had selected a seat across from Trevor. I silently chuckled thinking of the conversation Wade and Neal would have.

Rebecca's place, directly across from Trevor, was no doubt planned. It was the same anticipated entertainment value that placed Trevor next to me.

As only truly professional servers can, our dinner settings had been removed without notice. Two bottles of Pinot Noir held little. They were waiting for one good jar of the table to place them on their side. Cubes were left to liquefy within a few dead soldiers. However, there were many cubes holding form and swimming in assorted cold colors. These assorted, were not the first of their kind this evening. As if magical, all of these spirits had led us to a happy place. Into the Misty Garden of Gifts. The Present Elf blessed the Princess with wondrous gifts from the people. Now finished, Elf Sarina potion'd all. We were free to romp amongst this mystical place. All the planned and directed party protocol was complete.

Several more Noirs and several several more cool colors were ordered. This of course sent us hurtling toward the most dangerous crossing of the evening; the uninhibited, unretract-able, alcohol spirited conversations. In other words, that moment when you wake up in the morning, stare at the ceiling in thought, and say to yourself; 'Shit!' For those that were not swearing to themselves in the morning, it was the best phase of the party. The most re-lived part of the night.

These conversations started off within easy earshot of the conversers. Then they started to travel; two and three people apart. As travel increased so did the ambient decibels of the room.

"Daniel!" Feet from me, Wade's calling was loud. Currently I was not directly involved in a conversation. However, those that were, sharply cut theirs off. They all stared at my Son-in-law. Was this going to be it? Was this going to be a moment? All were wondering this, and none wanted to miss it.

You see... Wade and alcohol create stupidity. Pamila calls it Wade-idiotity. (It was really mine, but I fear you are beginning to think badly of me.) Of course, this can be said of most of us. But Wade was special in his flair of stupidity. At this exact kind of function, rarely would my daughter's husband deny us that flair.

The switch on the wall labeled 'Sound' had been flipped. Including Trevor, the private room held silent. Rebecca turned a glare to her husband. Pamila gasped softly. Liz and Michael anticipated something with the sudden change, but they did not know the moment's cause.

Me? I couldn't stand it. I was busting and my thoughts showed it. 'Go ahead. Come on Wade you know you want to. Say it. Just say it.'

Answering Wade's call, I looked to him. I wondered how badly I had a look of anticipation. At him, all looked, all listened, all were ready. Trembling and drooling, I was Mervin begging food as his words began.

"Daniel what is it like to be married for twenty-seven years?" These were Wade's words. All the concentrated listening, all the tightened neck muscles, all the anticipation, by all, fell harmlessly to our disappointed feet.

Rebecca breathed again. Pamila sat back easy in her chair. Slammed with his unsurprising words, I was stunned with surprise. Still looking at Wade, my mind was hollow. This gave me room to create. Room to give to the anticipating something to fill what they felt they had been left without.

"Let me tell you a little story about being married for twenty-seven years." I began to give back. Sarina groaned.

Rebecca; "Oh Shit." Stick sat up for more intent listening. Dennis downed his drink. Pami was both my greatest and least concern. However, she did place her table-hidden right hand on my thigh and firmly squeezed. This was of concern to me.

Pamila's persuasion through pain aided the feel of my response. Over-sweet and ever loving had to be its tone. "Let me tell you what it is like to be married to my beautiful bride for twenty-seven years." Her fingernails did not dig in. Pami's grip loosened. I sat back light into the chair.

A quick smile, and I continued; "Last summer we went to spend a week with my brother." Her hand left my leg. "The guest room that we stayed in was very nice. It had a Jacuzzi tub in a private bathroom." Pami turned to me. "Two mornings before we were to fly home, I sought out Pami and found her washing breakfast dishes in the kitchen. Quietly I walked up behind her and reached around her waist; placing my hands into the front pockets of her jeans."

"Dad!" snapped Sarina. Pami's hand returned.

"I pulled her toward me and in my best Sean Connery voice-'

"Which is terrible." Pami added to the story.

"Anyways... Softly caressing her and nuzzling her ear-"

"Dad!"

Not slowing for Sarina's prude-ness, I continued; "You know Money Penny, if we were to leave here without fully taking advantage of that large bathtub... mmm... an opportunity missed don't you think?"

Pami, mentally measuring the weight of what she thought was impending embarrassment, glared a 'Daniel choose wisely' look. Her hand, firmly yet without pain, punctuated the wordy look.

At this point in my telling, there really wasn't anything to choose. My story of adoration was flowing smartly. All that was left was the finish.

"Pami flicking suds into the sink turned to me and placed her hands around my waist. She looked long and lovingly into my eyes. At this point I was sure we were going to take full advantage of that large tub." I paused to build the moment. "My beautiful wife, the woman I chose to live the rest of my life with, gently kissed me. Then, softly, inn her best Maude voice, asked; 'And who is going to clean the tub?' "

Probably not heard by all amidst the laughter-filled room, I added; "That is what it is like to be married for twenty-seven years Wade." Whack! My leg took a response of its own.

Pami; "Rengaw you are so abused!" She was in full laughter. She kissed me and slowly shook her head.

Dennis was hysterical and tossed to me; "Danny you couldn't even get laid on vacation. You stud!" Others tossed barbs that did not hurt.

Sarina's eyes were full of tears. Her torso shook as she was trying to fight the humor and best display a disgust that she should morally have.

Trevor I thought was going to hyperventilate. Intentionally, he kept knocking his shoulder against mine. He was trying to say something but couldn't.

Laughter gentled back to assorted conversations. Hearing several and listening to none, several words from my right, from Trevor, focused me. Trevor was telling a story to Rebecca. It was fairly mild at first, and then morphed into a bit more than awkwardness. Finally, it crossed the line of any tastefulness. At least as far as my little mind will close on.

In mid story, Trevor said; "Neal was such a fantastic-"

"Okay!" I cut Trevor off. "No one wants to hear this." Rebecca gave me a look. Trevor just looked. Most of the table hushed at my harshness.

Trevor still looking at me leaned back slightly and said; "So it's okay for you to talk about your sexual prowess, or lack of, but I can't talk about my sex-life."

"Trevor," Neal said just above a whisper.

I jumped back in; "I wasn't talking about sex and you were. And even if I was, our sex is..." I froze as I knew I had gone to a bad place. A place I could not comfortably get out of.

Trevor' "What? Your sex is what? Finish it Daniel." Trevor questioned me without expecting an answer. "Normal! Is that the word you wanted? Is that what you were gonna say Daniel?" Trevor finished and stared at me. The room was silently busy with watching. I was point of no return.

Pami; "Daniel." Her word neither offered support nor inferred a scold.

Trevor's words came evenly paced and confident. "Come on Daniel, finish that sentence." His challenge froze me still and rattled around in my mind. My eyes searched his, looking for what emotion walked along hand-in-hand with his words. His eyes did not blink, they were focused and waiting.

"Trevor!" This time Neal did not whisper.

Trevor jerked to work. "Come here you silly silly man give me some of that good stuff." He was on me. His launch grabbed me and bounced the chair backwards. My arms were pinned under him and my face was on fire. With a nippy spattering of kisses, Trevor began putting out the fire. He stopped only long enough to say; "Give me some of that sweet sweet sugar."

Pami; "Hey! I'm sitting right here."

"Oh sister please! You're cute and all, but Danny needs a little queer." Trevor's circle of kisses continued. The banging on the table and the choking laughter came from Rebecca. Sarina snorted. (I mentioned the snorting didn't I.)

A prop in this Tragic Comedy, tragic as I felt it, I struggled to free my arms. Not planned in its performance, but hoped for by my girls, this was their perfect. Surely a featured next-day replay. See kids, always drink responsibly.

A thunderclap of laughter exploded from our private room. Most but not all patrons enjoyed our enjoyment. Very rare in his personality, Neal's enjoyment of Trevor's antics were boisterous. Alternatively, and however, my uncomfortableness in the skit may have been the main source of his amusement. "Get off me you freak," I said while finally being able to push Trevor off. Then it happened, providence delivered, I was offered an out, an opening to regain command and composure.

"Billy?" Pami's question was hushed and meant for me.

"You confused man! Danny boy you sit here surrounded by four beautiful women, ladies as wondrous as God ever sculpted, and you're swapping tongue with this Dandy Boy."

"I was not swapping tongue!" I cleared the air. I did not know if Billy had miscounted, or did not think Liz a sculpture. Of course, there was also the 'beautiful' part.

Sparked, Trevor was off his chair and rigid in stance. Wanting Billy not to miss it, Trevor's motions and sounds exaggerated insulted. Looking down at William Keefe, slapping words hit Billy. "Dandy Boy! Did I just hear you call me a Dandy Boy?" Neal's lips twitched to speak. Deciding not to, he let Trevor go.

"Yeah! You are one isn't you?"

Trevor directly corrects Billy's meant-to-be poor grammar. "Aren't you." Billy stood silent looking up at Trevor. "The correct pronunciation is 'aren't you'," finished Trevor. Trevor paused. During this brief pause, Trevor's blood began to simmer. Trevor defined Billy's being. "You... you Troglodyte."

Billy mumbled; "Troglodyte?" Billy did not mumble. "Oh my young man, I'm an educated man and you are gonna hurt ole Billy's feelings. I apologize; no harm intended." William Keefe continued; "In fact, in 19th century France, Dandy was a compliment." Neal crossed his arms on his chest and smoothly leaned back into his chair. Slightly tilting his intrigued face, Neal didn't speak to Billy. But that did not mean that he was not talking to him. Neal's look at Billy was made of a knowing. Billy noted the look. If humans could read minds, Billy wanted to now. The observing room wanted to as well.

Trevor absorbed Billy's words into a new pool of confidence. For affect, and for his own enjoyment, Trevor slickly took a seat. I was getting comfortable. Trevor was getting in control. Neal watched his partner's face go form frustrated anger, to stalking lawyer. A Prosecutor about to final-argument a defendant away for a very long time. More comfortable, and in my little mind, I questioned if I was an ill man. What I was watching, this battle that was heating up, I loved so. God help me I love it so. (Yes that was a rip-off of the movie Patton.)

Trevor was stone solid as The Thinker. He was contemplation wearing a glower. His mind at work would not loose a tongue before it was time. Fingers tapping lips halted as words were perfected. "Actually... Billy?" Trevor taunted.

"It is William Keefe!" Billy snorted.

"Yes. Billy, in France, Dandy was only a compliment in the late 18th and early 19th century. By the middle of the 19th century, Dandy was merely an adjective. In the late 19th century, Dandy was perceived and delivered in a derogatory context." Billy caught by Trevor's succinctness was taken aback and needed to re-profile Trevor's person. Aided by my witnessed smirk on Neal's face, I began the same.

Billy redirected. "You are a student of French history sir?" I looked from Neal to Trevor.

"A decade ago I spent two years in France. Paris!" very proudly declared Trever. Sitting back, I was intrigued and needed to focus on all. Searching me, Neal chuckled hushed and brief. Displaying my enjoyment, my face was surely alive. Neal's chuckle and the moment sent my face from intent to titillated. No doubt it was childish.

Trevor continued; "I lived in the Latin Quarter and studied French culture and its Liberal Arts. Mostly art, more specifically, Painters and their works."

Billy jumped in. "The Latin Quarter. The Left Bank. What energy must flow in that inarticulate place. I mean that as a compliment. Think about it; think about all the young talent that has lived there over the centuries. Surely the Seine must be radioactive with the energy that leaks from the Quarter."

Trevor studied his foe. Billy returned the study. Only few seconds, but it seemed my lifetime. Game on someone! Trevor; "Have you ever been to France William?"

Billy; "Literally. No." Trevor hearing this slid back into his chair. He understood his situation in this chess match. Trevor's face eased with strength recognized.

Billy was next to advance his queen. "Italian, French, which culture, which Great Master, who did you favor?"

"All of them." Emphasizing sincerity, Trevor was quick to respond. "Each were unique, each gave me something different. Probably, something different was given to all that studied them. I can truly say that I did not favor one over their peers." Upon the arms of his chair, Trevor raised forward. The character of the room was brittle; it had so suddenly gone from fun to furious.

Trevor; "I will tell you that something I did not expect caught me and held me a prisoner of intrigue. It was the Americans that sought to work and eventually perfect their crafts; 19th century Americans in Paris. Painters, Sculptors, Writers, artists of all types. This includes the Medicals. I could list a hundred and spend hours talking with you about them. I am sure that I will not. Perhaps, maybe, but probably not. Among these Americans, one, Samuel Morse, fascinated me." With his thoughts now finished, Trevor bruised close to a scolding. "And William, my name is not sir. It is Trevor thank you."

Billy seemed to be losing but was quick with; "The Lightning Man. Morse was the inventor of the Telegraph." Tactically, Billy's move was not powerful, but his dropping of a Morse nickname strategically forced Trevor to regroup. Billy was bloodied but not beaten.

"Inventor of the Telegraph!" Trevor said this with disdain. Trevor continued; "Yes that is true. However, Morse's true contribution was his painting." I took his proclamation of historical irreverence with disgust. I left it alone as I wanted nothing to do with the fray. Trevor added; "Morse was a very talented painter that lived this part of his life aspiring to be a successful artist. He did not gain any wealth until later in his life." Trevor paused and then added unwillingly; "The telegraph." I smiled. He continued; "He had ceased to paint by this time. Tragic. Truly."

"The Painting of Paintings," Billy snapped off.

Trevor; "Pardon?"

Billy; "The Painting of Paintings. That is what James Fennimore Cooper called Morse's The Gallery of the Louvre." Trevor sat back, his brow just a little tighter. Billy sensed an opening and continued; "Cooper, the author of several popular books, including The Last of the Mohicans. Although I have always considered The Deer Slayer to be Cooper's best work. They were great friends Morse and Cooper. Did you know that Trevor?"

Trevor; "Yes I did. Did you know that they first met in Paris?"

Billy; "Yes I did."

Trevor again sought a position of tactical advantage. "Mister Cooper is presented prominently in that painting." Trevor took a deep breath and continued; "My favorite Morse painting is Dying Hercules." I looked quickly to Billy and tried to transmit this thought; 'Don't Billy, just leave it alone.' I did not think Billy would lay the homosexual card, but there was a moment of concern.

Pami gulped air as Billy began. "Tell me Trevor, what was your favorite location in Paris? Or in all of France for that matter?" Billy asked this soft, as if he wanted to make nice. Pami breathed normal.

"I'm not sure, there were many. Rarely did I travel out of Northwest France. I guess that maybe it was The Garden of the Tiwillery. I spent so much time there." Trevor's look was distant; he was there now. Billy added a Twillery reference.

"I have a book, a picture book of the garden. It is truly amazing. However, I am certain that the pictures present only a small piece of its magnificence." Trevor was definitely having a moment of missing.

Trevor, with reverence; "The statues..." Missing love glossed his eyes.

Either Billy did not notice Trevor's struggle, or he did and tried to bring Trevor back home. Or anywhere other than where he sadly was. "Trevor did you ever travel to the Cathedral de Rouen?" Trevor's chin had longingly slipped down; his colored remembering did not allow time for a reply.

It was at this time that Billy's face morphed gentle. Billy loved any game such as this, but not where this one had gone. Reader, as I described earlier, this is not who Billy is. Nevertheless, Billy's face showed that this is who he thought was right now. Almost looking scared, Billy begged a look to Pami. "Come here and give me a big hug." Pami's words and extended arms offered William Keefe an out.

Pami slipping behind me met Billy at the end of the table. She bear-hugged the stuffing out of him. Then came the scolding. "William Keefe you are such a mischievous little Irishman." This was a Pami scolding, a public Pami scolding. Billy understood what her underlying meaning was. Neal squeezed Trevor's shoulder. There was once again breathable air in the room.

The game-clock clicked to zero. Entertainingly and well moved, the pieces on the board were now lifeless. I wondered about my wondering. Why was I not compelled to determine a winner. Trevor's two years of lived France experience, versus William Keefe's knowledge from a distance, I will let you choose who checkmated whom.

Billy is an axe sharp enough to slice paper. However, Trevor's grindstone was whirling swiftly. William Keefe, with Trevor's continuation, with Trevor's grinding, could have easily been dull rounded. Trevor certainly must have understood this. Billy surely must have felt the walls closing in.

Perhaps it was the moral of Trevor's soul. Perhaps his being would not allow a crushing. Wondering if I would have crushed him, wondering if I could have crushed him, I choose to let you wonder.

Perception is reality. For me, this night, reality changed. Thankfully though, this reality changed, was seamless. Not so of several others of recent. Trevor changed for me. Let me correct; not for me, within me. The flame that Trevor loved to flicker, did so a little softer. The game of Knowledge was not the part he liked to play for me. I never told him of my perception changed, that would have ruined his fun.

Possibly driven by Pami's gentle rebuke, Billy downshifted into a lower gear. A gentleman, William Keefe smoothly introduced himself to those that he did not know and jovially refreshed those that he did. Liz, Michael, Rebecca, Wade, Neal, and Tina, had never met Billy before. Trevor had not either but he had now.

Michael, in a stoic voice, was quick with; "Sir I have read you often. You write with a strong conviction. However, your words are often irrelevant of the truth." Having spent some time with Michael, I rather knew what this meant. Having spent more time with Billy, I knew he took acceptation to what it meant.

Pami's words still live in his ears, Billy tried to context Michael's words with forced indifference. Looking with a soft smile that showed his struggling, Billy accepted. "Perhaps," he said. Michael looked at me with a walking-the edge look. A not-quite crazy, but trying-to-get-there something. In his tiny colorless world, he had escaped into misguided satisfaction. Michael, sitting across from me, on this night, somebody please explain this to me.

Liz, in meeting Billy, was to-the-point brief. Her words were paced evenly and without contempt. However, finding Billy's grasp, I knew he had caught her disdain for him. It was not disdain for William Keefe, it was unseen disgust for the Junk that Billy carried. Of Michael, of Liz, his eyes were asking; 'What the hell? Why are they here? Why are they anywhere?' Billy, like me, is a strong believer in Darwin's Natural Selection.

Billy addressing Pamila; "I don't wish to lay me soiled anchor upon the silver shores of your anniversary gala. I only ask your forgiveness of me interruption, and for permission to borrow your husband for the briefest of time." Pami held Billy's arms, staring him a look of sincerity. One with absolute meaning.

"You can take him Billy, but I want him back quickly."

"Yes ma'am."

"Billy?" She stonewalled an emphasizing glare around her questioning. "I mean it Billy." Billy pulled an invisible cap from his head. With clenched fists he held the unseen tight to his chest.

"Pamila!" Here comes William Keefe. "My Dearest Pamila. On the soul of me poor departed mother, I swear to return him soonest."

"Your mother is eighty-six and living in Albuquerque Billy," she said hands on hips. Naughty little Irishman swelled deviant from a child's smile.

"Oh she is, so she is." Billy kissed Pami on the cheek. She gave Billy a questioning giggle. Did Billy hear the intention in the Princess' chortle? It would be best for the Irishman if he did.

Billy trying to insure an allowed departure, he quickly turned toward an escape. Pamila, Billy directed, and I warned, did so one last time. "Daniel!" I turned toward the once Princess and now Medusa. Not wanting to be eternally stone frozen, I did not meet her eyes. Her word, single and well chosen, was warning enough.

With the moment presented, Billy called me; "Come on Danny boy let me buy you a bit of drink." Departing in the direction of the bar, with Billy at point, my eyes corner turned and swept passed an eye fixed stare from Sarina. The 'don't you dare dad' stare. Over the last four years of my sobriety, I had seen the look often.

"Aren't you the prettiest little thing. You must be the sweetest barkeep in all of Colorado. In all places across the pond." Billy's words danced. The young woman smiled with the old man's flirting. She reached across the bar and gently patted Billy's cheek.

"Thank you!" She glowed at him. "That is so sweet." She was working it. Billy was loving it.

"So me sweetest pourer of lavations, your mum and dad surely blessed you with a name. Would you like to gift ole Billy with such. Such surely, that must be one fitting only a lovely as yourself." Her face lit a smile only created by the warmest of feelings. Her high cheekbones flushed amber. She was surprised that Billy's words had wormed her so.

In a voice that was textured with that with which Billy had softened, her ruby lips gave Billy what he wanted. "Jenny, Jennifer Elizabeth, my mum and dad named me Jennifer Elizabeth Nortin." Slap! The sound of Billy's hand smacking the polished Red Mahogany bar-top grabbed a lot of attention.

"Jenny! A great Irish name." Any name in Billy's ears, or out of Billy's mouth, William Keefe thought green. Looking into what he no doubt saw as emerald eyes, he continued in the moment. "Jennifer. On me long missed isle, Jennifer means Fair One." Jennifer, for the first time, suspected that Billy might be spreading a wee bit of fertilizer.

"In America to," said Jenny. Whether this dung was placed on the fields of his long missed isle, or not, I did not know. But as you know dear reader, a Playhouse filled of well-chosen words, will always louden my applause.

I may have been front row center, but in the eyes of the Fair One, I was not one of the staged actors. In a soft throaty voice, illegal in forty-six states, Jenny asked; "Billy, what can I do for you?" Jenny's attention to Billy, surely tip tempting, slapped me light with jealousy. If I was now Billy's Wingman, was I to stay to the code and now leave?

Queued from the left wing, Billy's right hand patted my shoulder. "My friend here, Danny boy and I would love a few fingers of The Blue. Neat! Two doubles please Miss Jenny." Instantly Jenny's glowing smile tempered. Her appeasing flow hesitated.

"Two?" Jenny asked. With words that were uncomfortably legal, she establishment dictated; "They will be eighty-five dollars." She watched for a reaction, waited for an acknowledgement of the cost. None from me, I wasn't buying. Billy looked at her easily as he was conjuring. He placed his hand on hers and gently patted it.

"My Dear Jennifer, are you offering to buy an old Mick a drink?" I do not think she noticed that she had, or did intentionally, but she had taken a single step backward.

She had an instant of muddle before she replied. "I... I think you are more than capable of purchasing your own drink Billy." She said this still flirting. However, she still wanted the acknowledgment. The bar-stool rocked back as Billy tossed himself into it. His laugh was deep loud and brief.

"Jenny please take old Mister Walker down, dust him off, and poor us a couple of that liquid ambrosia."

William Keefe once told me; 'The only time you should be without words, is when you are without time.' Billy believed this to be the eleventh commandment.

This time, as we waited for our whiskey, was not an exception. I did not intentionally yield to my senior. Billy brushed the time into his pile and swept it toward me. It was very smooth and a bit rambling. It was of Gary Owen. He told of how this ballad came about in 1867, and how General George Armstrong Custer soon adopted it. Thus, it became the fight song of the 7th cavalry. Custer kept a small band with him and played it before battles. The story has it, as Billy told it, was that the Indians where instilled with fear when it would be heard. My feeling is that the Lakotas and the Cheyenne were not too afraid. Custer's traveling band played Gary Owen on the morning of June 25 1876. Shortly before the battle of Little Big Horn. Granted, the rushed effort was played without inspired rhythm, but still, we know how that battle turned out. Gary Owen then became the dirge of the 7th Cavalry.

Sitting Bull, who loved to sing and was reportedly gifted in song, probably enjoyed the hurried rendition.

Billy told his story hurriedly with a spattering of facts and adoration for the Irish Gary Owen. I enjoyed his enthusiasm, and marveled at the ease at which he jumped into the topic without any verbal transition. Also, I would have been fine without his recollection that Custer was found with a bullet wound below the heart, another to his temple, and an arrow inserted into his penis. "Custer purists debate this report; I believe it to be true," Billy added.

Jenny placed a Short in front of each of us. They were nearly half filled with the dark brown liquid. She smiled at Billy and gave a brief glance toward me. "Here you are gentlemen. Enjoy!" She left to tend to others that wanted more flirting and beverages.

Billy raised his glass eye high and I returned the salute. "To Greg Tillman. That poor bastard." Not that I was going to partake, but hearing the namesake of his toast, I emphasized this non-action with a prolonged hold and a slow place atop the polished bar.

This was classic William Keefe. He placed something to me that I did not know. Something he wanted me to know. Something that would be a means to his end. Whatever that end might be. Billy watched me watching his eyes. He could see that the placing had my intrigue. With respect for his Blue, he tried not to bruise it as he took it down in one smooth pallet-tation.

(Two things here: First, yes I can create words. Second; ladies, how badly do men play the verbal chess that follows?)

Downing, then downing the empty Short to the bar, his eyes were still within mine. With anticipating eyes, mine were within his. "Oh that's right Danny, you know Mister Tillman do you not." Billy, flipping me thoughts that were now rehearsed words, continued his constructing. "Danny you don't know. You have not heard." Body bouncing up and arms waiving, he had overacted his delivered line. It made no matter. Knowing that he had tickled my interest, he sat back mellow. He left it untouched. He let it ferment.

When I was ready, he was ready. Billy was firm with the chisel as he punched punctuation. "Earlier, today, the Colorado Bureau of Investigation suspended Mister Tillman. Indefinitely!' Billy chuckled. "Without pay!" My stare at him was because now my mind was very much swirling. "Pending an investigation of course," he added. I chuckled. He continued; "It seems that they are less than pleased with his performance at Monticello. His unauthorized performance. He's gonna get his dumb ass fired Danny." With slight pain, my eyes grew wide. Self-evil wanted out.

"Hah! Fifteen minutes. He is gonna get his fifteen minutes." Billy did not understand my true meaning, but my exploding sent him into a perfect Billy laugh. Deep, loud, and fully enjoyed. Enjoyed by all that witnessed it.

Even though I knew that it meant still one more day in purgatory, my own laugh rang loud through the restaurant. Pami's eyes turned to my ringing. I was sure they did. Billy patted pleasure down on my shoulder. "I thought you might like that Danny boy." William Keefe's thoughts are usually right.

Reader, I will tell you this and deny it in the same sentence; I twanged slight with sympathy for Greg Tillman. It was the briefest moment of emotionally unauthorized weakness.

(I Digress. 'Twanged'. I used the word twanged. Do you like it? I don't know if I do. I am not sure I have even spoken twanged before. However, I cannot come up with a reason to change it. It fell from my mind to my fingertips.)

Sorry! I did not need that third cup of coffee.

Where were we? Oh yes. From me, my pretend glass of Johnny slid away. Billy eased it to his lips. With reverence, William Keefe sipped and swirled. His adoration was visible and audible as he delicately set it back down. I wondered if it all was a deliberate display of what Billy wanted his personality to be understood as. Perhaps decades ago it all was. Now, sitting next to me, telling me anything that he wanted to, it was all William Keefe. He was not out of time.

"As much as I enjoyed telling you that Danny boy, my reason for being here is not the decline and soon to be fall of Greg Tillman." Unknowingly leaning forward, I pulled back to be easier in my place. Abruptly the sort he was went. "Daniel I've got a proposition for you." Normally, the word proposition tensely alerts me. However, I with great ease trusted this man explicitly. Jenny slid past, leaving me a water glass. It was chilled and full, it was good, she was good. "Danny I want to write your story." His words so simple caught me.

"My story! I have a story!"

"You know you do Danny." A sip of my water paused him. Or he paused me.

"Look Danny... I know what happened at Monticello." He paused. My mind was searching. "I want you to help me tell it. Tell it to the world Danny." I awkwardly chuckled. He could not know. Not everything. Not even William Keefe could know everything, not everything about everything. My stomach tightened. He must know a little, or more, why else would he want to write it? What did he know?

"I thought you were retired Billy."

"Yeah, they gave me a cheap gold watch and pushed my ass out the door. But I'm not retired Danny. Never be. What would I do with nothing to do. No."

"Look Billy... there just is not much there."

Billy dropped his head and lifted his eyes to scold mine. "Danny I know there is and I am pretty sure you want to tell it." 'Proposition' was beginning to chafe my ease. I re-found and grasped tight the truth that Billy could not know. Billy simply could not understand the experience that was Monticello, the Incident at Monticello. The Incident... hell I did not know, not really.

"Billy there just isn't-"

"Danny I have spoken with the Editor of the Trib. He is an old friend. He's kind of a jerk, but he wants to do it. He has offered me a twelve week Sunday run." Being a brilliant writer I of course understood all of his words, but I only heard one. It was number nine on my Bucket List.

"The Trib?" I asked. Instant adrenaline. His no-answer meant yes. "Do what Billy?" His no-answer was an annoy. "Yeah... I don't think so Keefe." Keefe's head jerked. Using Keefe was a swaying attempt. Sway toward what I did not know.

My words were nervous confusion flirting with scared. Billy stood, reached for leather, unfolded, placed Benjamins on the bar, dropped from his stool, and fled toward Pamila.

Watching him depart was my only option. Sitting and thinking about the moment, an ill dampness chilled my temples. Clearly, this conversation had just begun. Damn Keefe!

Without me yet there, there was this; "Pamila, the Jewel in me eyes, your husband soon will be back with you." William Keefe was in full charm mode. The Jewel in his eyes, was not wondering of me. Pami took his words with pleasure. I would have taken them for a flirting foundation laid toward a constructive proposition.

Our room was a party razz upon returning. "Billy!" I shouted. I did not know what I was going to do after the shout; it just came out. Billy looked toward my now inclusion. His face was an apologetic mischievousness. His face was biblical. Please forgive me Danny. I know not what I do.

Purposefully, and obviously slow, Sarina half-circled me. Her inspection was close and with a sniff. My eyes glanced at hers. Both of our peeks were family. I tried, but I could not remember exactly when she became the parent. Some children's parents!

All humans do it. Some are better at it than others are. It is a mannerism that they morph into when they want to direct conversation to a different place. Perhaps because I felt it curdling in me, Billy's was sour. "Miss Pamila!" His inflection was firm and loud. It forecast his end. All ears and eyes went to Billy's declaration moment. "I have so tastelessly taken enough of your time." He gave himself for a hug. Pami smiled to an embrace. Billy tight on her, his head tuned to me. Most secure in her arms, he was secure that our conversation had just begun. "My lovely Pamila Bell, I would be tickled to tear if I might share a meal with the beauty that is you." Rebecca sighed a gasp. I nauseated a gasp.

I cannot skill the word to life, nor could I ever melt it into the same crystal tone. The purism, the delicate subtleness, the charmed envelopment, and the warmness that Billy laced the word 'you' with, stole Pamila away. It placed her into an enchanted Dell. A Hollow lit by light of every world. The Glade where scores of butterflies swirled every color in the always gently warm air. A wonder where all was all if it ever was. That Bastard!

Pami pushed Billy from her bosom and grasped his eyes. "William, how about tomorrow evening?" Billy quickly glared at me. It was darkest evil. It was perfect. "William please join us for dinner tomorrow."

"William?" I mumbled. I think it was aloud. I know I meant it.

"Oh Miss Pamila, I do not want to impose me upon you." This was not delivered mystically. However, there was subtle sarcasm meant for yours truly.

"See Pami Billy doesn't-"

"Please say you will Billy," begged she as she shut me off.

I knew I was not to speak again. Also, I knew that tomorrow evening I surely would. My role as it stood was to stand there and look cute. Standing, sitting, dancing or twirling, my cute was not on display. Pissed, played, disgusted, you pick the display. None would be wrong. What I wanted to show was for Billy. I wanted him to know that I knew of his deviance. His Irish Gentleman bullshit.

Even though the deal was done, Pami and Billy bargained back and forth still more. Pami pleading, Billy acting the wishful non-imposer. I stood there looking cute.

Billy, recognizing that his work here was done, turned to me and extended a hand. I was scared that if touched it I would forever cast into the Abys of Indifference. 'To the victor go the spoils.' I grasped his hand hard. He mine harder. His eyes sought and held mine. They were victoriously apologizing. They said; 'Sorry old boy but it had to be done.' There was no other way to go but to smile and tell him how much I looked forward to tomorrow evening.

"See you tomorrow night Danny boy." Not releasing my hand, his eyes sought for where we were.

"See you tomorrow Billy." My tone was of two Buds being okay.

With a wave to all, with a hum as he walked away, William Keefe left me to Pamila's evening.

Heep!

Pamila:

From the minute Mervin announced Billy's arrival, and Danny welcomed him into our home, I noticed that a slice of Billy's personality was not available. Flittering around him as usual, were not the butterflies that teased all in their play of presented openness. He seemed an invited guest. The Billy-with-us did not walk through the door.

He greeted Danny with almost delicate politeness. The always-supple honor to the more diminutive sex was my welcome. Both of our greetings were... I don't know... reserved? As I took the bottle of Pinot Noir to be kept chilled, I thought his choice to be both observant and sweet. Yet, it was presented to me with prom-date awkwardness. Part of Billy that I so delighted in was clearly hiding. Wondering of this, I questioned asking him of it. Then I did not. It was a not-the-right-time halt. A so-awkward pause that I wondered if my head jerked to a stop.

Regardless, letting the moment pass was leaving it well alone. Over the proper amount of time, and given enough space, men in emotional imbalance will always seek stability on their own. If a man slices enough golf balls in to the woods, eventually he will seek professional instruction. Maybe that is too simple. But with my man, it is simple enough.

Socially, pre-dinner, and throughout our meal, all was good. The chitchat was enjoyable and the topics were ones that left thought tucked away in the coat closet. Often with Danny, and anyone a mental match for Danny, this was not always the case. Sociologically, and only my opinion, no single dynamic more clearly displays the separation of the genders than group conversation. Women like to talk about tangibles. Things that they can touch, things they can deal with, things that matter. Men, men want to talk about stupid things. Things they have no control over, things they cannot fix, things that they act like they know more about than they really do.

(Reader, I am sorry but I have to veer here. I believe it may have previously been termed digress. I want to clear one of your understandings. I do read Danny's work. All of it, completely. I know what he does. Idiot!)

But he is my idiot and I love him. He does try. He selectively can guide the conversation to or fro. 'The 'to' is mostly of my liking. The 'fro' is always of his liking. God love him he does try. But sometimes... With me involved, he does not fro as much as he use to. Still, he does frustrate me. I wish I could say that it was not as much as it use to be.

Again, gender separation; I do not believe that Danny can help himself. Most times, it is not a problem, but in this light, it is glaring. The problem is that Danny is articulate, knowledgeable, and can carry many topics. I was drawn to it, family is scared careful with it, friends are engrossed by it, and new acquaintances are overwhelmed by it. Danny, however, does not grasp how dominating it can be. Danny not only has it, he is it. Since he is it, we all get to see it. The gift of gab.

However, a brain-straining side effect does come with his gift. Not so subtle pinpricks can pierce into the souls of others. Daniel Opinions. He has them, and in a not so objectionable way, he feels that you want to hear them. He believes that for your safety, for your wellbeing, you need to hear them. Our son-in-law of two years Wade can tell you all about them.

Very much enjoying a conversation that was rolling through topics of no great importance, I recognized calm anxiousness holding him reserved. It was as if he held words within, thinking that a particular one might open a conversation that he did not want. That I was aware of, there were few conversations that he would wish unopened. Waiting, he seemed to be waiting.

One or the other, courtesy or anxiousness, he rose and started clearing the table. I let him. Rationalizing, I enveloped it as pure courtesy. Billy lifted in his chair with a gentle rubbing of his full belly and fussed delightfully about the delicious meal. With a distant eye and a near ear, I watched Danny and listened to Billy. My head looked slightly to the kitchen with each clink of fragile china and each ring of Family Crystal. Cringing with each, I fought the pushing instinct to help. More realistic, my fight was against completely taking over.

Curiously, Billy rather wormed around in his seat. Finishing, he sat rigid and upright. In a voice that was intended to be heard in the kitchen, he said; "I have some news. It's about Jim Winster." Its tone was to inform without exciting.

Instantly, excitedly, in a deep voice forced by a pushing of air, I pulled evil from my bowels. "Heep!" My stomach ached by anger. The bile of my anger was hate. Purest hate. Hate total and consuming. Hate that thickens blood black. This hate within me, I fear threatens my final judgment. Heep!

Considering my deep-throated reply, Billy looked hard in me. His face was a dim that I had not seen before. From the kitchen, a plate counter-top dropped and slowly wobbled down to settled. The tap of Danny's soles on tile ended with the carpet.

"Winster? What about him?" Danny asked. His questioning was dusted by startled-by-the-name. Now standing, my anger driven adrenaline was pumping black blood through a stone heart. Billy lifted his eyes to the question and then they returned to me.

Again, I went deep and air forced. "Heep!" An anger tremble held me to these four letters. The name used loud and deep was therapeutic. In mind, in spoken, I had used it for years. It pushed me firmly from physical violence. It kept a law enforcement officer reporting on the seven o'clock news; 'In my twenty six years on the force, I have never seen such a gruesome scene.'

Heep! A loathsome person from my past. A person that stole from me a part of my life never to be regained. Heep! He stole from Danny a childish trust of people. It made Danny gain some wise, but lose some special. Heep! He hid in Danny some child's kindness. A wonderful unpretending kindness that I fell in love with. A kindness that I at times miss. Heep! From my family, from my children, he stole years of security. This, for this, if available, I fear I might be on the seven o'clock news.

Danny and I, our lives together, at times have not been a free ride. Perhaps more than others, perhaps less, we have had challenges. However, we have always weathered. We have always gotten stronger. We have, and will continue to survive Heep! However, what he did will always be there. One day. There will come that one day.

Heep! Charles Dickens, David Copperfield', the 19th century, they had Uriah Heep. Winster! Rengaw, moving to Colorado, the 21st century, we had Jim Winster.

Building static and left hanging were Billy's words engulfed in a storm cloud. Though not all-inclusive, I was a Winster! victim. Billy knew this, and so his attention and words flowed to me. Billy knew most of what had transpired. I had told him years ago. He knew of my felt wrath, and he knew of Wintster's deep cut that was still festering shallow in my life. The slice rarely hurt anymore. However, there were times, times just like this, when the pain was a ten.

Billy looked concerned at my pumping cheeks that were clenching a jaw. He went to Danny and Danny to him. "What about him Billy?" I mellowed a bit with Danny's unconcerned tone. Finally, the stress of the silence was broken. Billy did not look toward the question. He held to the direction of its answer

Billy wanted to speak with words that were informative. I begged him to speak with words that were supple. Whatever it was going to be, he began. "Well Pamila I have... I have some news of him. Information that if pushed in the proper direction would knock him off his ass." Danny chuckled. Billy continued; "You know... a little payback." Revenge was what I wanted. Revenge is what I heard. A word that when considered left me feeling unclean. But a word that often was synonymous with Winster in my thoughts. And a word, at least in my understanding of Danny, an action he was cautious with. A word he would never inflict if it involved family security. But it was a word that if it involved only him, a word he would wield without thought. This was Danny of what Heep! stole from him.

I took Billy's words in after I wanted them out. Anxiety energy needed to be burnt. As I often do in moments that are less overwhelming than this one, I angered to the kitchen. "Pami?" I heard Billy's soft word as I turned away. Aggressive cleaning and passive listening would be my attempt at therapy.

A brief quiet followed my kitchen departure. Even if I could have seen them, I would not have seen the two shared looks. Since then, I have often imagined what they showed. Ensuring that he could be heard by Danny before him, and me not there, Billy created. I don't remember the cleaning, but I will never forget the listening.

With need-to-know-only details kept to himself, Billy spent the next dozen or so minutes laying out his proposed plan. However long it did take, when he finished his scenario, revenge seemed a cleaner word. I warmed to the word. It all seemed quite legal and more possible. What worried me were the need-to-know-only details. What Billy was not sharing, how close did they skirt the legal edge.

Speaking my thoughts, Danny said; "Billy, look, I don't want you to get in any trouble."

"Trouble!" Billy forced a fake chuckle. "I'm always in trouble. Don't you worry Danny boy." His lightly saying was attempting to settle our worries.

Without the details that we did not have, the basic scenario was this. A second-generation 75 acre farm northeast of Longmont was about to be foreclosed. The current owner was less than ten years from paying off the bank note. Thus, the farm was worth many times more than the bank held. However, since the bank was what bank's seem to have become, they did not wish to help refinance. The owner had been trying to sell the farm for its appraised worth. For whatever reason, the owner could not sell it. Now close to losing everything, he was willing to sell for a dime on the dollar. This all seemed quite strange to me, but it was unimportant. Winster, being the Devil's shit, and doing what he does, saw an opportunity. An opportunity to take advantage of someone in desperate straits. But what Winster did not know, because he was... Billy put it this way; 'The stupidest fart that our Lord's intestines ever released.' Winster was clueless that a Denver gang was growing marijuana on 20 acres of the farm. It was unclear if the owner was involved. Again, for this scenario it didn't matter. Billy, could, through the friend of a friend of a friend, ensure that Winster was able to purchase the property. How the money was going to work was one of those details that we did not have. Billy did not want us to have. Plausible deniability I thought. The sale closed, the fun would begin.

Billy knew that the authorities were aware of the illegal crop, but for whatever reason they were not acting on it. This also was unclear; Billy said that he knew one particular authority that would act on it. This authority would also put together an allegation that Winster knew of and promoted the crop. The hopeful result; the seizing of the land and Winster in prison. How, I wondered, but then I did not. I didn't, and I didn't care that I didn't.

Billy's information and the possibility that it presented now given to us, he said with a tone that was slightly shrouded in guilt; "It's just a thought." I found the statement awkwardly out of place. With a single laugh, Danny found it comical. Billy paused, then added while taking to his feet; "Let me know. I will do it if you want. It is up to you." Billy wanted to be done with the topic, but couldn't be yet. He finished; "If you do want it done I will need to know soon, very soon. Forty-eight hours. Okay?" Instead of speaking, I listened for Danny. Wondering if his face was speaking to Billy, he said nothing.

Billy's volume was directed away. "Danny boy can we move into the living room?" I sensed... perhaps I imagined, that Billy thought the dining area to be uncomfortably tainted. For Billy the topic was now ended. Apparently tight from what Billy thought was due us to know, he wanted to loosen on a couch. Danny had taken it all very well. Billy so forcibly inviting himself over to speak of Winster, much loosened Danny as well. Very much.

Slowly warming, blood re-reddening, my anger was also loosening and I wanted to again join the conversation. My senses now released to other than intent listening, I became aware that only small details of my kitchen cleaning were left undone. I joined the boys.

Danny was in his happy-place recliner. Billy across from Danny on the couch seemed comfortable. "Does anyone need anything?" My words ended with a slight chuckle. I realized my thoughts were released and once again were mine. My relieved laugh caught Billy. His face lifted to me. Danny appeared not to have noticed my coming out. Billy's look was not mere chuckle questioning. I saw every sign on every tree fort ever built. NO GIRLS ALLOWED. "Is it... can I join you fellas?" Billy, awkward and trying for sincerity, fumbled his way to a standing position. His words tried their best to make me believe.

"Oh Pamila, certainly, please join us." Passing in front of him my eyes caught his. They reflected that he knew that I knew of his insincerity. I felt a bit empowered that William Keefe was temporarily uncomfortable. Wondering if Danny had seen what I had, I questioned a look to him as I slid down next to Billy. Danny showed nothing. Neither welcome nor not. I did not care either. I was welcome. Tree forts had been integrated.

Something being not quite right knocked twice. Perhaps I was thinking too much, but I was thinking. Perhaps Heep! was still distantly wandering about.

Billy retook his seat but he did not sit deep into the couch. If awkward is understood by you as I use it, this moment was both. The room was brutally loud with nothing from anybody. I heard the music from 'The Twilight Zone'. With intent to bump the stylus forward, I slapped Billy on the back. Still with tree fort adrenaline, the slap was harder than intended.

"Well boys what are we going to talk about?" Billy was instant with an answer.

"I want to talk about our conversation from last night Danny." Billy had been waiting for the moment that I just gave him.

"I knew it!" Danny snapped back.

"What conversation?" I asked. Billy turned to me. William Keefe addressed me.

"I'm offering Danny an opportunity. An excellent one that he doesn't seem to want." His words pushed me to an asking look of Danny. Locked, Danny's eyes held firm on Billy. "Pamila, Danny and I have an opportunity to write a column, a twelve week run in the Trib." 'Trib'; he inflected with the respect of Mecca. This led me to believe that I should know 'Trib'. My face did not show the same respect. Billy clarified; "The Trib! The Chicago Tribune Pami." Danny's face slid to appalled at my naiveté. I did not look at Danny, but I am certain his face showed disgust. Separation.

Oh my God. Yes! I should have known. The Trib. Shit! I will hear about this in future renditions. And no doubt, there will be future renditions.

Danny's disgust, real or imagined, drifted through me. It was not quite a chill, but it certainly was not a tropical breeze.

Danny's attention down and slightly left, mouth slivered, he waited. Billy to me; "We can do this. It would be perfect Pami. The story, the topic, people will want to hear it. Read it." Billy turned to Danny. "Danny will want to tell it." Danny's head lifted.

"Billy are you talking about..." I paused, looked to Danny, and finished my question. "The Incident? Is that what you mean?" Danny's head stayed on Billy, but his eyes sought mine.

"Yes Monticello!" Billy said this as if he was about to reveal a living Bigfoot. What did Billy know? What of The Document? What of Ben? What of everything told me by Danny? Flashing to Danny my eyes silently asked.

"He doesn't know anything." Danny heard my silence.

"I know about the document. I heard about Daniel Sheridan. There is the FBI and the CBI. You visited-" Danny cut off Billy.

"Any High School paper journalist with an Etch-a-sketch can get that information Billy."

"Etch-a-sketch?" I asked under my breath.

Billy eased back and clasped his hands on his chest. Slowly and confidently, Billy began listing what he should not know. "Danny. I know about a plasmic event. Two of them. Plasma? I know of your 1:20 a.m. visit. Two of them. Benjamin Rush. Marge. Three of them." He chuckled. "Danny I know so much more than you think." He paused briefly. Danny sat forward. "And what I don't know, I am pasting together." Billy looked long into Danny's spinning thoughts. "The rest, what I do not know, what I can not paste together, Danny I want you to tell me."

Seeking to enclose Billy's knowing into my understanding, I sat back into the enveloping sofa. Danny's Dream, who had he told? Rojer I knew. I did not think there was anyone else. Had Rojer told anyone? No! Rojer being who Rojer is, would not do that. He hadn't even told me.

Billy no longer cared that a girl was in the room. He was all about Danny. A social therapist reading everything Danny was displaying. And what he was trying not to display. Motionless and not speaking, Danny's gaze at Billy held only questions. As if they were coated with dried mustard, Danny wiped his lips clean with a brisk hand. Danny scooted to the edge of his now uncomfortable place. "Billy. My visit, My Dream, how do you-"

"Another time Danny. It doesn't matter how. We can talk about that another time."

Danny's hands white knuckled the arms of the recliner. Staring, he slowly eased backwards. Staring, staring hard in thought, Danny had questions. But these questions were for himself. Thumb and Index pinching together his upper lip, Danny started rocking short and quick. His eyes lit searching in this. This same inner searching posture was not new to me. However, lately, it had been often.

"Danny?" I said softly. "Danny!" Not as soft. His eyes met mine. "You okay?" He nodded to me but did not speak.

Billy, in the most calming voice that he had; "Look Danny, I will tell you all I know, but I don't think tonight is the time. I know a lot. Almost all." I heard that strange. Billy continued; "But it is that all that all that you need to tell me. Without it, this will be just another hack with words that are too long and syntax that is over dramatic." I laughed one hard chuckle. Danny forced an amused grunt from his chest.

Billy seemed to have Danny's attention as he continued; "Danny I think you want to tell this. I think you need to tell this." Billy now seemed to sense this as well and continued with a new found enthusiasm. "This can be great I know it. Danny you have twelve weeks, twelve columns to tell your story. I know it is not a story, way more than a story. Danny this will give you a national audience. This will make you famous. It is the God damn Chicago Tribune Danny."

"Billy!"

"Sorry Pamila. I'm a little fired up. But Pami it is a good thing."

"I don't want to be famous." Danny paused and then added a distinction. "But it is the Trib." Danny's face swelled into a childish grin. He looked to me. I shrugged a whatever you want to do Honey. He looked back to Billy and asked; "I get a by-line?" Quite hard Billy slapped his hands together once.

"Whatever you want Danny." Billy smirked and added; "Below mine of course." He laughed gently but I was sure he meant it. "It's not much money Danny, only two thousand per article. I'll give you half."

"I will take it. He'll do it." I answered for us both. A questioning look mixed with a tinge of disgust is what I got from my husband. "What? Why not Danny? This is your forum. This is what you've been searching for. Your questioning from yesterday. Remember? This is your answer." His look was that I was right but he didn't want me to be. "You've got nothing going that can't wait. Danny, this thing has you all wrapped up. Let it go! Let it go to the God damn Chicago Tribune." Billy laughed hard. I smiled at Danny. Danny's body language said yes as he quickly swung back to Billy.

"Okay!. Let's do it." Danny wanted to get it out quickly. He knew once said, there was no going back.

Billy rose to his feet. "Danny boy I'm gonna make you famous."

"I already told you I don't want that."

"Tough shit. You are gonna be on Letterman. You will be a smile on every woman's face in America."

"Billy?" I said. Apparently, I was not in the room again.

Billy continued; "Everybody will want to interview you. You'll have speaking engagements. Danny you're gonna be bigger than The Beatles."

"Billy! Stop!" I shouted. I was done!

"Okay okay. Sorry Pami." Billy faked a deep breath and waggled his head. "I'm sorry Pamila." Billy reiterated. A pause for fake composing. "But I am telling you Danny, you better polish up your public speaking. Are you still in Toastmasters?"

Danny, now standing; "I write, I think well, public speaking I pretend." Billy turned to me. His excitement was overwhelming all else.

I said; "Easy Billy. Easy!" He would not let go of the gaze he had on me. "I would love to work on him Billy." Danny caught what I was hiding in meaning. He smiled. "Billy I will work on his public speaking." I toyed a wink to Danny.

Billy; "I saw that Pami! I'm not kidding! If you can, you better get on him." Danny laughed hard.

With a tone that Billy was not following, I agreed. "Whatever you say Billy." Danny was one enjoying smile. Billy's look showed that something was amiss. The lite bulb suddenly popped to glow. Billy's face went warm in blush. I smiled lightly at Billy. Danny's smile said too much.

I had to save struggling Billy. I went to monotone factual. "Billy, have you ever seen my husband without words?"

"Hmm?" I did not want to read too much into Billy's non-word.

With little time passed, the room's energy moved out. No one knew what was next. And seemingly, next did not want to be next. The rhythmic tink tink of the Grandfather clock was loud.

Danny had had enough. And he was not just full of this conversation. "Okay Billy we'll get together two days after we get back from Sparta." Danny's words traveled to the end of evening. Billy followed them this way. As if by some primal instinct, the two headed to the Foyer. Danny handing Billy his coat said in a calm and sincere voice; "Billy I am not delusional, I can not come off that I am. I have bills to pay. Do you understand?" Billy smiled and grasped Danny's upper arm.

"Oh me boy, no need to worry about that. I will do it right. You can make sure I do. Don't worry Danny boy."

"You know that is impossible Billy." Billy smiled first to Danny and then at me. To me he lifted the brow of his hat. A hat that was not there and never was.

"Pamila my love thank you for a wonderful meal and a pleasant evening." I nodded.

"Good night William Keefe. Please drive safely." He looked back to Danny.

"See you soon Danny. I am pumped." 'Pumped' was an odd choice for William Keefe. He turned to the door and then came back to Danny. More importantly to you reader, it was not to me. Billy tried to say it without sound. "Winster. Soon?" Danny's nod was so tentative that it nearly was not.

Billy was several steps onto the path. "Two days Billy! Two days after we get back." My scold was meant to be one. Billy turned around. Hands on my hips, square in stance, I was Danny's protector. Hemingway's Pillar. Without objection, Billy continued to his silver GS in silence. I had no doubt that Billy would want to start sooner than immediately. I did not. Danny should not. I knew he would need a day or two. Time necessary to selectively stack his thoughts into a perfectly neat pile. Time to turn them into Digi's. Then finally, time to file away the interview that would now be history. It was my role.

Danny's long performed and regimented securing of the house now began. This routine, and several if not many like it, I hoped came from his time in the military. I did not want to believe that he was always this anal. (Please do not tell him that I used that word.) The kitchen details that had been left undone, I did. Secure and clean, we headed to bed.

Lying next to each other in that settled moment when one lets the day's happenings slip from a tiring grasp, I had one last shoe to drop. I wanted it to be a question. However, because I thought I knew the answer, it did not come out sounding like a question. "What would you think if I took a leave of absence?"

"From work?" His reply was stupid. However, the question did come from left field. I granted him the benefit of the doubt.

"No! From seeking the meaning of life." That is what I did want to say. What I did say was; "Yes Honey from work." It did sound a bit sarcastic to me. But only because it should have been. Sarcasm tempered is not my best thing. I waited for him to answer shorter than I should have. "I've been thinking about it for a couple of weeks. I think I would like to. Our finances are settled. Your books are doing well. Why not?" He still did not speak. "Well what do you think Danny?"

"I don't know! I mean it seems okay. But... won't you miss it?" Thinking briefly, probably stalling, I didn't know if I wanted to say it. Would saying it admit something? Something I was not sure I wanted to. "I'm... Danny, my work... it is hard work. I'm tired. I think I want to quit."

"Quit!"

"Maybe you haven't noticed Honey, but I have put a couple of rings on the old tree trunk."

Knowing it was a good play, he kissed my forehead and said; "Honey you are as young as the day I met you."

"That's a bunch of crap!" That said, and knowing it was the only right answer he had, I did appreciate it. His marital requirement complete, he laid back and laughed.

"I've been nursing for almost twenty-four years. I know I will miss it. At times. But I think I want a break. I have things I need to do." Danny rolled his head to me.

"Leave of absence, it sounds like more than that." He said this with a questioning inflection. I knew he was awaiting my... for my anything. I had nothing. Nothing I wanted him to know.

"Hell, if I'm gonna be bigger than the Beatles, you just want to make sure all those young female fans are kept off me."

"If you're gonna be bigger than the Beatles, I want to make sure I keep track of all that money."

As thoughts of Ringo and the boys laughed us into a settled end, I had one more thing. "I love you." I kissed my husband. Whom I did.

Next Morning

Not waking but surely motivating, a pot of fresh brew inspires me to begin yet again. This yet is before the cock crows three times. Legs and back dormant from a night's rest strain to loosen on the first of twelve downward steps. Bubba, inspired by mine, beats feet past me and to his first stop of every dog day. His stop, a dog duty search and barking protection of the front outside. His act as family protector is almost always to show off. Street toughs, dogs leashed and walking, mothers pushing baby strollers, all best beware.

The window that runs up the left side of the front door, the seven-foot 2X6 size pane, pours in the morning sun. The sunrise for this day over an hour gone, the light is painting its stripe past the foyer and ends in the living room. It is geometrically perfect light. Like a wide white-yellow ribbon, it is draped to, up, over, down again, and beyond the couch. Its chosen path is protracted exactly this once, once every three hundred and sixty five days. Every cloudless day Mervin steps within its perfection and is striped with an irregular line that is a warm shade of black.

Having spoken to you much too long without coffee, I end our conversation and pour myself a cup. Two heaping teaspoons of sugar and more than a splash of creamer, I make it so. (No, not a Star Trek reference.)

My phone in the pocket of the jacket that is helping to warm me, the mug's handle grasped with two curled fingers, I pull the door clear and move onto the back patio, placing more than several feet between me and the closed door. Mervin bolts to catch a squirrel that he never will and never wants to. The well fed squirrels play with him like a friend. Not a close friend, not too close.

I am not sure if it is Billy time yet. I wonder if he is taking calls yet. It is not a long wonder. For me, it is time. For this, voice mail is fine. Maybe better. Awake probably for hours and energized by caffeine, Billy is in fine voice. "Morning to ya. You are about to speak with William Keefe. Billy if preferred."

Less exuberant, I choose to speak with Billy. "Good morning Billy." He sounds a muffled noise that I understand as recognition.

"My friend, oh you must have missed me surely." He enjoys a chortle.

"Who would not miss you Billy." Again he enjoys my words.

Billy; "Your voice I did not expect to hear so soon. But it is always much welcome."

Not wanting to lose the resolve of the call, I quickly interject; "Billy last night, what we discussed."

"The column?" he asked. I did not answer. My lack of, prompted him to. "No! You mean the other topic." 'Topic' was the only word that I chose to have meaning.

"Topic. Yes the other topic." I paused. It turned into stop. Whatever it was, it hung silent for far too long. "Billy, do it. I want you to do it Billy." There was more in the new silence. As I imagined it, Billy's face could have been more than a dozen expressions. Included in that dozen, he imagining what my face showed.

Another moment to consider my choice was offered. A tone softened and asking of my sureness, Billy offered; "Okay. If you are certain that is what you want. Is that... is it what you really want?" I had considered long in my restlessness of a night's sleeplessness.

"It is! Billy, bury the bastard."

No longer tentatively asking, but still in a voice offering one last understanding of his words, Billy notarized the oral document. "Okay, consider it done."

I think it was only for his comfort, Billy asked; "Danny, is Danny with you on this Pamila?"

"For me! This is for me Billy." My next words could not have sounded sincere. I did not believe them myself. "He'll be fine with it." Now, Billy's imagined, was no doubt, doubt.

A good tale always is.

Thursday March 8. Forty-eight minutes out of Denver International Airport. 34,500 feet.

Daniel:

As you know if you do, if you don't you will now; air travel for me can often be a misadventure. Consider the term: Airline Travel Impaired. Political Correctness; a scourge that has infested our minds and dictates our chosen words. To me, it seems it is this century that has spread this ill pandemic-ally. The diagnosis is over sensitivity. The symptom is group'd anger. Deal with it, often with censored words that retard my thoughts, I do. Searching neurological addresses, I can not locate a single finding of a recent blog posting that went without reprimand. All that I find is binary discipline. (Do you remember that tin voice; 'You've got mail!' It sent you stumbling to your mouse in anticipation. Oh for those long lost semi analog days.)

Everything I think, I write, I post, is diagnosed for the faintest glimpse into Political Incorrectness. Any person, group, or inanimate object, perceived to have been wronged, express their or its anger with nearly all of my postings. On occasion, this scrutiny makes me question the moral stances that I present. This self-investigation, I quickly close. Re-reading a past blog, one I pulled to use as fodder for this exact moment, I will make my point.

This posting was a mostly harmless non-expert commentary on economics. Expert, a word as you know that I often have trouble defining. In this posting, it is very well defined as non.

This writing contained the following statement; 'Why do toothpaste manufacturers make tubes with unattached caps?' Yeah, I know, economics, toothpaste? Not new to you, I often wander write.

My personal problem is that I tend to lose the caps. The toothpaste dries, clumps, ends up on the toothbrush and then on my tongue. To me it is texture revulsion. I admit as an adult I should be able to maintain cap control, but I do not. However, I ask you, does it deserve what follows?

Mister Rengaw!

I and others make those tubes. They are called Detachable Top Tubes. We are very proud of these tubes and work very hard to maintain quality control. It seems that you are an idiot. If you don't wish to use our fine product that is your choice, but please don't spread your detrimance on others.

(I don't know what that means.)

I make a living producing this product; if I lose my job are you going to pay my bills? Maybe you need to get your mommy to help you.

Name withheld.

Okay, this apparently hit a nerve. However, the idiot thing? And my mommy? Leave her out of it. Come on people! I've said it before and I will say it now; 'Let me give you a little advice. Pull down your pants and slide on the ice.'

So far, Xanax does not seem necessary. My ATI a mere emotional ripple. Being a nurse, Pami prescribes me the window seat. This left me guarded by the window right and her left. Satisfying to me, I know no Gammy and her baby's would be overwhelming me. As Grandmothers will. As best I wished and hoped, all was well. The words 'serenity now' chuckled in then out me. Pami looked to me.

Pami reaches to her seat back and pulls out Catch 22. A read unlike Pami in so many ways. There are very few, and I hate to admit that there are indeed any, but I started reading and did not finish that book. I know that it is a cult classic and revered by many. But for mental health reasons I could not finish it. With each new character that was introduced, every new character that purposely wandered apart from the safe place that I wished to shelter my mind within, my ordered rule was jarred by a mocking thump. Dear reader, if you were a psychiatrist, this would be the place where you would say; 'How does that make you feel Daniel?'

I hung in there for about a third of the book, and then I placed it away. Far away I thought. Not far enough I now know. I had made Pamila aware that Catch 22 had scared me off. Perhaps this set her intrigue afire.

The day before leaving, Pamila asked me to fetch Catch 22 for her. I did not. However, I did draw her an oral pirate's map of where it hid within my office's bookshelves. She located the X, dug it up, and now holds it in her hands.

Probably it was a weak deduction, but I thought she hoped it to be everything I was not. A temporary escape from Doctor Daniel Rengaw. I did not like her wanting to be away from me. However, I relent that if I were she, I would need a getaway as well.

My uncomfortableness not of any importance to her, and most likely not to you either, I was pleased that she was venturing from her Romance Novels. Even if it was to be only for this one. I had mixed feelings. I was glad that she was stepping into a different genre. But worried that she might like it. Like, meaning escape. I clung to, rationalized, that it was a good thing. She could tell me what I had left unfinished.

Aware now for forty-nine minutes that my seat back held a yellow folder containing a short story that I had converted from an interview nearly fifteen years ago, I was now keenly aware of it. With my inner strength being what it is not, I was proud that I had held firm. I had crossed through time. Time that was set aside for marital obligatory conversation.

Simply knowing that the yellow was there, was not the wanting magnet drawing me to it. Knowing that I had not read it in around ten years, two months, and seventeen days, was the anxious force of my curiosity. (Rojer would be so proud.)

The reason I brought the story; ignorance of its content. Simple to me, it was journalistic preparation. This is what I was selling myself. My brother the salesman says; 'You do not need to believe it, you only need to sell it.'

I fully knew the facts fictions and emotions that the words within held. My curiosity was brought of insecurity. A story that I had written during a different life, I needed to fall back in to. It was not the fall that I worried about, it was the sudden thump. Not the what of the story, the how. How was my writing of so long ago? A question I would not ask, but an answer I needed. A moment of apprehension. An eighth grader being handed a report card.

Even before wheels up, it was right there. I could touch it, open it, pull the papers and start my analysis. However, I knew if I gave it any mind, it would become a neurotic fixation.

Pami now searching for the elephant ear in Catch 22, signaled the end of our conversation time. Elephant earing a book is wrong. It is wrong, always has been, and always will be. It has always been a bug-in-my-boo. (My late Grandmother's saying.) Deliberately damaging a perfectly good book is wrong. Pami was deliberately anti bookmark. I know it is one of those things that she does to get under my skin. Not marriage damaging, but just plain snotty. She would never do it to one of my books. Well really, this was my book. But it was the whole Catch 22 thing.

Pre this moment our conversation was general and scattered. Even to me, it was obvious that I had to control my conversation domination problem. Therefore, all topics were Pami's. She drove the conversation. I did not drive from the backseat. Rhythmically Pami put the pedal down on a deliverance that was both fluid and quick of pace.

Some topics are important to you reader, some are not. Some topics, to me... I will take the 5th. All topics, to her, I assumed had importance. You can decide which fit where. Pami traveled on the following routes.

"It was nice of Rebecca to give us a ride to the airport. Did you see how big that bruise on her upper arm was? She must have fallen very hard. What did she say, she did it rock-climbing."

"Tina and Dennis invited us for dinner the evening we get back. That was nice, now we won't have to worry about cooking."

"How long has it been? When was it '96' when we last were in Sparta?"

"I hope Mervin is okay with Sarina. He is kind of lost when his Daddy is gone."

"I hope the weather is nice while we are there."

"Catch 22. So far I'm enjoying it."

"Billy..."

"Rojer..."

"Wade..."

"Stick..."

"Derron..."

"My upcoming optometrist appointment and my one year transplant follow up at University Hospital."

At this point reader you should say; 'Thank you Daniel.' Even as short as this rather benign summary was, I fear that I may have lost some of you. Truth being told, my hurried synopsis was probably more for me. Now, I get to do this:

'This.' As much as my mind is demanding, and my right hand tries to reach and grasp, I can't leave you quite yet. I indeed need to leave you with the briefest of preface.

Pamila was right; it was 1996 when at The Old Crow Tavern, adjacent to the Boardwalk, located in Old Downtown Sparta, that I met Harry Mortson. Harry was the reason we were heading there now. We, I am pleasantly surprised that it is. These types of trips I usually venture alone. Pami wanting to return to the site of my youth has sparked a childish exuberance in her. Her excitement has leaked on to me.

When first we met Harry, he was a man of four and seventy. For a man of his age, I found him to be well spirited, mentally sharp, and seemingly healthy. (As I age, I tend to say these things less and less.) This only being significant because our first meeting was fifteen years ago. What was, and is significant to me, is that he was a WWII veteran. Paydirt!

I need to throw this in; 'There are, more than you think.' This statement is a bit of self-defense for what will follow. Please refer back to this statement, as it will indeed concern you.

Pamila will interject whenever it fills a space in a conversation, that there are none like him. Him, meaning me. Still following? Okay, so, those that are like me, find that the more one studies significant historical events, there are more events revealed as historically significant. Therefore, I tend to define more events as historically significant than many other people might. Probably more than most. My too long gotten to point; I find many events as significant. And few will deny WW II was. I agree, and thus I search-out and absorb intently the words of all WWII veterans. (When you lay down this evening, and try to fall asleep, I hope that paragraph will not keep you awake. I guess I could rewrite it. But I don't want to.)

Harry was a B17 crewmember; a Bombardier. Like a moth to a porch light, his stories timelessly drew me. We spoke for a rather long time; a mere instant. My mind vicariously played every role in his tales. Backing a line, I wrote 'we'. That is because Pami did not want to leave the conversation either. I believe it was Harry's emotions that gently embraced her. Almost without taking needed breaths, Harry reveled romantically of his crewmembers. They were his friends. They are his brothers. Some moved on in that time. Some moved on later. All would be forevermore.

In the end, I found out that there would not be one; only a pause. Harry now aware that I was a starving writer, wanted to tell me one other story. A longer story that he would hold for the next day. With an obvious loss of pleasant remembrances, Harry's face molded stern. His new tone harshly mellow, he alluded to a less frivolous story. I was elated. Pami politely received his invite and apologized for her inability to attend. There was not a literal reason for her decline. I knew the meaning of the reason. Harry's sudden sullen body language convinced her that what this would be, would not be her. My own reasoning questioned her turndown. Surely, this would be a Significant Historical Event.

Now, 'This'.

When: September 1996.

Who: Harry Mortson.

What: WWII B17 Bombardier.

Where: Sparta New Jersey.

This story is about a man that...

My ballpoint not warm yet, I have placed it down for a rest that it does not need. I sit staring at abrupt letdown. Studying the absorbed black ink held by the yellow sheet, and the pen lying next to it, I understand that neither pen nor words are parallel. Both must be. This understanding quickly lifts a flush of anxiety from stomach to thought. I geometrically line pen with tablet. This corrected, I stare at words not parallel to the story, as you must live it.

'This story is about a man that...' Running atop lines that are perfect, these seven chosen words are so not. They have given birth to a lifeless tale. My story is of only seven words.

I am at a loss as to how my thoughts written were these. Wondering and looking, staring at the resting pen, I decide the Bic is at fault.

Silent speaking to pen; 'How could ya do it man? You have started this tale with words that have instantly sent it polar opposite of where it needs to be.' Perhaps I should change pens. Or... or... perhaps I am to blame and should stop talking to pens.

Is this the first, first sentence, that I have ever started a story with? No, but quite possibly it is the worst. As abbreviated as the sentence is, structure and flow are irrelevant. As I lazily understand the hard working rules of grammar, grammar is not eh problem. The problem in my little mind is that both scope and direction have singleness. A solitary man, a moment that is only once, a lone story. Three commas, three untruths. All three simplistically and unintentionally place you in a closet that should have had a locked door. I do not want you in there. However, you have taken a comfortable seat within. Let me see if I can coax you out to the sundeck.

Noticing my use of 'Tale' and 'Story', I will add them to be wrong as well. What Harry Mortson gifted me with is neither. Therefore, Tale and Story, I banish you to the Isle of Unwanted Words.

I am a mere word vessel. My wish is to keep your read goblet full. Again, and I need to stop causing them, this is a problem. I am not sure that I can relate to you the gift Harry gave to me.

Of what Harry will tell, I have grasped the following. For one, it is emotion. For eight, it is attachment eternally bound. By many, it is the ultimate sacrifice. By the greatest generation, it is unyielding resolve.

I ask myself; how will I present this with what it merits? Not only do I owe it to them, you must see it as it was. They deserve no less. At this end, my work will not be complete unless I have given clear the attached emotional resolve of those that sacrificed.

All that knew, and always had forever known, now, remembering is all there is. Remembering waving fields of amber. Now, knowing was of unsettled brown silt that refused to find a place to lay in rest. The once growing soil that was now unable to enter a long fertile slumber. The grape that was being wrath'd was all of America. This land once so green on the plains, and greener in the Banks, was Steinbeck's metaphorical turtle. Agonizingly slow, yet determined, America was crossing the highway so fraught with ever danger. With every tiny lumbering step, the possibility of its own demise was a single misstep ahead. An end that would not be seen, but always possible, and never out of thoughts.

Harry Mortson, Lieutenant Army Air Corps.

Harry Mortson, Lieutenant Colonel United States Air force, retired.

"I don't know how to say what that time was." Harry questioned me with a gaze. "Sad maybe. It was all so sad. Everything was wasted. Do you think?" I did not know if it was sad. I did not have the right to know if was sad.

"We... my parents had sixty acres of beautiful farmland in Hamden North Dakota. It was." Harry's face, round and sagging with age, was filled with emotion. It was of missing amongst a sadness of hurt. His still full head of bright white hair appeared a little less as he was now back in Hamden. "My Grandfather bought it in 1899 for a little over $1,800.00. It was the only place my father ever lived. MY father." Harry took a moment spent in a smile. "He told me shortly before he passed that he had never been out of the county. 'Why would I? No need. What do I need that I can't get here?' " Harry chuckled longingly with his father quoting.

"My brother and I were both raised on the farm. We had a wonderful youth. Care free and easy. It was the best place to grow up. It was just so always welcoming. Happy ya know. It was the last time that it would be." Harry exhaled a short chuckle. "But now, living, seeing outside the farm, it was a tough life. Farm life was hard. I guess I am spoiled now." He hunched forward as if he hurt. "It was a wonderful place though." He sat straight, the pain gone.

What Harry was saying, or what I thought he was saying, confused me. These words care free and easy; he was implying that their truest meaning would only be found after the farm.

My days of youth had grown into remembrances. However, I needed to be back there again. Otherwise, I could not meet Harry's past. Even then, it was a time that I could not go to. It was a place in time that only his generation could go. His words could only have meaning for the greatest generation. I was only a come-along-later of that generation.

How could this be? How could his life after the farm be his easy? What little I did know of Harry, most of us would not. There was battle. Men died. Friends and enemies. He had killed combatants and he had killed innocent. He had killed. Easier? Carefree? I did not know. I would not know. I am so young confused.

Harry again went home. "Worth wise... aah, the farm probably didn't have any." He grunted. "It was useless." Harry sighed deeply as these words did not come comfortably. Slight and slow, Harry's head shook. "All those years, every year." Harry's eyes, square on the coffee table in front of him, were seeing the farm in all its different moments. He lifted his head away from the farm. He stared at me with an intended pause. The pause asked me to listen to what would follow. " 'Mister Rengaw, how does your mind work?' " I laughed short and hard. He chuckled. As did Todd. "No no that is not what I mean. How does your memory work?" He did not pause for an answer. "Mine, not always, sometimes, I guess mostly with good remembrances. It is like pictures. Photographs." Then he paused waiting. I had nothing! His head quick and slight tilted to his left. "In this remembrance I have four photos." He needed to modify. "They are color photos. Not just shades of gray." I smiled at his apparent need to prism this memory.

"Like a Vegas dealer tuning hole cards, these four pictures rolled through the year in a sequence determined by the seasons. My first focused memory is the snow. It was always clean. Brilliant white. But sometimes it shined more than other times. You know, depending on the wind. A northern or southern wind." He stared at me. "Temperature." The old farmer clarified for someone so young.

"This photo melted into the next. So fresh smelling. So full of anticipation. It is my favorite." Harry waved his hand in an erasing manner. "I'm sorry I don't know why I said that. They are all my favorite. They all have a different feeling attached. A different meaning. Ya know what I mean?" I marveled at how Harry himself was able to sequence. I first noticed it the previous day. When he was deep in thought, memory driven thought, he was one person. He was eloquent and succinct with his thoughts. When he was just Harry, he was just Harry. Real, what I believed real Harry to be. However, it was his ease with toggling the switch back and forth that intrigued me. He did it flawlessly, smoothly, never trying too hard.

Only my thoughts interrupted Harry's telling. He never paused. "The rolling hills of perfectly plowed, perfectly brown, perfectly seeded land. Hmm... I don't know why I see it that way. You know, rolling." He chuckled short. "Our land was as flat as a pond on an early spring morning." Again he chuckled. Again he toggled.

"Green Sprouts... did you ever hear tell of the Green Sprouts? FDR? The Green Sprouts?" My mind circled a trail around nothing. I hoped he would lay me a path. His face puzzled briefly as he tried to fit the pieces. "The Green Sprouts of the growing economy. FDR. You know. Roosevelt spoke often of the Green Sprouts of the growing economy." I wasn't sure if I should be, but I was embarrassed that I couldn't find my way. But more, I didn't want to embarrass him.

Softly I said; 'I don't recall... I never-'

"Oh hell I'm an old man my memory sucks maybe it wasn't FDR maybe it was somebody else." Harry indeed had billeted away some years. However, his mind was laser sharp. Harry did not suck. "Aah! It doesn't matter anyways. I loved that crippled son-of-a-bitch. Loved him. That angry old mule always plowed on. He wasn't afraid of anyone." He chuckled quick and then continued; "I don't know who was more afraid of him, the Germans or our communist allies. Russians!" In disgust, his head shook. "General, George, Patton, was right! Those assholes! We should have blown them to bits. Look at the years of trouble we have had with them. Where's your wall now you Bolshevik bastards!" Harry rocked forward in laughter. His openness tickled me. However, with my neurotic need for structure, I did wonder if his path had been lost.

I waited, he enjoyed, he switched. "The next slide is Green Sprouts. That is next. The millions of dirt blisters, slowly being raised until they without ever being noticed were tossed aside by an uncoiling green sprout. My brother and I use to bet chores on the day that the first sprout would appear. He was really good at it. I usually had his chores to do.

"The soil, the fertile life giving brown would be so slow, so continual. I always felt that the soil was alive. Alive. And... I don't know, sort of confident. Yeah! Confident! It knew it could grow the best wheat in the county. And it did. Our wheat was magnificent. The best! Always the best.

"From sprouts, to young, to adult plants, whatever kind of plant they were. Almost all was wheat. Our cash crop. The rest, the Kitchen Garden, had dozens of different plants. The colors. The Kitchen Garden was beautiful. All the colors. I'll never forget the perfect colors. Do you know what I mean? Green, perfect green. What everyone thinks of as green. Perfect red and yellow. Mmm mmm. Perfect!

"' 'Mister Rengaw have you ever been in a field of golden wheat? Amber waving wheat?' " He hiccup's a laugh that held satisfaction. Looking into my eyes, he knew the answer. He was right. Knowing he was right he tried to share. "Wheat forever, shoulder high, it covered the world. When you stand in a field of adult wheat, wheat ready for the yellow and red Harvester, you understand what fresh smells like. Nothing else has the scent of fresh like wheat. I can not describe it. That smell, it is every bit a part of my last photo as are the colors. But you know what? This last picture is in black and white. And yet I know every color. Is that strange? How can that be? It makes no sense right.

"This is the last photo. When I think about it now, it makes me sad. But then, in this picture, or maybe right after, there is nothing but satisfaction. A sense of a job well done. You did it. It was slow hard and constant. The wheat is in. The Kitchen Garden harvested. You are done. It's a powerful feeling Mister Rengaw. I don't know if you've ever felt that. I don't think you have. Unless you have farmed, I don't think you can. I don't feel like there is anything exactly like it. But ya know that feeling was never around long. Soon, way too soon, that feeling would swell into restlessness. You couldn't wait for the pictures to start rolling again. You had nothing but energy to burn. Oh there were still chores. But you could finish all before lunch. Or you could spread them out over the day. It was a very restless time full of anticipation. It was like you had to work at not working. I felt like I was floating in the middle of the Atlantic. I wanted to go somewhere but there was no land in sight. There was nowhere to go. Eventually, slowly, the Gulf Stream would take you there. But damn it took a long time. Do you understand?"

I thought I understood. But there was no way that I could. My adult life to this point did not repeat itself over and again in a perfect cycle. Maybe, a single day was this. Seasonal cycles my life lived only on the calendar. Only with rain and sun, heat and cold. Emotions? None like Harry's. Work, less work, work again, was not rhythmic in my life. Sure, there were pauses and interruptions. Sometimes planned sometimes not. But they were always brief. No, Harry was right, I did not understand. That feeling, I had never had. I want to need to be a farmer.

"Now, which is now then, the brown confidence is gone. The Kitchen held only pity. Holding it loose, stagnant in a soil without a top. The perfect colors were a tertiary of dead. The photos stopped rolling. Now, which is then, they for me are only remembrances blown eastward."

Harry's hands, those that had so been a part of Hamden and of this he was now telling, had their plug pulled. Arms without another word to emphasize dropped on either side of his chair. Slowly, and without thinking to, Harry's hands curled into fists. Not a clench of anger, more of a frustration that he could not fix. A frustration that was still held deep within him. A self-failure that Harry had never forgiven himself. This wrong, as he saw it, will be seen by a mistaken Harry until his end. Anger, he would share with me later. By now, now which was now, hidden after all that was The Good Farm, there was indeed an anger.

"Hamden I knew would always be my home, but I couldn't live there any longer. My brother also came to grips with cupboards bare. Hell, there was less than enough to feed Mom and Dad. This land was their home. There never was a choice, they would always stay."

Harry's face filled with the warmth of something. Surely, it was what he would call a good remembrance. "Ya know..." His words fell off as he shaped thoughts. "It is so different today." He turned to his son. It seemed like he was going to thank Todd. It was an admiring look. One of love holding respect. His eyes were reflective, then searching. They sought what I was. Yes as a man, but it was the person that he most wanted to identify. I have no idea what he did find, but he did begin again. "The family, the spirit of the family changed. Almost overnight. A specific spot on the family time-line. Can you see it? The mark is right there. The depression. Right in the middle. The war. Right in the middle. That's when it happened. Families splintered, members left, it changed. It never shifted back. It won't and I guess it shouldn't. It is all so different now. Isn't it? Do you think?"

Harry smoothly rubbed his chin. "Before and still then, in America, family, the word, the bond, it was all inclusive. Dominant. It was lives always. Yes!" he shouted. It was with an epiphany happening. "It was everything every way. Family was singular. The force of the family always did everything. Every decision was decided by the family, for the good of the family. All moneys went to one. Things were done only after discussion. Damn we were always discussing. That is the way it was. Every crisis, no matter the size or shape brought open discussion. And not just by the senior members. Yeah they made the final decisions, but there was always a discussion. Formal, they were formal discussions. Hmm..." I chuckled softly. Not softly enough.

'Why do you find that humorous?'

'No! I don't... sorry it is only something that popped into my head. It was not you.' Considering me, a look, his look, slammed me back to Basic Training. I was a young Airman about to piss on a highly polished Barack floor. And can someone please tell me why this large man with the Park Ranger hat keeps yelling at me.

Sorry! I digress.

How bad was my faux pa? My giggle was brought about by inner recognition that I do that. Harry's sudden change in direction is what Pami calls a Danny Digress.

I waited without breathable air. I had done a bad thing. Pay the gatekeeper I surely would. Bad interviewer! Maybe this is why I am a starving writer.

Harry's face slowly turned toward Todd. However, his eyes stayed fixed on me. I reached to turn the recorder off. 'Go ahead Dad it's okay he didn't mean anything.' Harry's eyes jerked to his son. 'Dad he is just a stupid Kid.' My hand held above the recorder. Not possible to move any slower, Harry returned to me. Todd winked at me. I pulled my hand back.

Without inflection, but with earned respect, Colonel Mortson asked; 'What popped into your empty head Airman?' Trying for sincerity, I instantly told him. My voice cracking like an Airman Basic, I clumsily spit it out. As stupid as it was, I told the Colonel. Finished telling, it was the stupidest thing I had ever said to an Officer. Well... maybe not.

Harry took it in. His eyebrows lifted for attack. His lips quivered. I sat back as far as I could. Slapping a thigh Harry burst into laughter. Not knowing anything, I did nothing. 'You are an idiot!' Harry was nothing but raw laughter. A moment passed while Harry enjoyed. Unsoiled, I eased in my seat.

Just like that, Harry was over it. He calmly began again. "Both me and my brother had been away at college. Oh yeah... That is where I was going. It must make you wonder how the two of us could afford college. See, that is what I was speaking of. Remember! Family! Anyways. It was always understood for as long as I could remember that I was going to college. Never a doubt, which was the family decision. With this decision was the always putting away of money for the both of us. It didn't seem like it was hard to do. It was just done. That was it.

"Both of us being gone September through June was both good and bad for my parents. Two less mouths to feed, two very hungry mouths, that was the good. The bad, the bad that made their lives almost beyond what they could physically endure, was us not being there. Not working, not helping. Sixty percent of their workforce was off at college. I guess I'm being sexist against my own mother." He huffed twice very deep and quick. 'Don't write that.' Todd laughed hard. I wanted to as well but was afraid to. It was too soon. However, 'don't write that', you just read that.

Harry's body went limp with heavy. His chest supported his chin. "Damn. It never was worse. Damn!" Todd rose quickly.

'Dad why don't we take a break.' With eyes glossed, Harry did not acknowledge his son. Not his suggestion, perhaps not his presence.

"Oh both me and my brother would come home every summer and help, but it wasn't much. It wasn't enough. I thought it was more of a burden than a help. Mom would have it no way other."

Todd was looking down at his father. Harry looked up. 'What?' Harry asked his son. Todd understood, taking his seat again. Harry pushed through. "In 1938 I got my degree and hitched back to the farm. I can't tell you how many times on that trip I asked myself what the hell was I goona do now?" Again he huffed. "All dressed up with no place to go. You understand right! There were few jobs at that time. You know that right! Hamden, forget it." His anger began to show. Not at me. Which was good. But it was there. There, a dark mist that would never lift from the farm. Still, so much was always warm bright weather. This is what Harry took off the farm. This is what he held on to tight.

"So it wasn't..." Harry stopped. His words seemed too bulky to get out. Whatever he had to say now was very important to him. He got a bit louder. "Oh I forgot! Sorry I need to tell ya this." Again he looked for my attention. "Just before I left for my freshmen year, I took a Civil Service examination. I took it and never really thought about it much after that. Until..." He paused. Thinking aloud, he started again. "Oh... maybe not yet. No, it is okay. I think you will understand."

Harry took a pause to change mind flow to word flow. "It was late in the summer of 38. I remember it was a very hot day. For September very hot. I had spent the morning circling around the property on a wagon. I was doing some general maintenance. Fixing the irrigation system and inspecting the crops." He huffed quick. "Crops. For what they were. It really wasn't hard work. But damn it was hot.

"I'd been watching the sun's height but I must have misjudged it. Splashing water on my face from the wash basin, Momma who was disgusted with me, scolded in the way she did." Harry grinned. "It's funny, but when I was twelve I started laughing at her scolding. Her tone wanted to be angry, but her voice had so much love. I would laugh and she would get madder and madder. But she still could not lose the mad love. I would laugh."

Harry was smiling loud as he continued; "Drying my hands I heard; 'Harry I swear you get lost more than any child I have. Do you want to waste this food?' Of course I laughed. Well I just told you. You'd laugh to right. I mean she only had two childs. And I never wasted food. 'I'm sorry Momma.' I was always saying that. Then I would kiss her cheek. I ate my lunch and sat back. 'You want some more Harry?' Mom asked. Dad snorted. He and I both knew there was not more. Not for this meal.

"After I finished my meal, only after I finished, my mom brought me an envelope. There was no writing on it and it was open. I didn't think it had been sealed. But if it had it didn't matter, my mom would always open it. She would always say; 'It might be important.' And really, back then it usually was. It is not like today. Back then mail was rare and always had meaning.

"Quickly I realized that this was not mail. It couldn't be from the United States Post Office. ''What is this?' I asked.

'Just open it son. Read it.' My dad said this with a smile on his face. It wasn't much of a smile, but still more than he was trying to let it be. I looked up at my mother. She was standing there wringing her hands in her favorite apron.

'Open it Dear open it,' Mom begged. My heart pulsed warmth to my head that my hand held something wonderfully important. Moms are the worst poker players.

"I guess it was pure excited nerves, again I looked at both sides of the manila envelope. And there still was no writing. I fumbled with it and pulled the yellow paper out. It was twice folded and opened to six inches by four inches. It read.

Washington D.C..

If offered... Would you accept... a civil service position in Washington DC. $10,080.00 per year. Please acknowledge in 7 days.

"It was signed, not a signature but it was from the Assistant to the Secretary of War. I don't remember the name. Does it matter? I could look it up but I'd rather not. I wish I'd saved that telegram. I'd love to have it but who thinks of that stuff in the moment. Ya know?" Not thinking he did, he did, Harry waited for an answer. Not knowing what he wanted answered; I hoped I would pass with a slight headshake. "Good!" Harry boomed deep and satisfied. I laughed cautiously. Todd's torso jerked a silent chuckle.

Without any notice, Harry started to his feet. Todd jumped and grabbed his arm to assist. Harry lifted his arm up away and free. He did not want any help and I did not think he needed any.

Light, presenting words of importance only to himself, Harry said; "It's gonna rain on the Fuhrer." My eyes followed as he headed to a hallway and disappeared. Rain on the Fuhrer? I didn't... My thoughts of not understanding must have showed on my face. Todd said; "Rain on the Fuhrer. My father told me that his crew use to say that as they left the briefing room and headed to their aircraft. I think many crews said the same. It was kind of a thing. It was like their war cry. Now, after the war, it morphed into a new meaning."

"Pissing on the Fuhrer?" I asked. Todd nodded.

"Yeah, pissing on Hitler." Instantly that was hilarious and I wanted it saved. I folded it and tucked it away.

"What does Harry say about-"

"About shitting?" Todd grinned huge. Without saying another word, Todd said everything. He left it to whatever I wanted it to be. It was perfect.

Having not been at Todd's home very long, it was already raining. How often would the clouds be opening up? How long would this interview take? Searching yesterday's visit at The Old Crow, it had only poured once in three hours. With this look back, my concern faded.

Harry's steps were hard on wood, his feet not yet seen. "Damn did he get wet." Now in the room. "That sure felt good. At my age anything feels good." At himself, Harry chuckled and sat back down.

The fingers of Harry's left hand passed over his lips. He pinched his chin into a dimple. "So where were we? Oh yeah... It was uh... December, yeah December, the middle of. So I left for Washington D.C.. What a place. 'Have you ever been there Mister Rengaw?'

'Once. I was pretty young.'

'Good!' he once again boomed out. Once again it startled me. Okay Rengaw... get a handle on it. You cannot jerk every time the bear growls.

'Did you know Mister Rengaw-'

'Please call me Daniel or Danny.' He sat back stiff upright. Harry's loose lips tightened, his mouth shrunk and his head dipped slightly. Dark eyes lifted meeting mine. Harry swung his face to meet Todd's

'Daniel, my father would prefer to call you Mister Rengaw. Or Sir. Sir would work also.' Todd shrugged. 'It is a military thing.'

'It's just respect that's all. Politeness. Damn politeness that's all. Where have manners gone?' Harry snapped this at Todd. He swung back to me. He had snapped it to me as well. He had snapped it to all the world.

I wanted to defend myself. 'Harry I am...' My lungs had no air and my larynx was closing. In mid-sentence, I glimpsed into horror. For the past twenty-four hours, I had been calling him Harry. It was awkward in thought; did I think it would be better in sound. 'Is it okay if I call you Harry?' It was only a tenth of a second, but I thought it bad. 'I... I meant no disrespect.' He was going to rain on me. His brow was hiding a full third of his eyes. His cheeks were pulsating. Should I duck from the explosion? He stared a stare that was not going to end. The interview however...

'Dad!' With Todd's naming, Harry slammed back in his seat with a loud slap of a thigh.

'Gotcha boy! Damn you're an easy son-of-a-bitch.' I was.

'Dad!' Todd said firmly.

'Oh take it easy son. I' am just screwing with the boy.'

'Just once Dad, behave. He is a guest in this house.'

'Ahh! He drank whiskey with me yesterday. He's not a guest. Right Mister Rengaw?' I guess I was not a guest. Still, Harry wanted to call me Mister Rengaw. Twenty-three years in the military will do that. I kind of appreciated it. Not so much the words of respect, more his want to.

'Sir you were speaking of Washington.' His thoughts re-sharpened with a quick cutting of his chuckle.

"Yeah I was. Do you know about Washington? Washington the man designed Washington the city. He engineered the entire city. It is a wheel and spoke layout. European. French I think. Hell I'm not sure. The whole damn thing was built on swampland. Soggy Ground or some such. Son..." He leaned toward me. 'Did you know that by law it can only be one hundred square miles in size?'

Replace Soggy Ground with Soggy Bottom, take some of the engineering applications from Washington the man, I thought Harry to be right. Or some such.

'No I didn't know that Harry.' Again the brow, again the stare. Both theatrically over presented.

'Dad!' I laughed freely.

Through his self-enjoyed laughter, Harry rattled out; 'Sorry Mister Rengaw. Sorry. You are a good kid. I'm finished now.' The switch in Harry suddenly contacted closed. His eyes drifted upward. 'Wait!' He found me again. 'Mister Rengaw didn't you say yesterday that you had been in the Air Force? Noncommissioned right?'

'Yes Sir. I was a Technical Sergeant when I left the service.' That title sent him searching rank within today's Air Force. 'E-6,' I clarified.

'Oh okay. Good!' His cheeks pushed his face to one of appreciation. 'NCO's! Hmm. The heart of the Service. The heart and soul. The brains as well.' He bellowed a single laugh. Quick, his eyes dashed first right then left. His voice hushed to a whisper. 'Officers. Not worth a damn. Fat ass pencil pushers. They didn't know shit about shine-olla. His volume gained. 'I mean the Desk Jockeys. You know!' Getting smarter, I said nothing. I hoped my face said the same. I thought I was now good with him, but why push the envelope.

'Would anyone like something to drink?' Todd asked taking to his feet. Todd's abrupt intervention made me question if I'd dropped another faux pa. Had I... Did I say something wrong? Thankfully, calm swatted away my paranoia. Todd was simply playing good host. Harry lifted upward but not out of his chair.

'Schlitz! Get me a Schlitz Todd.'

'It's too early Dad.' Father, with un-words that I was not supposed to be a part of, looked hard softly at Son.

'Water. A little water would be nice Todd.' I thanked Todd for his offering. He headed to the kitchen. Harry watched the kitchen door swing closed behind him.

Harry turned to me and gently said; 'He's a good kid. He just worries about me too much.' Todd was at least fifteen years older than I, but to Harry he was still a kid. No doubt I was just cutting my first teeth.

Wanting to keep the interview moving, I prompted Harry to do so. 'Go ahead Harry.' He sat back covering one hand with another. Both now rested in his lap. This body language grabbed me. It looked forced, it took effort, it was awkward, it was not Harry.

"Yes. Let's see. Okay. Yeah so I was assigned to the Quartermaster General's office. It was a brand new building and was still under construction. I think it was supposed to be for the new Social Security Administration. They never got it, we took it over." Harry grunted victoriously and then looked at me questioning. "Do you want me to tell you what happened over the next couple of years?" He did not slow. "The work was pretty menial. Mostly clerical and some courier. Oh and some research not much. It was mostly bureaucratic bullshit. Let's move beyond all that. Although..." He smiled. "I could tell you some great stories." His head tilted slightly back, his grin was remembering some great playtime. He waved his hand away. "It was mostly chasing skirts and getting drunk. Just stupid shit. You know. Kid crap!" I was still. "Never mind! I'm sure you don't care." I would have loved to care.

Harry looked to the kitchen door that was yet still. Leaning forward he whispered; 'Would you like some Moonshine? I've got a little Still in the shed. MY Dad made Shine most his life. Mom didn't know. It's kind of a hobby for me. Probably sentimental. You think. My son pretends not to know about it.' He leaned back and chuckled short.

With a pushing of air and a metallic squeak the kitchen door swung out. Todd placed a glass of water on the table before me, and a cold can of Schlitz in Harry's hand. Harry looked into Todd. Todd looked deeper into Harry. Todd's look I had seen before from Pami. It said; I shouldn't, you don't deserve it, I love you. From Pami, it would end with 'Idiot'. But it's not just Harry or me, not only Todd or Pami, it is all of you. Oh yeah! You all have gotten that look. You know you have. They probably shouldn't. You did not deserve it. They do love you. They cannot not. Sorry if you also get 'Idiot'. However, do not let it bother you. Consider yourself lucky to have someone to call you idiot. You, I, all, are stupidly loved. Pamila chose to marry me. So if I am stupidly loved, what does that make her? My father did warn her. Oh. By the way, thanks Dad!

Todd allowing, Harry won. I am certain that this is common, a theme of their relationship. Harry shared a smile with his son. He looked at me. His look asked; 'Did you see what just happened there?' Taking his seat, Todd's look was; 'What ya gonna do?' Two taps on the top of the can, a pop, a swoosh, Harry drew a good sip. I so wish that I could tell that it all ended with a long and satisfied 'Ahh!'

Refreshed, Harry's head tilted back and rested against the chair. Harry still inspecting the ceiling, more memories trickled to my ears. He spoke deliberately. "One afternoon, a rather warm day in early December 1941, the four of us were waiting for any last assignment that might come in. There was a radio playing in the secretary's office. It was one of those old wooden boxes. It had that wishbone shape ya know. We couldn't hear it very well. That thing crackled like a bowl of Rice Krispies. Fading, always fading in and out." Harry grinned that of a fond memory. "Suddenly Miss Nelson let out a gasping scream. Not loud but we all heard it." He paused briefly as he looked to Todd and then back to me. As he continued, I felt him looking around me into a different time, at a different place. Throaty and low, Harry went on; "Oh Miss Nelson... Miss Nelson, she was a real doll." Miss Nelson was a Harry photograph. "She use to wear those knit skirts. You know the ones that would form to her... to her form I guess." He made a curvy motion with his hands. Harry scooted forward and now saw me. His mind was... I was curious where it was. However, if I did know, I am not sure I should share it with you.

Todd was staring at him. Harry's face was flush as his emotions were revving up. His words rambled. "And those stockings the ones with seams running up the back of her gams her thighs and then disappearing under her skirt you know the ones I mean? And those sweaters. Elizabeth could wear a sweater. Damn! She knew how to wear a sweater. You know what I mean?" Hands cupping high at his chest, Harry further illustrated.

'Dad!' Todd's verbal slap was without conviction. Harry broke and looked to his son. Harry's glance was of missing lust and lasting respect. His face fell into a shade of blue sadness. I didn't know why or where the color came from. As curious as I was, now was not the right time. Asking why the sudden color, would have to be left to my wondering. Good interviewer.

Whatever the emotion was that now held Harry, it drifted the conversation silently along. I would tell you that it was an uncomfortable moment, but I was okay with it. I refreshed with a mental cleansing.

As quickly as the chalk of his emotion could be wiped from a slate, it was. "Did I tell you that I named our bomber after her? Luscious Liz. I had her painted on our ship. She was beautiful." His inflection, though unique, did not help me to picture Miss Nelson. I did have a picture, but it was not Harry's. That which he was not describing, left it so to me. I will let you paint your own. Miss Nelson, Luscious Liz. Both are Harry's. Harry should keep her.

Harry's desire was stashed away as he stepped back in to line. "Elizabeth's pitch, her inhaled delivery caught all of our attention. We ran in to her office. Kip spoke. And thinking back on it, he was the only one to do so during the next minutes.

"Kip shouted; 'What's wrong!' Liz's left hand covered parted lips. Finger extended, she pointed to the RCA. It's funny but I remember looking to the radio like this would help me hear it better. My ears picked up a reporter that was obviously excited, but was trying hard to be professional. What I heard was; 'Earlier today... To repeat. The Department of War has just released a statement that reads. Several hours ago our fleet in Pearl Harbor Hawaii, and our ground forces on the surrounding islands, were attacked by aircraft of the Imperial Nation of Japan.' The reporter paused for what seemed like a long time and started again; 'At this time, it is not clear exactly when this occurred. We have no reports on casualties or damage. To repeat...'

"I don't know the announcer's name. I'm not sure I ever did, but I wish I did. It would help you don't you think?"

'I can find out,' I said. I didn't think I would, it just seemed like the thing to say.

Without me noticing, Harry in the exuberance of his telling had eased to the edge of his chair. Like a curtain dropping between acts, Harry dropped deep within his padded chair. He sat there, but he was not here. I was however sure that it no longer was with Luscious Liz. His location I had heard tell of, more times than our world should have allowed. However, the noises that gave odors, the objects created for pain, the instant finality of death, only brothers be au fait with. Only brothers would together live through. Only brothers could never be apart from.

When it was time, when Harry returned from afar, we again would be settled in this place. What had happened afar, I did not know. But the happening was suddenly finished. Harry startled. Back and seeing me, it took him a moment to thaw. A puppy suddenly jerking awake from a deep slumber, Harry searched his surroundings. He glanced hard right to Todd, then slower back to me.

'Dad?' asked Todd gently. With a fidget and a clearing of throat, Harry buried thoughts he no longer wanted.

Harry goes to war.

"Over the next couple of weeks, the four of us friends thought about what we were going to do. Kip was going to keep working at the Quartermaster General's office. He had shot off two toes on his left foot in a rabbit hunting accident. He knew he wouldn't be drafted."
Harry laughed pretty hard remembering Kip's telling of the accident. It was quite funny. Mostly Harry's telling and animations. However, it was also quite lengthy and I will tuck it away for a time that is not this.

"Floyd enlisted and became a Dive-Bomber. Who the hell would do that! Landing on the tiny decks of aircraft carriers. Forget that shit! Crazy bastards. But that was Floyd."

Harry smiled shaking his head. "Crazy bastard. He was shot down in the north pacific. Over No Man's Land. Chichi Jima I heard it was. He was officially listed as Killed in Action.

"What those Japs did to downed flyers. I've heard horrible things. Beheadings, lancing's with bayonets and sharpened bamboo. Torture, a lot of torture. I hope Floyd died a peaceful death." Harry snorted. "Is there any such thing. Can death be peaceful? Maybe I guess." He chortled. "I guess I will find out soon enough." Todd grunted. 'What are you grunting at?'

'You are way too ornery to die.' Harry laughed. Todd smiled. I wanted to do both.

Harry's questions I knew some of. My answers would have been information he didn't need to carry forward. Under oath, before the Senate Oversight Committee, my truths would have only added to whatever sadness he held.

Harry realized that he'd asked me to go somewhere that he had stayed away from all the years. His rushed continuation cloaked all memories that he wished protected in a mist of forced naiveté.

"Floyd was my best friend. A good man." Harry struggled, not wanting to let loose that emotion which was a clump in his throat. His passages rid the dirty air, expelling the unwanted melancholy.

"Stanley Distick he was an ass. I did not like him. I mean he was a good enough fella. He was an ass though." These words flew from his lips still trying to protect and blanket. "He certainly didn't like me. He was one of those... what do you call em... know it all's. That's it. He didn't know shit. I mean not about real stuff. Ya know. We had several fights. Drunk, we were always drunk. Mostly they were about Miss Nelson. We never really hurt each other. We were young stupid and drunk. In the end, I won." Harry's smile filled to a sly grin.

"Anyways, I lost touch with him. He planned to keep working at the Agency. Shortly after I went overseas, he was drafted into the marines. I heard he'd been killed but that was all I knew. I guess I could have found out more, but I didn't care. Do you think that wrong? You know... me not caring.

"I guess I decided that I wanted to be a pilot. I didn't really decide then, I had wanted to be a pilot most of my life. All boys did. Why not. Airplanes were so new then. They were exciting. Adventurous. All boys wanted to fly. Hmm! That probably hasn't changed today." Harry looked to Todd.

'Ya think?' Todd shrugged.

"So I enlisted in the Army Air Corp. The 8th Air Force. The 8th Air Force had been formed in Savannah Georgia. It had no planes and only seven members." Harry grunted a smile. "Do you know what the first words I heard after enlisting were? They were from the Captain that swore me and four others in." Harry jumped to his feet and assumed Parade Rest. Todd flinched in his chair. 'Men! You have been chosen from a select few. You are the best this country has to offer. You are to be the nucleus of the 8th Air Force. You, and others that will soon follow, will defeat the most powerful flying force ever assembled. The Luftwaffe.' " Harry slapped his hands together and bent forward in a quick laugh.

"Do you know how stupid that sounded to me? I swear I almost lost it." Harry seemed to be reflecting. "But damn if we didn't do just that."

As Harry sat back to his seat, his face showed a pride that only those that had been selected could.

"Did you know Mister Rengaw that the 8th Air Force lost 26,000 men in World War two? More than the Marines did." He had me. This I did not know. And this, he would never know.

Like a cheetah pacing the Serengeti, he searched for the weakest wildebeest. My historical knowledge was being stalked. Harry wanted to know with what he was engaged. I understood this. Eventually satisfied that I was not the weakest of the herd, Harry moved on to other prey.

"First, I went to Maxwell Field and enlisted." Loosely fisted, he held his right hand shoulder height; his thumb extended. "It was crazy how many different locations I went for my training. Then I was ordered to Sarasota for pilot training." Index finger popped to count two. "There I trained to fly PT17's. It was also there that I did not become a Pilot." Still talking, Harry's head shook gently. "I had done everything. Almost. All the formal education. No problem! I passed all the flying skills."

'Not all!' Todd said with more than an ounce of irreverence.

Any man, well skilled in the art of fathering would respond thusly. Father, not a glimpse at son. Father did not reply to son. Most importantly, to father, not a pause. Harry didn't slight a syllable. Perfect!

"Well there was this one thing." Todd was staring at me. His grin was anticipating. He was trying to keep it just a grin. Though I did not know the smirk's reason for being, Dear reader, you are about to.

"There was this one stupid test. Really, it was pretty important. I was supposed to find a telephone poll line or a railroad track or anything similar. Then I was to drop to 2,000 feet and follow the line. Every damn time I did I would lose my lunch." Todd's entire body cramped. "My flight instructor took me into his office and yelled at me.

'What the hell is wrong with you Mortson? You have passed everything except low level paralleling. I am going to give you one more chance. That is all I can give you. Damn it Mortson you have to pass. If you don't... if you can't... if you vomit one more time, well... you are through. Do you understand?' I acknowledged, saluted, and turned to leave.

'Lieutenant!' I turned back. 'Look... I am on your side. I am going up with you. I will be right next to you. You will be fine.' " Todd coughed chokingly. "The next day up I went, and up it came. I was done."

'No no finish it tell him the rest tell the rest Dad.' Todd was on the edge. Harry looked hard at son. His hiding smile was noticeable. Todd leaned hard away from Dad; his enjoyment began to leak. Todd did not wait for the rest. 'He... he puked...' Todd looked at Harry. Difficult to talk, Todd pointed at Dad. 'His flight instructor... he threw-up all over his flight instructor.'

Harry looked at me with a wonderful enjoyment. 'Well I didn't want to throw up on the instruments.' Todd wiped tears with the back of his hand. 'Oh shut the hell up Todd. What did you want me to do?' Todd fell away and down the hallway. Harry looked to me with a smile that hurt just a bit.

The two of us enjoyed a moment. This story was one of those family treasures tucked away for always. It had been told and listened to many times. Todd loved to tell it, and Harry loved to have been it. He lived it now as a funny Harry moment. However, then, at 2000 feet with the instruments spared and his instructor covered, even then it had to be perfect.

Harry's head too quickly flipped back like a Pez dispenser. He squinted with pain. His raised hand presented thumb, index, and middle finger. "Washing out of pilot school I was sent back to Maxwell. I was given two choices: Navigator or Bombardier. I really didn't know what either was, but Bombardier just sounded cool. It sounded kind of tough. Bombardier! Don't you think?" Small pause. "So off I went to Santa Anna California; Bombardier training." Ring finger.

"Then to Victorville and back to Santa Anna." Pinky and other thumb. "Back at Santa Anna I finished my book learning; algebra, geometry, and a touch of mechanical physics. All in three weeks can you believe that?"

A glimpse of a nervous habit, Harry's Index finger that had yet to be a visual, scratched beneath a bulbous nose. "Let's see, it was now... July of 1942. Yeah July. Off to Albuquerque and more flight training. We flew PT10's." His scratching finger now another tally tick'd. "My training was complete. I graduated.

"Idaho, Boise, I was assigned to Boise. The 379th bomber group; squadron 527." Myself knowing it to be, it still intrigues me. You can ask any former military member, any age, they can tell you. They remember every assignment, every Command, every Group and Squadron they were ever in. It is somewhat unusual. But not if you are one of them. It is as much a family to you as your own. It's just a thing.

"Here is where I got my B17. I was assigned to a flight crew. She was a beautiful aircraft. Not even painted yet. The sun bounced off of her like something... mystical I guess. All silver, beautiful, brand new. I cannot describe it. Liz wasn't mine. I mean she belonged to the 8th Air Force. But yeah, she was ours. All eight of us. The crew." Glossed with remembrance, admiration pooled in the corners of Harry's soft eyes. "We were a great crew. All of us. Not a dead weight in the lot. Yeah I know, all crews say the same thing. But we truly were. We were awesome.

"There was Teddy Malone. He was our Tail Gunner. Corporal Malone. Sandy! Sandy was a good kid. Mellow. He was just 18. He faked his father's signature and enlisted at 17. He ran away from his home in Nebraska. Sent his family a telegram saying he had gone to New York to find work. Dumb kid. I use to tell him; 'Sandy, you do know that every time you send them a letter they are going to know that you are not in New York.' Oh, they knew he had enlisted alright. He would not admit it at first, but he knew that they did. I mean once we were in England the letters had a military post-mark. Come on! I mean I know that Nebraskans aren't the smartest... but..." Harry chuckled. I enjoyed his state competitiveness. Todd rejoined us. He had left his laughter somewhere else. Although, his face was still red. Harry gave no hint of noticing him.

"I remember that all of Sandy's letters from home ended the exact same way; Be safe. We are proud of you. Love.

With this fond glimpse into the past, Harry chuckled with abdomen only. "Mickey was the funniest of the crew. Mickey, Michael Phillips, had only humor in him. I mean it. When the conversation was a serious one, nothing, not a word. Literally. If he could not make it humorous, he would not say anything. Ever. At times it did seem a little off. But that is just the way he was. Don't get me wrong, Mickey spoke a lot. He was funny a lot. Mickey was our Radio Man. He didn't have a nickname. Everyone else did. Hmm!" Harry paused. "I never realized that before." Pause again. "He was also the tallest of the crew. Tall, very slim but young strong. He was nearly 5' 10"." Harry's eyes widened on me. He seemed to be looking for something from me. Nothing, he continued; "For bomber crewmembers he was tall; most men were short and thin. There isn't a lot of room in a B17. I know that sounds strange, they are so big; but inside there just was not a lot of room.

'Have you ever been on a B17? An air show maybe?'

'A couple of times but they were mostly stripped inside. Most of the avionics' systems weren't there anymore.'

"Mickey struggled to get down the tunnel between the flight deck and the middle of the bomber. 'Did I tell you he was from Kalamazoo?' " Harry waited for something. 'Kalamazoo is in Michigan,' he added.

"He was also the oldest. Twenty-eight. He was twenty-eight.

"The Pilot, Engineer, and Navigator were officers. Ball Turret and Top Turret were noncommissioned." Harry took a long pull on his beer. I waited for him to begin again. He didn't seem to want to. Tentatively, I nudged him.

'Harry, can I please have their names?'

Instantly and definitively, Harry said; 'No.' Harry's single word was void of tone. This no tone had meaning. As all awkward moments do, this one passed slowly.

So now what? What would Mike Wallace do?

'Daniel, my father... it is kind of a big deal with him. Out of respect for them, he won't talk about them.' Todd studied his father who was looking at what I did not understand. Todd continued; 'I don't know their names. I don't think I've ever heard him say their names.'

'Oh oh that's okay,' I said. Harry's eyes snapped to me. They asked me if it truly was okay. Then I didn't know what they wanted. Stupid Kid.

Harry's emotional light clouded over in dark shade. His voice along with all he now was toned somber. Each, all his chosen words came only after careful consideration. Up until this place, where Harry had now come, he had been exuberant in his animated telling. A man of age telling stories of youth. Because of what he would now tell, he had aged. What would follow were words warily chosen and gently placed. Neither exuberance nor animation belonged.

"It was then that I became confused, then angry. Then I just tried to figure it all out. It was very emotional. So damn young." A gentle mist fell upon Harry's eyes. Struggling to come forth from a gullet determined to keep them, his words finally got loose. "One week. That was it. All I had. One week's leave before I was to be shipped out. My choice, it was mine, but really it wasn't. I mean I had to get married. I had to! That's what I did. That was my choice. Home, my parents, I couldn't. I didn't have time. I didn't know when... or I guess if... ya know? I mean I was going to war. Tough choice. One of the toughest. Haa! It was perfect! It was fine." He finished lighter, eased by his knowledge of a good now choice.

"Next!" His word leapt loud. It was forced, trying to move on. My mind was questioning if I had missed something. "Goose Bay." He got married? "All eight of us headed out aboard Liz. Liz, it wasn't Liz yet. We stayed there, Goose Bay, for two days and then we jumped the pond. Ireland; Benetton Green Ireland." Had I missed tell of a fiancé?

"I'm not sure if it was the excitement of the adventure, but flying in and looking down at that place was amazing. Beautiful! It was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. I do think it was part of the excitement, also the day, the bright weather. It was a beautifully clear morning. The sunlight bounced off the sea with a prism'd sparkle. A rainbow it was kind of like that. Yeah a rainbow.

"The grass and the flowers, all of the ground was still moist with dew. It was so green. All my life, never seen green like that before. Not that color. Millions... no, billions of droplets glittered light in all directions. Never seen anything like it. It was a special place. Magical. Surreal.

"We stayed there just about a month. Liz got her camouflage paint scheme there. Also, it was there that Luscious Liz came to picturesque life.

"We flew six missions out of there; all daytime sorties. Three into France and three to North Africa. Milk Runs." He chuckled slight with contempt. "Shit. That is such crap! Milk Runs, no such thing. We knew. Oh we didn't want to think about it, but it was always there. No doubt, we knew that every time we got on board... we knew." Harry paused. "Some were worse than others. Yeah! Way worse. Hell." Battling his devil, Harry again paused.

"Eventually we left Ireland and went on to England. Northwest of London; our war home. For some of us... our final home. It was not like Ireland, it was not special. Hmm. Not for me."

For Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, Harry spoke without a break. His tone varied so little I never perceived it as a change. Harry was shadowed in a valley of calm as he described where he was. His emotions spoke little. However, they were right there. Right below the thinnest layer of control. It was a sadness of loss buried shallow in a row of freshly plowed Brown.

To a stupid kid, his words only stoked my imagination. To a man who had been seared black by this life event, meaning was clear of imagination. Without color for me to see, but brilliant and alive in Harry's mind sight, the life path that he stumbled across was England. Not merry ole... a whole world at war. Not a Yule Log tale; a burning Europe. He was one of those so few; one of those asked to perform such a task. He was one of a fellowship of brothers. He sits before me with timeless pride. Only those that did, had this Honor

Later, much as Hollywood develops cellulose, I would edit and frame all his words. Now, I stick thick on every word. Had I drifted in thought, I would not have gotten what it was. It would have been just another poorly written movie.

It was presented with a thin line of subtle. A single word placed specific for consideration. Barely noticeable, there was knocking-over inflection. There was all that Harry was not saying. All made it real. All of how he had touched it made it all too real. Not real as most guard against it being. Harry lived hardship magnified by a missing home. He was fear ever present. The kind of fear that boy warrior was not allowed to show. It was not the glory of war that was historically ablaze on the Silver Screen. It was taking, peace forgotten, never giving. The final scene of death that scrolls forever into Closing Credits.

The happenings of an experience is what he played out for me. Moreover, Dear reader, Harry wished it to be yours.

Indeed, within the theatre of war, millions experienced this exact disturbance. 'Exact', as I used previously, as defined in any dictionary, is a poorly chosen word. None shared what he would now tell. True, there were others there; then they were gone. However, the sounds that warned, the smells that were the results of these sounds, the results of the happening, all were exact only to Harry. And as I would soon learn, Harry understood this and held it a banner of fortitude. Harry knew much more. His life forward, after The Happening, was continually guided by that more.

"The sixteenth! Sortie number sixteen was our last flight as a team. There is something about that number, something that ignites my senses. They always flair up. They always burn without pain. Yup, every time. Not always good energy but always energy. Usually they are mad; always it is sad.

"Not often but sometimes it is a glad electric trickle. I guess it depends on time and place. When I hear it, where I am at when I do. I think it may be like mathematicians. They seem to have personal attachments to certain numbers. With me, it is just this one. Do you think a word can have life? You must huh?

"We were going to Hamburg. It was... what was it called? Damn! Oh Blitz Week. Yeah. Blitz Week that's it. We'd been there yesterday, and we were going back today." His head shook with the unbelieving that they were going again. "Blitz Week was when we first started wearing the electric flight gear; electric thermal flight suits. They worked pretty well. Shit it was cold up there. At altitude, forty below sometimes. Exposed skin touching metal would instantly burn. When I had to use my bombsight, I would have to take off my lined mittens. Only thin flight crew gloves. Damn I still feel the cold in my fingers." Harry rubbed his hands together.

"Hamburg; yesterday was a bumpy ride. I do not know how Liz held together. She did get wounded but she is a tough old bird. Today, second day in a row we were going back. All of us. One hundred and seventy-eight bombers took off from different Air Fields; all headed to Hamburg. Wheels up plus an hour we were all in formation together. Incredible, our formation was massive, far as I could see. It was hard to tell it was a formation but that is what it was supposed to be. We laid a shadow on the ground as we moved across it." Harry chuckled hard. "Sorry! A bit theatrical perhaps. It must be you Mister Rengaw. A good story and all. Aah I'll leave that to you.

"I couldn't see our shadow on the ground any more as it had turned into a very cloudy day. More we'd flown into a cloudy day. An hour, maybe three hundred miles from Hamburg, just into the Fatherland, our mission was scrubbed. Mickey received the orders. Hamburg was socked in with weather; we were ordered to turn back. I was not surprised; we had been flying in weather since shortly after take-off. My work for the day was done. I headed back to stretch out for the return flight. I mean I might as well be comfortable right.

"In flight we had procedures. We had procedures for everything. Mickey passed the orders to the Pilot; the Pilot radioed the order to the group. See our pilot was the lead in our group, he and my crew were considered veterans, we'd been flying lead for some time. Our group also had a lot of experience and we were near the front of the entire formation. The Pilot repeated the orders twice to the group. In minutes, on his order, the group would initiate a turning maneuver.

"It was Mickey who was now tasked. He had two procedures to accomplish; standard protocol. First, he was to get a Confirmed Reply Count. Basically, Mickey had to verify independently that every pilot in our group got the orders and understood them correctly. Our Pilot and Navigator monitored Mickey's procedure. You know... they monitored the communication. It was like a second and third check. In addition, he had to coordinate with the other bomber groups as to which maneuver we would be using. This he did with interplay from our Navigator. The maneuvers were kind of coordinated front back. Lead plane navigator's organized it all. There was a pecking order, a chain of command. There had to be. I know it all sounds complicated but it really wasn't.

"Mickey was very deliberate and methodical. Mickey was a damn good Radio Man. It took him several minutes, three maybe four and it was done. We were ready and At-Wait. I could hear the chatter over the intercom as I made my way back toward the middle of the plane. Mostly I wasn't paying attention until I heard; 'Radio man. Captain, maneuver coordination is fixed and we have a complete CRC. Maneuver ready on your order.'

'Rodger Mickey.' Our Pilot always dragged out the word 'Rodger'. It was as if he had forgotten the word halfway through it. Roooooodger." Harry chuckled at himself.

"Mcikey, switching channels, two electronic pops cracked from the intercom. A second of dead air and then there was; 'Lead 109. Lead 109. In thirty, on my go, initiate Delta 2.' Delta 2 was a seven-degree right turn with a ten degree down slope.

"I was placing four 55 pound ammo cans together; they made a perfect back rest. Wanting to be seated before the turn was initiated, I quickened my pace. The radio cracked loudly. Too loudly. Instantly the pop was followed by a brief buzz. I didn't recognize either for what they were. I waited to hear the Pilot's voice but there was only silence. Still there was silence. Liz bumped and eased right and down. Still standing, looking backward and over the bomb bay, the unexpected turn pushed me left. My left hand extended seeking a vertical skeletal beam. Hand on beam the jolt swung me hard around. My back slammed hard against the side. Realizing we had initiated the turn, I tried to fight slight G's as I stepped toward the cans. One step forward and then a stumble left. Bouncing off the metal that held her together, there was a tremendous bang. A hurting sound of an immense collision. It rang my ears for minutes. With a tremendous jolt she lifted; tossed thirty feet straight up." Harry's hands tossed thirty feet straight up.

"I was on the deck now, lying on my right side. My head buzzed and the top of it was throbbing. My left shoulder... it was bad. I got up on all fours. Three really, I could not put any pressure on my left shoulder. Something was not right but I didn't know what. You know... it was one of those things. You just know. The floor wasn't... it was warm and getting warmer. The cold that should be burning my knees and hand was not.

"My sore neck lifted my head toward the plane's tail. My eyes struggled to focus. Coaxed by what I saw, it was then that I heard it. It was a single roaring sound. It was gray and littered. The cold air that had once been outside, and now unable to escape inside, was an angry tempest. Shredded pieces of insulation, sharp edged pieces of twisted metal, hard slapping cables, all were in an explosion that had no end. The whirlwind was desperate to be let loose. Frantic in its pursuit of anywhere else.

"The ship was eerily twisted along her length." Harry paused and stared at me. "A ship on a reef with a broken back." Finishing these chosen words, words I later figured he had borrowed from Elton John, Harry smiled proudly.

Harry continued; "The floor bulged inward, yellow-red sifted through seams now separated. The source of the tempest, an almost perfect circle where once had been a Ball Turret. Where once had been a Ball Turret Man.

"A balsa plane buffeted by a slam of wind, she jerked hard right and nosed slightly down. Liz eased slowly into a flat spin. This sent me on to my left side, my left shoulder. As I lay, my head first felt it. Heat, fire, flames now poured through the seams; the seams above the bomb bay. The bomb bay was full of fire. Bombs, dozens of incendiary bombs were engulfed in flames.

"As a crew, during our training, we had gone through emergency situation scenarios. You know, when you should bale out, when you should try to save the ship. No scenarios for me, my ass was getting out.

"Although stupidity and suicide had been denied by sanity and a will-to-live, there was an instant flash of: 'Get forward and release your bombs'. It was very brief.

"I tried to pick up anything from the intercom as I struggled to my feet. Any sign of others, any chatter. If there was any, I couldn't hear it over the roar. Knees bent and hunched over, I stumbled a run into flames that lapped to my knees. Close enough to do so, so I thought, I dove and rolled onto my good shoulder. Coming up again to my knees, just a few feet away, I was staring at an escape hatch. Grabbing my left wrist, I pulled it tight to my waist. Just as I started to my feet, I was floored again. Crashed on and back down. Down on my left shoulder. I screamed loudly. Something squirmed on and then off me. Rolling on to my good side, I looked up at a terrified Mickey. His forehead had a long gash but he seemed mostly okay. He had watched my bent running jump and done the same. Of course, the same meant directly on top of me. I wish I could say that I didn't use his name in vain, but that would be a sin.

"Liz's nose drifted more downward; her flat spin was getting faster. Standing was now impossible. Mickey crawled to the fire engine red escape hatch. Fast as he could, he spun the release arm counter clockwise. It did not drop off. In training it just dropped to the tarmac. Repeatedly he slammed the bar as far as it would go. Mickey swung his legs around to a sitting position. He hammered his heels down. The manhole cover did not budge.

'Ammo can Mickey! Drop an ammo can on it,' I yelled. He crawled several feet and laid out grabbing the handle of a can. Sliding it, he swung it as if it weighed nothing. On his knees, struggling with balance and the weight of the ammo, he lifted it over his head and slammed it down. The can bounced slightly and just looked at us. Mickey kneeled back, sitting on his heels he looked up and back. Instantly with ease he slid the ammo can off the hatch and out of our way. Mickey screamed with a tone that was almost humorous; 'Stupid assholes.' Turning to me, he grabbed my flight jacket by my collar. 'Come on Mortson!' He was pumped with adrenaline and dragged me toward the tail. I tried to keep up but he was dragging me. We stopped about ten feet later, one foot from the near perfect circle.

'Harry get out!' He was staring at me intensely. I hesitated and he was not patient at all. 'Damn it Harry you're gonna blow us up.'

Smiling a little Harry continued; "At least that is what he told me he said. You know, later. I didn't hear him. I knew what he was saying but I'm pretty sure I couldn't hear him.

"The sounds of our wounded craft overwhelmed our voices. The expanding crackle of heated metal. Eerie, creepy groaning of a twisting ship that did not want to. The pinging of a dying craft's stripped inners that were being slung amongst a thin air tornado. Ya know! How a piece of that flying debris did not chop my head off, I do not know.

"Draping my legs out the ball turret opening, I grasped the edge tightly with bent knees. The bomber's descent, which now was pretty steep, made it hard to sit upright. 'Mickey I-' My shoulders led by my head were slammed forward. Down and out. My back hit hard, my lungs puked all their air. I was dead. I could not breathe, and I knew I never again would. Mickey, the hard soles of Mickey's boots, had killed Harry Mortson.

"I don't know what I was going to say to Mickey before he killed me. But I knew that Mickey did not want to get blowed up." Harry guffawed once.

"I don't know about aerodynamics, physics, wind and all. I don't know why but I did not plunge toward earth. I did not drop, I ejected up. Maybe it was the slipstream from the belly of the plane. Maybe it was the dropping rate of the craft. All I know is that I went up, and up meant into the tale of the bomber. I Thank God!" Todd guffawed once. "He knew I needed a big ass. I used that ass and bounced off." Harry winced. "It was pretty hard to.

"This sent me into a head first tumble. The tail spit me into the sky like unwanted chew. I guess it hurt, but without good air in me and the jolt of this moment, sensory deprivation left only a hurt of death terror. Once one is there, this kind of fear, there is nothing else. Well... there was the soar ass." Todd winced.

"Tumbling in a loose ball and still shooting up as I perceived, I had no control of anything. The centrifugal force opened my body. My arms and legs extended full out. I know this because my shoulder screamed. This began slowing my spin.

"In seconds, I don't know, ten, fifteen, my spin eased into a calmer tumble. Terror stepped aside and ushered thought into an opening. I had some needed oxygen and a bit of body control. I had stepped around death's door. Mickey did not kill me.

"Two or three easy summersaults and I looked to the ground. My training... yeah I thought of my training. Our training taught me that seven thousand feet was the optimum height to deploy my Seat Chute. I couldn't tell shit. I had no idea how high I was. My dumb ass thought; 'Just pull the Ripcord Mortson!'

"Hitting the plane must have jarred my chute aside. As I fumbled for the ring, it was not where it should have been. The Reaper's sickle was reaching to hook me again. I was going to crash through the roof of a Kraut farmhouse and land square on the dinner table. Right into a platter of some kind of Wurst. I thought about whether it would hurt. No kidding!"

It clicked in me that Harry had indeed told this story many times. He had strung together his favorite lines. I was getting the final edit. I thought it perfect.

"My right hand frantically patted my side and around to the back. Fingers hit metal and bounced off. They went back, back to what felt like a metal bar. I tap tap tapped it and loosely grabbed it. Still feeling to identify it, identifying it, I ripped it so hard that it was torn from my fingers.

"At first there was nothing; I didn't think my chute had deployed. Then there was a loud whoosh, which popped into a huge jerk. At the pop, I was upside down and the jolt swung my legs above my head. I was sure the momentum of my feet was going to throw them back and over my head. They seemed to pause above me as I hung upside down. Then my legs dropped. My feet settled into a pendulum'd sway. Now... as you can imagine... jerk... shoulder. Tell you what Mister Rengaw; I am done with my shoulder. It hurt. When you write this, you do what you want. Only know, every time something physical happened to me, every little bump or jostle, my shoulder shot lightening. Done! Okay?"

Harry neither looked at me nor paused. 'Okay' was not a question he left waiting. Harry's brook of remembrances had pooled at stream's bend, but he pushed it to trickle on. "Now hanging stable in my float to the ground, I diagnosed myself. A most important first, my breathing was still quick but slowing. Leaking in spots, oozing not spurting, blood was still flowing were it should be. Good!" Harry patted his left shoulder. "Dislocated, but I didn't think there was a fracture. I really did not have time to think about it, but I did think briefly about how I could reset it." Harry gently felt his right cheek. Noticeable scars were scars. They were well aged, but they were there. "My right cheek was burnt. Frozen I figured. Both of my knees were throbbing and the top of my right hand had a long gash. It wasn't deep." His gashed hand held up a peace sign. Although I wondered later if he meant it a victory sign. No matter, they are synonymous. Victory is peace. (A rather hawkish thought. Is that me, or am I over-creating. I will let you decide Reader.)

Whatever the meaning, if any, Harry told me of it. "These two fingers I thought were broken. Over the next days, I developed numerous black and blue bruises. I also had small burns on my face, neck, legs, and hands. I did not notice the burns at first. The quickly tightening bruises I was noticing right now. All in all, I was confident that I would survive what had just happened.

"Survival now became primal. Training and actions to take took over. I sought and found my 45 still holstered snug under my jacket. Unzipping my jacket to just below my sternum, I lifted my left hand and tucked it into the opening. Like a sling ya know.

"Above me and heading away, Liz was on her final Final. She was nose down and in a spiral spin. Two great forces colliding had imploded her under side. From front landing gear to tail, large silver scraped sections showed. The right wing was mostly gone. Black smoke from the burning bomb bay corkscrewed behind her. Unable to look away, I watched the end of her final sortie. Liz disappeared into the German countryside. A Hollywood explosion on impact, there was not. There was nothing. No sound, only smoke billowing up into a black drifting cloud. I couldn't believe it, all those incendiary bombs and no explosion. Real in Germany, not pretend from Hollywood.

"Up and to my left a white flickered. Distant, above and behind, a hum drifted in and out. The gray dome I was searching smothered the tiny flicker. Needle, haystack, you know. My eyes slid past a dark spot and then snapped back, acquiring a target. Dark was green, spot was man. A tiny white dome hung within a huge gray one. It was a deployed parachute. 'Mickey!' I thought loudly. 'I guess it is Mickey,' I thought more hushed. I mean I could see it was a man. His legs and all. He was not very big in my eyes. Trying to magnify and focus, I stared as hard as I could. 'Mickey!' I yelled. It was for me. There was no way he could hear me. It was for me only. 'Come on Mickey move. Move Mickey move. Come on damn it Mickey.' That may have been aloud. I'm not sure.

"I thought his arm may have moved. It was limp at his waist. I zeroed in on his arm. 'Come on!' I never saw it move, but his hand was now grasping his chute strap. His other arm joined. Both arms were up and holding tight. Mickey was alive.

"The distant waffling hum from behind had gotten louder. It was more of a drone now. Then it came from in front and very loud. I scanned the sky looking for what now could only be five more chutes. Frenzied I guess, my search pattern was not very methodical. My darting eyes found what I did not want; a single plane in front and a single engine sound behind. No chutes. Crossing in front of me it seemed to be circling our chutes. Over my shoulder, the sound from the engine was doing the same. Two, there were two Luftwaffe planes. Two attack planes; FW 190s. FW 190s with 20 mm cannons onboard.

"I guess because I now did not want to be, I realized I was still pretty high. Probably close to 18,000 feet. All of us had heard about what the Krauts would do to pilots hanging in chutes. I wanted to be much lower, much closer to the ground, much sooner. Hanging there defenseless..." Harry suddenly chuckled. "Well sort of defenseless. Mickey had pulled his handgun and was shooting at the circling planes. It was hilarious. Later it was hilarious. I was yelling; 'Get em Mickey. Shoot their Kraut asses.'

"But ya know... those pilots circled us at least twice and they did not fire a single round at us. It all seemed very strange at the time. I respect them for that. Honorable! At least those two Germans had some honor.

"Sensory Overload. I think that is what I had. All that had happened in the past minutes; the pain I had, the concern for my crewmembers, what was going to happen to me, all this made it hard to pinpoint a thought. All made it hard to concentrate, to put together a plan. I know I keep talking about it, but this is where my training came in to play. I mean I didn't have to think about it. I knew. I had been taught what to do, what to think in this situation, what to plan. Oh and you know what? Let me tell ya this now. I was so very pumped. My adrenaline had me on a different level. I mean being alive; it was exhilarating going through what I just had. Orgasmic. Can I say that?" Harry paused only slight. "Never again in my life would I have any kind of rush like that. Never! That seems warped don't you think. But damn, it was a powerful feeling. No! It was not a feeling. I was! I was everything that had ever been. Never so attached to what man is. Never.

"It was at that moment that my training sent my eyes downward. I looked to evaluate. Beauty overwhelmed me and again overloaded me. The German farm-scape; I can not describe the setting. There is not a single word that would properly describe it. But I don't care. That is your problem." He huffed. "It was like a painting. No! It was exactly like what Hollywood would portray the German countryside to be. Clay shingled stone houses layered with ivy were squared in with stone fences. Sheep, cows, mules, all kinds of animals were roaming free in the barn areas. Wooden carts pulled by assorted animals slowly moved along dirt roads. The fields were full of yellow, green, and any color that can be grown. It was checkered. The homes, the fields, the hills, they made a giant checkerboard. It all seemed surreal. Very ironic in its placement. Right here was unblemished serenity of life. The war that was scarring a continent had not here touched. Fighting to focus on that which I needed to do, I did waste seconds to take it all in. I am glad now that I did.

"The houses, barns, fence lines, I was now taking in with more than enjoyment. Where I thought I was going to land, I tried to memorize into a map. Enlarging this map, I looked to Mickey and where he might end up. Grids; set them up to include roads to escape on, fields to lay hidden within, and barns to shelter me.

"Looking to the sun, I tried to determine north. Compass north. My north. I always know my north. It is just in me. Canada is always north. Others, all people, have an exact direction in them. Everyone knows exactly which way one compass point is. It is not the same for everyone. Everyone is different. My point, north, is Canada. Always. North Dakota, Canada is north. Always.

"You for example; west, west is within you. You live near Denver, Denver is east of the mountains, the mountains are always to the west, and you always know where the mountains are. Right? People that live on the East Coast always know where the Atlantic Ocean is. It is east. Always east. Everyone has some sort of landmark that they set their inner compass to.

"Now... dropping into southern Germany, I had no idea where Canada was. If only for a calming sense, I wanted to know. So... I looked to the sky. However, being near noon, the cloud-covered sun would be no help. I knew that clouds normally move across the sky with the prevailing easterly winds. However, the sky was horizon-to-horizon gray, and again, no help. It was unsettling. I did not know where Canada was, I did not know where north was, I was lost.

"One last time I looked toward Mickey; projecting his destination. My free time was over. The German countryside was getting large. I hoped it would not be my last free time.

"Within maybe one square half-mile, I knew where I was going to land. When I did, I would not be lonely. My drift was going to take me directly over a Kraut soldier. He was on a bicycle and pedaling furiously. He knew where I would land as well. Crossing over him, maybe fifteen hundred feet above, I identified only a green coat. There was insignia, but it may as well have been macaroni. A long rifle was slung across his back. Others, the few that I could see, were stopped in their chores and looking. Some looked toward Mickey. A few were staring toward the crash site smoke. Most were locked on to me.

"There were two safe-houses that I thought as being best. One, I was pretty sure was unlived in. Its porch field was unkempt, and its crop fields had no furrows and plenty of weeds. The good earth in famine time. Wang the farmer had gone south." I recognized the Pearl Buck reference. He... this surprised me. Perhaps it is time that I stop being staggered by Harry Mortson.

"The second safe-house didn't seem to belong. It stood close to others at a great distance. It was lonely. The faded red barn's doors were missing. No farming implements were seen. There were no wandering animals. A shame; no one loved it.

"Both were... well I didn't know. They were that direction." It was with frustration that his right arm lifted and pointed a twisted Index finger. "I was close now, maybe a thousand feet. I did not see anyone in the immediate area. No civilians that I was ridiculously imagining would help me. And no soldiers that I knew would not. However, my ears were toying with me. I was hearing phantom quick tinks of chain links spinning fast on sprockets.

"Maybe I didn't see them, but they were there. Both soldiers and civilians. Well... the farmers, I wasn't sure. The soldiers I was. My reception was not going to be from the Welcome Wagon.

"Bend knees, land, run forward, roll if needed; Jump School 101. That was the course. Knees bent, land, heels slip, ass first in thick mud. That is how it happened. Thank you God.

"Slow and in a panic it seemed to take forever; I pulled my chute into a bundle with one arm. Maybe twenty yards away, there was a row of bushes. Thick bushes with thorns as I found out. Hunched over, I stumbled across the wet open field as quickly as the mud allowed. Shoving the silk under the bushes the best that I could, I gathered a handful of branches to try to camouflage it. I will admit that it was a pretty weak effort. Pitiful! But why... I mean think about it. They knew I was here. Did I really need to hide my parachute. Training!

"Unzipping my jacket I pulled my 45 from its shoulder holster and began running toward the alfalfa field. The field was in my map. It was maybe one-hundred yards away. Immediately this was a bad idea. I could hold the handgun, but the pain in my fingers told me it was a bad idea. I re-holstered it and continued my mud trudge.

"Straining eyes and hard-working ears were in full Intel gathering mode. Still I couldn't mask the pain. My left arm out, my right hand surely broken, I understood that holding it, firing it, defending myself, I didn't know.

"Literally how far away I didn't know; but the green man was not far off from my thoughts. I knew he was coming for me. Most likely he would not be alone.

"The land I was working across was untamed by any of the little farms. The soil wet and heavy was carpeted with yellow life. A Moss was woven to the ground's fabric. Every hunched stride forced water from its sponged hold. There were no trees to speak of. Only shrubs and other flora dotted and seemed to run the line that I was on. Mostly small groups of bushes. None more than four foot high or ten feet around.

"I darted from group to group. Well... not really darted. Poor choice of words. My boots squished and sucked noise with each step. I was sure the sound could be heard for kilometers.

"The irregular hiding path I was taking, my heavy steps, my wish to suppress the sound of my watered steps, all caused my crossing to be nervously slow. I wondered if the alfalfa field was farther away than I had determined. Or had I ventured in the wrong direction. I wanted to know where Canada was.

"Crouched and peeking over another clump of tangled wood that wanted to slice my fingers with deep green razor edged leaves, intently listening, I lifted steady and cautious to an upright position. Twice thinking I had heard something, I fell down to a scrunched kneeling. Nothing being heard, and thinking it safe, I raised slow to full height. No more than fifty feet away, the edge of the green field began. I did know where Canada was.

"I scrunched, listened, thought, and chose poorly. No veering, no stopping at a safe bush, I straight line bolted to safety. Safety as I wanted it to be. A child playing an insignificant game and darting to the safety of Base. This was not a game. This was life. Life that I carelessly taunted.

"Yards into the cover of green, I lay as still as my dashing breath allowed. Tracking through my memorized grid, trusting that the real grid was as I thought, I balanced my next move on a Triple-Beam of options. Off to my right a large dog barked and was joined by a second. German Shepherds; no doubt. German soldier's attack dogs. Huge dogs ready to perform their trained task. Right, was not only out, it was the direction with the most immediate danger. Left, away from angry teeth, instantly became the best choice. But my gut told me that straight ahead was best. I had to believe in my map. The safe-house was there. Believe Mortson believe.

"The instant that my boots splashed mud on impact, the frantic moments that followed spun my mind's compass in all directions. I heard excited whining of a chase that was on. Single deep barks occasionally broke the whining. Barks that were getting louder meant dogs that were getting closer. Fast from fear, straight ahead I was. Clear and straight, a furrow of brown was my guide. Crouched but a little taller, I made spurts of ten yards or so. Each run ended the same way, me on my belly. Briefly I would listen for the chasers and any others that may be new to the chase.

"On my fourth burst, I heard the low gear shifting of an engine's growling struggle. With each jolt on the suspension, there was the clanking sound of hard heavy wood bouncing off iron. Rubber graveled slowly forward and spit rocks with a popping sound. Down again, the dogs were closer still and heading straight for me. I understood that I now was a target acquired. Each time, farther and faster I ran. I don't know... maybe six seven more bursts.

"Trying to shallow my breathing that made hearing difficult, I listened. Nothing, I heard nothing. Were they gone? From my four-o'clock, intended for me and just thirty feet away, a growl had meaning. Meaning she wanted a large chunk of my ass. Thank you God.

"Slinging my legs around and under, I sat up to face my still unseen enemy. Hurriedly but trying to protect my fingers, I pulled my sidearm from its holster. Protecting or not, it hurt like hell. A locked elbow held the 45 eye high. I clicked the safety off. Fumbling with it, I found the trigger-guard; I wrapped my ring finger around the trigger. Aiming at nothing was easy. Waiting for anything was hard.

"Restrained gasping replaced growls and muffled their barks. I heard a voice. I heard it again. It might have been a different voice. My alarm loosened just a bit. A single voice or two different people, they were both female. As I pushed myself forward and prone, I awkwardly waved my gun searching for what I was now expecting. I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I wasn't a soldier. I mean I was." He chuckled. "I must have looked ridiculous.

"Wanting to get a peek while remaining hidden, I looked over through and around the thick alfalfa. The panting dogs told me they were indeed close. They had to be right there, but where! Loudest and snapping, there were two quick barks. 'Neine neine!' A woman's voice yelled at the dogs. To this day, I don't know why, but I lowered my weapon. I froze with my eyes probing and ears on alert. There was just breathing. The dogs' panting over mine.

" 'Soldier. American. Help you.' One of the two said in cryptic English. It was loud but not threatening. I took it as a trick. 'Flyboy no harm,' said the same voice. An older voice said something in German. It was hushed and I didn't think for me. The young voice said; 'Coming soldier. No harm. No shoot. Help.' The gasping stopped and the alfalfa no longer hid me.

"Fight or flight never flashed through my thoughts. I rose to my knees. My empty right hand went straight up over my head. Two concerned women stood looking down at the Flyboy. The girl on the right was young and probably thirty years younger than the other. Eighteen, nineteen, hard to tell. Her face was a reflection of the elder. It was fresher but near the same.

"With an extended and taught arm, each woman struggled to restrain a dog. Dogs that were rising against their leashes. Their yapping was unyielding. The two great beasts, the German attack dogs, the fear of my fear, they were... they were scrawny mutts. Tail wagging fleabags. They definitely were not monsters trained to kill invading Americans. They were shaggy, bearded, brown black and white mutts. As their owners did, they looked alike.

"Hmm! I have never told that part to anyone before. You know... better story if they were man-eaters. At least better for me. You do with it what you want." Harry smiled broadly as he looked to his Son. He snapped back to me. "Do not write that I was some sort of sissy. Make me brave! Aah! Whatever.

"This is a good spot to tell you this. These two women were perfectly Hollywood depicted. They could not have better fit the role. The older was plump sturdy and wore a white peasant blouse. It was laced with hand ticking along seems and edges. A pleated green and yellow wool skirt hung to just below her knees. The skirt touched the tops of her string-laced knee-high leather boots. They were well worn and now spotted with farm mud. Her hair was pulled back to a ponytail and covered with cloth. Red, the bandanna was red. At least it once had been red. Her face also was plump with character. Well-crafted lines scribed the story of her life.

"The young woman... and I know you won't believe this, but she was dressed like every young German girl in any Hogan's Heroes episode. Golden hair braided in pigtails. Her white blouse was low cut and presented plump breasts lifted by one of those... those busty, bust lifter things. I do not know what their called. She was the perfect German farmer's daughter. She was! Well anyways, that is the way I remember her. Haa!

"The younger brought her hand to her chest. Patting it gently she said; 'Melany. Melany.' Her open hand extended right and pointed. She said; 'Lilly. Lilly.' She took a pause and stared at me. Her hand extended to me. 'Friend, friend, you come.' Lilly rattled something off hurriedly to Melany. Melany nodded emphatically and took two steps toward me. 'Come, come, soldiers! Friend help come.' "

What happened next was detailed to me at length. For me, and I am saying now for you, it was too detailed long. In Harry's remembrance, I am certain it was not too. I will leave it for him alone to be detailed.

I will give it to you brief. Lilly and Melany rushed Harry to their home, their barn. It was not the safe-house that Harry had taken in memory. Harry had concluded through their actions, aided by Melany's limited english, that they were Partisans. For this moment, he thought this a good thing. They would help him. Friend. He was eased by what he perceived to be happening. He was also cautious of what he perceived to be happening.

Harry; "The way that they brought me to, at times dragged me to, and into the Hip Barn, I felt strongly that they were not the enemy. Momma kept tossing Prussian that seemed angry. Certainly, to her, her words were imperative and time significant. Melany was strongly calm and steered me to a group of scattered wooden fruit crates. Pushing me back toward one, she insisted; 'Sit! Sit Flyboy.'

'Harry,' I said as I patted my chest.

'Harry,' she said smiling and pushing me hard down. Momma cursed at me. I know she did. Momma's tongue was flying but her tone was softer as she gently picked up my left hand. Melany bent down in front of me. She placed both her hands square on my chest. Lilly grasped firm my left wrist and forearm. Melany's hands squeezed my collarbones as her elbows locked. I looked down her blouse. Momma jerked! With all of her weight momma yanked my arm straight out. The force sent her back and down on her big butt. The pain shot from its source up and down my arm. My good arm and its not so good hand pulled the limp one tight to my side. I screamed. I mean I really screamed.

'Shh!' Melany placed her fingertips on my mouth as I rocked in pain.

'Because I looked down your shirt?' I asked knowing she would not understand. I kind of giggled at this

"The shooting pain turned to an ache, and then a throbbing ache. Testing it, I gently eased it away from my side. Again, and again, I did the same. Oh it still hurt, but it was a different pain. You know like a better pain. I thought it was back in place. I looked into Melany's eyes, she smiled and said; 'Yes?'

"Still rotating it ever so gently, I answered; 'Yes.' I grinned a relieved feeling. 'Yes. Yes thank you.' Momma went back to angry words. Melany quickly lifted me, turned me, and I began up the loft ladder.

"The barn's ground level was an organized clutter of leather, steel, and wood. Farm implements of all types. Reaching the top of the wooden ladder, getting there as quickly as possible, it was geometrically packed with bales. Alfalfa and straw, green and dry, were stacked high and took up much of the loft. Not being sure, but pretty sure, this was to be my safe place in their safe-house.

"With swift purpose, Lilly moved to a predetermined spot. Lifting and hauling bales, she built a blocked pile. Every bale had its place. The place was being engineered. Precise and mechanical, Lilly had no doubt done this before. She went on without pause.

"Melany rattled down the rungs and ran from the barn. Minutes later, as Lilly finished her task, Melany started back up the ladder. Looking down to the climbing girl, she was struggling. Her climbing was hindered by a wooden bucket in tow. My thought was to help the girl anyway that I could. I leaned down over the ladder. I was jolted. Rather rudely, very effectively, I was nearly lifted from my feet. Lilly grabbed my jacket collar and put me anywhere she wanted me to be. Longshoreman Lilly hooked me and tossed cargo. Let's just say she persuaded me out of the way. I got kind of pissed! I mean her jerk did not help my shoulder any.

"My place... I would say it was about eight feet deep and half that wide. The back wall, which was the barn wall, was protected by a single layer of bales. Tight, sunlight did not slit in. I knew that if I did not go in myself, Momma would persuade me again. So... I entered man strong. However, going in was not as easy as you might think. I am a little claustrophobic. I mean not bad. Small spaces... yeah, I'd rather not.

"Several steps in I turned to face them. 'Sit!' Momma knew sit. I sat. My back was a couple feet from the bale wall. Melany placed the half-full water bucket next to me on the right. Parched, I pulled the metal ladle and sloshed water into a thirsting mouth. The well water was sweet cool. It was good. Very good.

"Melany pulled three large green apples from a skirt pocket. I do not like green apples. Can you believe I thought that?" Harry snickered. "Melany bent over. Well... she started to bend over and then stood up abruptly. She got a sly smile and gently tossed the apples into my lap. She did understand.

"The other pocket produced something sorta square. It was the size of a small bible and wrapped in a linen cloth. She knelt down. With a small giggle, Melany looked directly into my eyes. She placed the salted pork into my hand. It was a forced placing; it had meaning. I have made that meaning what I want it to be. You can make it whatever you want.

"What an asshole I was. Even now, with all that was happening, I tried to flirt. Flirt thoughts chose words and I parted my lips to speak.

"'Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!' It was in German, but I know that was what Momma said. Momma ended our playtime. Mother pulled Melany from me in my safe place." Harry's smile now was what I pictured it to be then. I pictured young Melany's smile to be more sinfully delicate.

Harry paused briefly and then finished his thought. "I don't know, probably not, most likely she wasn't saying bastard. But who's telling this." Good enough for me.

"With what I will call Momma's jostle, Melany spun and began her role in their now task to entomb me. I hoped not literally. I was now certain that they were helping me. Momma and daughter were hiding me from the soldiers. Hiding me from the same soldiers that were so desperately trying to find me.

"All the bales I had stacked in my life, I couldn't help but to wonder how they were going to cover me within this open space. My curiosity caused me to pay attention to their work. It was precise, simple really. With four levels of hay, they built a roof above me. It was like the peak of a house; triangular. Each bale was placed half or so on top of the previous. Balance and weight, easy, physics, engineering. They did this quickly without hesitation. Again I was certain, they had done this before. My now dark place was complete.

"It was dark and it was quiet. I strained to hear of the outside and I could not. There were times during the next three or four hours that I heard something. I was sure that that something did not bode well for me. But there wasn't anything, only an imagination that was running wild. All I was were thoughts amongst the dark time. I ate two apples and some of the pork. I drank my fill of the water and tried to sleep. But the same unceasing thoughts trickled on within me. Me within my place. I was wired tired. My mind let me restlessly walk to the edge of rest, and then it would drop me back into the stormy valley of awake. I wondered how long man could go without sleep."

Harry went on for the next ten minutes describing what was rattling around in his thoughts. I found that I was hearing his words, but more I was trying to place myself into his emotions. I never got there, and since I did not, I can not properly put you there. Thus, your colored imagination can paint the worry, fear, anger, and missing brothers. This is the strength of written word.

Harry ran away and walked back in. "My mind lost in an unyielding dream of wake suddenly faded to white. There was something. Not sound but something. A vibration that I felt in my legs. Shutting all else down I tried to gather it. It turned into a slight vibration of rhythmic taps. They were quick and rather long lasting. Just as suddenly they stopped. I could not have been more alert. All my senses were searching. For minutes for seconds nothing. Then I made it out and placed the action. It was hard soles beating on wooden rungs.

"My imagination thought a movement of my place's left wall. A man's voice. Both were not imagined. Anxiety smacked terror into alert. An unexpected and unwanted second. My hand slapped for the 45 that was not there. Fight or flight flew to flight. I pushed myself hard back against the wall. Heavy and painful, my legs were pinned by a fallen bale. Black pupils full open slammed shut retreating from the blinding light. Metallic slides and clicks I recognized. Forms screened by translucent glare were armed men. Five young soldiers holding rifles. Rifles pointed in a frantic moment at a scared flyboy. A flyboy whose hand reached to the sky for life.

"A corporal, at least I think he was, pushed forward and stood just feet from me. He was very excited and started screaming Kraut at me. Nervous men fidgeted for a stance of defense. I waited for the bang that I would not hear. The corporal's words caused one soldier to slide down the ladder and run from the barn yelling in kraut.

"I didn't know what the Corporal's problem was. He kept flicking spittle and screaming. I read the faces of the other three. All were very young, none more than seventeen. Two were gripping their rifle with white knuckles. They were a pale sweating scared. I was worried by the third; he was creepy young. He was much his moment. There was nasty evil in him. At this second, if I were to die, it would be he. Although, I did worry about a startled jerk from one of the other two. The Spitter, still screaming at me, was older; in his early twenties I figured.

" 'What is wrong with you asshole?' I yelled back at him with a nervous burst of scared anger. Protectively, his head jerked back as he lifted himself in a step back. This caught him and he stopped yelling. Two Scared flinched and pulled their rifles still tighter to their shoulder. Creepy lowered his weapon to his waist and grinned. That cat... there was something really wrong with him.

"Spitter, standing further back but still over me, looked into my eyes. I wasn't feeling warm and fuzzy. With a grunt, he collapsed knees first onto the bale that still pinned me. Proud of himself, he spoke to me with a tone that I describe as 'wanna-be-important'. He was an arrogant shit!

"Finished speaking, he stared long at me. I think he was trying to intimidate. Finally, he pushed himself off the bale and off me. Standing, still staring, he ever so slowly turned from me. He walked through the three. With an instructing tone, he said something as he disappeared down the ladder.

"Informally at least, Creepy was now in charge. He directed Scared Two. They moved on me and one of them lifted the bale off me. The other was ever vigilant and held his weapon on me. Creepy raised the stock of his rifle to his shoulder. His gun sight was square on my temple. I gotta say... these next few seconds... I thought my time was done.

"Creepy spoke and the Two reached down to lift me. 'No!' I yelled, trying to pull my arm back. I was firmly against the back bales and my arm could not escape his reach. They jerked me to my feet. I screamed like no other. The Two Scared flinched but they did not let loose. I pushed toward my arm. Sort of fell on one. The one of Two now seemed to understand as he released my arm. Weighing a ton, my arm dangled as I slowly stood up and off. I did not want to scream. The pain... I tried to mask it.

"Creepy wanted to know if I had cigarettes. 'Cigarette?' he asked.

'I would love one,' I said, extending an open hand.

He didn't need to speak english to understand that I was being an ass. In afterthought, I really wasn't holding the cards to be an ass. It was then that his wicked showed. First, it was with his words. With his words, Two, the tallest of Twos, began frisking me. Searching, finding, he pulled and handed my unopened cigarettes to Creepy. The peasants cheered in merriment and there was jubilation throughout the entire kingdom." I laughed at this but quickly pulled it back as Harry was not pausing.

"Creepy and Short Two exchanged a verbal volley. Short disappeared down the ladder. I figured out that I was supposed to follow and started down. Moving slowly, one maybe two rungs down, wicked showed in action. The butt of Creepy's rifle drove deep into my left shoulder. Right hand holding, right foot balancing, I swung and hit hard the face of the loft's shelf. Holding, balancing, I knew I was going down. My feet hit but I did not land on them. Unstoppable backward momentum set me on my ass. Thank you God.

"I sat. Short stepped to me with rifle pointed. Tall and Creepy joined us on the barn floor. All but me lit up my cigarettes. Well... they weren't really mine; I did not smoke. We all carried them. They were good to help persuade Friendlies. They were not much good to me now.

"I sat in wonder. I was again frantic in thought. They started on a second cigarette. There were voices outside that were getting closer. Panicky, a female's voice was mixing it up with a male's. Louder, because closer, a second female joined the fray. The back and forth, the begging and dictating, was earnest in waves. Now it seemed to be taking place just outside the barn's door. Melany and Lilly who sounded to be crying, rambled on top of each other's words. My insides filled with a dark dread, unsolvable terror scared their voices. Never, never again do I want to hear that sound. That guttural, primal, awful sound that was not sound. It was finite passion.

"During the next couple of minutes, the male would interject few and only short sentences. Into the wall of light built by the open door, a moving shadow appeared. The two women joined to be one. It was different though. It was demanding, yet it was unyielding love.

"Slender and tall, a figure stepped from the wall of light. Shadow to figure, figure to German soldier. A Colonel German Soldier. The Stooges snapped to attention and saluted. You know... the way Nazis do. The women, softer it seemed, continued as the officer stepped to me.

'Stand!' he demanded, as he stood rigid. Creepy and Tall rushed to lift me to my feet. I guess my cigarettes had mellowed them, as they were now carefully wary of my shoulder.

"The Colonel wore navy blue riding britches tucked into polished dark brown knee boots. A waist long blue jacket was adorned with ribbons. A Lugar was resting in a leather-flapped holster. All was adorned with rank insignia and bar SS pins. It was all very kraut bullshit.

'Welcome to Germany Lieutenant. I do hope your flight was comfortable. For you... the war is over.' He smiled as he noticed my look of curiosity. His English, diction, and delivery, were all perfect. Better than mine. I assumed Midwest America.

"Then I saw it peeking from the opening of his jacket. Sticking out the top of his pants was the brown handle of another sidearm. I mentally noted that he had a second gun.

" 'Indiana?' I asked. His head tilted slightly and his smile broadened.

'University of Iowa. Class of 31.' He said this with an awkwardly proud tone. 'Go Hawkeyes,' he added. This clenched my jaw. I detested the way he said it. It mocked.

"He two-hand adjusted his hat. Making sure it had the right amount of tilt. He two-fist yanked his short jacket downward. Making sure it had the right amount of pop.

'Lieutenant, are you a religious man? Does faith be in you?' Surprised by his questions I only looked at him. He continued; 'No. Perhaps? It does not matter.' He paused with a stare. Maybe I had ruined whatever fun he was trying to have. He did not give up. 'King Solomon was a very wise man. A little misguided perhaps. Perhaps, a little like me. Here, now, I am he.' His horribly ugly Fatherland blue eyes searched a reaction. I was now committed to silence. He came back from where he was and went to where he was going. 'Excuse me Lieutenant, for just a moment won't you.' His heels clicked, as Nazis do; he slightly bowed as... I don't know. It was all overly dramatic. I am sure with intent to be.

"Toe to heel, he soldiered a perfect Basic Training About Face. I was left standing and thinking within my silence. His biblical riddle was my thought. It was a game of thorns that he was playing. I wondered how it would end. The end could be the unthinkable. Would the fear cried by the women and the unthinkable be one?

"The women were a different hushed. Their timbre was more sorrowful than fearful. His departure from me, and his arrival back to them, frantically began again all of everything.

"The women's new audible flurry was brief. It ended with the Colonel's turning of the door's edge. Steady he moved on me. The Colonel flinched with it. A single shot. A shot never to be removed me. The Colonel smiled coldly. My eyes instantly went to his Lugar. It was still flapped and snapped in its holster. Loud sobbing fell deflected, muffled.

"From him there was no motion. In him, a bad that he felt good, was evilly stirring his cauldron. He was reveling in it. As if to get a better line on me, he lifted his chin. He exaggerated a head tilt. He had to know; did I feel it. He had to know if I... if any men feel the good in bad. In order to feel alive he needed that good from bad. He was only good alive in bad.

"His Solomon was so engulfed in the moment that his lip quivered as he began again. 'Their choice was made. It was, their choice.' He gave voice to a prophet of the world's bowels.

"Feeling proud in his work and desperately wanting to present the same, an open palm swept toward the light's wall. 'Shall we?' he asked. It was not a refuse-able offer.

"Creepy cross-checked my back with his rifle. Staring, I walked passed a face that was pouring evil satisfied into a dark pool of redemption felt. His hand still offering.

"That walk, my thoughts were rushing ever most fast. Too fast to allow for remembrances to become color snapshots. For me, over the years, I knew the development of black and white was best. Yet, the darkness of one, never developed to be understood.

"The wall passed warmth over me from brow to foot. My place I left; I entered their house of un-safe. Her forehead was sunk and her hands were clawing into the life giving soil of all that was left. On arms that had often comforted a young life, down was a mother. Slow in rocking and low in sobbing. Still to be heard, newly missed, could not have been more love gentle. Her heart so broken, only her tore own would be more so.

"Daughter, just feet apart, knelt collapsed on her right side. Beneath her still mind, the life taking soil was of ending red to black. My eyes needing to know, they found the Colonel's belt. It no longer peeked. Short, as the distance of life from a young woman's hand, was a sidearm. My sidearm.

"He waited for me to grasp this. I snapped to him. His eyes enjoying what mine said, they asked if I felt it. He, his Solomon, spoke; 'Choice! Their choice is unexpected to me. If I was capable of being, I might be humbled. The daughter chose to die so that her mother might live. Does it humble you Lieutenant?' Thirsting for an expressed emotion from me, he would have to wait. Bastard! I only looked at him. My look fell on an empty man. 'Hmm! Perhaps you feel more Lieutenant.' These were his last words to me.

"Emotions were challenging for my consideration. So very young. I was not ready. Young was left in this place. All the chatter, instructions, and sobbing, were faint in my ears. They weren't irrelevant, but I simply could not attach meaning to them. There was only one thing that I did and did not comprehend.

"Tall was shook and shaking as he turned me with a not so firm hand. This moment in him brought his young forward. His touch to me was one with care. His palm easy on my back, he guided me away from where he no longer wanted to be. Unsteady with my steps, I had gone just a few paces. An unsnap I heard, a metallic slide I recognized, the sobbing died away.

Barely noticeable, and just enough to have meaning, Harry's chin dipped. His eyes darted the room. It was not a looking for something; it was anxiety of remembering. An alternative is that he was remembering to forget. However, there was no doubt that he was dwelling in his photo-album and wishing he were in Hamden. Hung on the walls of his mind's home, some photos were in color, some were in shades of grey, and some were in exact black-and-white. There were others still; they would develop differently each time. Harry's at-the-time mood would determine the picture.

Although I had not noticed a building posture of tenseness in Harry, the grown energy was being released as a body loosening. Time passed, barely a notice, but it had indeed been some time since... since much. Since he last paused, last took a pull on his Schlitz, or last looked at me. Making me a fibber, Harry was looking at me. His eyes looked to be seeing a clear comfortableness. His face was... a little... well I am not certain. I will call it a happy life in progress.

His loosening was now my tightening. An awkward moment of silence. Harry was searching for and wanted my thoughts. Later, which is this now writing, I took this uneasy moment wrong. I placed too much importance on me in the moment. Harry just wanted me to sit there and look cute.

"Perhaps you feel more." Harry quoted the Colonel. I found it strange that Harry's tone flowed with no detriment. He seemed to cherish these words. "Those words, from then, continually pop into my head. No! That is not what I mean. Those words never go away. They are always there poking at my person. All my life... all my life this ideal has tried to guide me. At first, I had to work at placing these words on the table. I had to choose them. Eventually, it was not a way I had to choose. My person thrives with them. Not a choice but yes a choice.

"Choice; they made the ultimate one. For us, most of us, our choices are light in comparison. Yet many think of their choices wrong. A wrong kind of self-interest often guides them to the wrong choice. Are my choices always right? No! Of course not. I have certainly missed out on opportunities. However, I want to believe that they were the correct choice for the way I want to conduct my life. The way I choose not to hurt, to protect, and to help others when I can. Not to hurt. I think people that intentionally hurt others are in the mix of the evil of the world. I mean it's not hard. It is my life. How will my choice affect others? How will it not hurt others? I live those questions. Simple. Don't you think! I believe this defines me, this is the way I want to be defined, this will be my ending salvation. Simple! For me it is. Look... I am not a wealthy man. I am not considered a success in the eyes of others who define success that way. But in me, success is this. Simple. When my time comes, this is all that matters. I think it is. Others, their choices are their own. But when their time comes, have they made the right choices. Hmm! I guess I will see. It is all I can do. Simple."

This afternoon with Harry being recorded, I would replay it many times for the details. However, its now had most of the meaning for me. Harry's chosen words had smothered the journalistic seeking that I had come here for. Inquiring analytical was pushed aside by emotion.

"Daniel you are a young man, you have lots of choices to make. Make them wisely. Make them in the context that I am speaking of. You will. I know that you will. That is your choice." I was working through what he was saying. Suddenly he shook me out of it.

"Mister Rengaw do you enjoy riddles?" This direction change caught me off guard and I shook my head no.

"I'm not... riddles? I really don't-" I was tumbling on my tongue as Harry cut me off.

"Here is one: This one, not black, in one, had three."

Starting to focus, but not quite there yet, I asked; "Could you say that again please."

Harry; "This one, not black, in one, had three." Harry smiled at a blank face. "You will figure it all out. You are a smart kid. Moreover, please, I do ask that you do think about it. You need to figure it out."

Not thinking about it, I watched as Harry lifted his warm beer to its end. He rose. "Well Mister Rengaw, I believe that we are through hear today." I knew there would be another day. I was sure he wanted to finish his story another time. I wanted to know more. What happened next, what happened in the prisoner of war camp, what happened to Teddy Malone and Sandy. Sadly though, there would be no more. Harry had told me what he wanted told; what he wanted you to have; what he wanted me to understand. Harry was not finished, but he was done.

My actions were unseen by me. I had gathered my stuff and now stood at the front door. My many thanks and our ending began. Todd grabbed the doorknob. "Wait!" Without intent to, I said this quick and too smacking. "Harry! There is one more thing. Can I..." I looked to Todd. "It is your mother Todd." I went back to Harry. "Harry you said you went back to Washington to get married. But you didn't... you haven't spoken of anyone."

Todd smiled a wide grin. He said; "My mother Elizabeth passed away seven years ago." My eyes flashed bock to Harry. Harry verbally snapped me.

"You are a stupid kid. The fights; remember? I told you I won all of them." Full of himself, Harry's face again showed a life happy in progress.

The End.

On queue, a bump of turbulence shook me from Harry. Placed on the tray before me, my palms were firmly holding down my visit of nearly fifteen years ago. I pondered it.

Preparing for this flight, I had printed it out two days earlier and placed it on the Steamer Trunk for a noticeable do-not-forget-this. It had disappeared from the trunk and then reappeared several hours later. Pamila The Spectacular, had made it disappear. Magically it reappeared after she had read it.

Turning to Pami I asked; "Is this really how I write?" Away from Catch 22, her head lifted but did not turn to me. Now, she pondered it. I was not sure if she pondered an answer, or pondered how stupid the question was. Not wanting to let her respond to the latter, I asked another stupid question. "I mean what kind of a person wants to read this? This... whatever this is." It was one of those moments of writer's doubt; a very questioning one.

Index finger placed to bookmark, she slowly closed her book. Her face turning and pressing close to mine, she gave an answer. "Doctor Rengaw, those persons are the kind kind. The kind that make it possible to make our mortgage, drive our cars, and pay our electric bill. Those kind. My favorite kind."

My head tilted to my seat back as I went into a doubt-satisfied chuckle.

"Rengaw?" Our name questioned came from directly in front of Pami.

"No!" I think I said. Popping up, a young woman's head. Her eyes flash across Pami to me.

"Daniel Rengaw. You are Doctor Daniel Rengaw?" Pami flashed me a huge enjoying grin. My sigh was heard throughout the plane.

Something.

Pamila:

Having only one much older brother, I did not have a brother. Not one to grow up with. He was not one I ever wanted beside me. Not one that would teach me of the good man. Back then, which is anytime, I clung to boys. I look to my husband; he is the man I cling to.

I question why I had so many friends that were boys. Most likely, my questioning is protecting. However, I do not question that my time with them was the right kind. My time with my brother was the wrong kind.

I do know that I did not get the right kind of sibling intimacy with my friends. This makes me wonder if I understood boys then or men now. It is the then that makes me wonder if I missed something. A happy something then and a sad something missed now.

Women have been referred to as The Weaker Sex. It can be a compliment, a gentle admiration, or a grouped flirtation. But not always. Me, surely living a persuaded over-sensitive, The Weaker Sex tickles me too roughly. The Forced To Be Stronger Sex; much better. More real world real. More so, I feel cheated out of something not offered girls. The playfulness that is never taken away. The seemingly crowned boy child that is allowed to grow into a man-child. Hmm! Especially my man-child. Maybe, no not maybe, I am bitter that women are not offered the same forever playfulness. But if offered, would we take it? Could we accept it? Would the world continue to rotate? Probably not, no, and hell no! After all, there is this; at least half of the species must walk along sensibly, lest the species dies. Maybe this is Penis Envy. If not, can someone please explain it to me.

As much as I can, I think I understand Danny. That much, I do not think is either a lot, nor helpful in my want to understand men. The reason, Danny... love him and all, but he is not normal. From what I have learned, he never has been. This according to his mother. I will let you define the word normal. Do not be afraid to let your mind be creative. However, in fairness to him, and self-descriptive to you, I can stray away from normal as well.

To support my men hypothesis I offer you this: Men are exceedingly reverent to the place that they grew up. The place of their childhood. Their mystic island of youth. Danny is no different. Moreover, the place in his heart for his place, may be grander than other's.

It is not simply a location, it is the time of their life when they did not search innocence, yet innocence bound them without disturbing. Purely a child, nothing was their responsibility. Yes, there was the bi-weekly taking out of the trash. The trash that occasionally only made it out once a week. This neglect stirred up fatherly disgust. There was the family pet that was not taken for a walk in time to prevent an accident. This not in time scrubbed up motherly disgust. In addition, there was always the cluttered bedroom. This brought the disgust of both. At times, the bedroom disgust was half-hearted. It was a problem that they knew would not go away until the boy did. So... there were these things. But to Danny, all that ever interrupted his daily cares was the signaled end of the play day. The shrinking sun rang the closing bell.

There was also the Rengaw Train Bell. It could be heard at distance and was a neighborhood legend. When the bell rang, it indeed tolled for thee. Mounted squarely on a patio railing, when the bell sounded, all Rengaws that were not accounted for, immediately headed home. Failure to do so brought about a level of disgust not yet talked about. Besides these, Danny's life was carefree with minimal restrictions. Although, Danny's upbringing was protected within a Catholic raising. Perhaps I present Danny's youth too free from reprisal.

Danny's reverence of this place, this world that we are now entering, comes out of him because it is so within him. It sets him in a person that is as brilliant as yellow can be without hurting. He is forever grateful that providence has allowed him this brief living of felicity. He wills a gratefulness upon himself. Danny gets it. He understands how lucky he is.

Reader, do you think that I have given you too much on this? I do have a reason. Danny loved where he grew up, how he was raised, and he will always be grateful. However, I do worry that his memories are too much a part of him. I think it all very brittle. We have spoken of it and he believes it fragile as well. Danny mentally holds it close to his heart. He protects it from suddenly shattering into tiny pieces that would slip to the basement of his aging.

Mostly, Danny's East Coast accent has faded into the hills of the Rockies. I smile; when he speaks of Lake Mohawk, Sparta, or Jersey, he brings it back. It sounds mafia poorly impersonated. Nevertheless, it is always mystical of a fairy tale. A Knights-errant's quest battling multitudes of snakes and a single Swamp Devil. Like Don Quixote, he has never seen the Devil, but unexplained sounds in the woods tell him that it is there.

My reference on the following comes only from me. As Pippy Long Stockings is only fiction, girls do not hold the same reverence for their days of youth. Childhood should not be brought forward to adulthood. To women, it is not the most memorable crayon in the box. Nor is it the prettiest color.

Unsettled with more life trials than most young girls, perhaps I am not a good source of these beliefs. I do not have the same attachment. Childhood for girls is simply a time spent growing. There is good and bad, but still just time. Living it then, looking back at it now, it was a vanilla cupcake with occasional sprinkles of fun. Good made translucent by the black.

Veering left off Andover Road, Danny pulls down Upper Lake Mohawk drive. The lake on the left and Our Lady of the Lake Church on the right. "Where are we going Daniel?" I asked in a fake confused voice. I knew exactly where we were heading. I had already asked this twice. He wanted to be stupid evasive, so I was obligated to be annoying.

"I want to show you something," he answered without emotion or looking at me. This flat reply was a Danny staple. It always meant that he thought it was something very important. It rarely was. At least to anyone other than him. However, I did not know what it was, but there was something in his declaration that was different. My mind jiggled me that perchance it was indeed important.

Having last driven into Sparta nearly fifteen years ago, the more along with the new was easy to spot. The visual jolt of time travel. There was not a lot of more on Sagamore trail; it was the new that drew me. The new colors of the houses, and the knick-knacks that decorated them. The knicks of children that last visit had been the knacks of the settled elderly. Maybe they were not new, but here now were sidewalks. The evergreen trees that last blended into the background now were prominently the beautiful focus.

Slowly passing the house on the left, I look across Danny. He did not even glimpse at his former home. Not unlike what there had been a lot of lately, Danny was firmly in another place. A place, for this unique and special moment, I did not think he should be. It unsettled me that every emotion that Danny had ever experienced was not overflowing here and now. I didn't like it.

Our rental made that crackling sound of tires slowing to a stop. We were curbed in the circle of the dead end. Looking forward there was just the single house at the end of the road. I looked long at it. It did not look like there was a single more or new. This house had not changed. There was no sign of life; its personality was well hidden. This house, it was the old man's house at the end of the road.

"Let's go Pami." Danny was out quickly and headed to the place that he should not be. The East Coast Nip slapped me as I opened my door. Danny had said it was a different meteorological animal. Its bite made me a believer. The clouds that were fading in and out convinced me to reach into the backseat for my jacket. Not yet having had any, it did hint of a cool rain.

Without taking my hand, without taking me, Danny quickly started off. Following I left the circle's walk and headed west on a connecting path. Passing between wooden fences of two houses, first he, then I came to an intersecting walk. Turning left Danny headed south. These paths were not here the last time we were. Nonetheless, he knew where he wanted to go. "Danny!" I stood motionless, hands on hips displaying neglect.

"What?" he answered before turning to me. "Oh! I'm sorry. Come on." I walked to him slowly with a stare. Exaggerated, I grabbed his hand with a jerk. Together, we looked down tunneled walls of boarded wood. Endless in our sight were homes lined with privacy fences. "They have closed out the outdoors," Danny said softly.

Running a perfect parallel was un-groomed grass that was flowered with not yet in bloom Wilds. To me it seemed out of harmony. All around was natural that was infringed on by the grey we walked upon. I inner chuckled. It was no different in Morrison, but here it seemed out of sorts.

Use to it at home, surprisingly not expecting it here, we both flinched noticeably as a cyclist passed from the rear on our left. "On your left!" I yelled. It was a yell I muffled. I had decided for her not to hear it. Apparently she did. She saluted us with East Coast Rudeness. Rationalizing, I chose to believe that that would never happen in Colorado.

Walking together now, Danny gently squeezed my left hand and said; "Come on I want to show you something." I sounded Colorado Rude as soon as I said it.

"I know. You've said that already." Playfully he bumped his shoulder to mine.

"It is not far. I think. I hope." He wanted me to trust his words. "I mean I think it will be there." He gave me the goofy smile. Those words and his goofy lessened the trust with each step. Each step that took us further from the car.

Them, caretakers of this place, must have reached out and pulled all the Wilds from this spot. A near perfect circle of let alone natural had been pulled and manicured with golf course precision. Only one tree, one of distinction, was center and holding court in this circled clearing.

Our walkway semi-circled around the right side of what now was clearly a protected monument. This shrine once a tree was now D.C. proud in marbled texture and limestone color. "I knew it would be here Pami I knew it." Danny was on it in quickly. But as if it may burn, he tested before laying his palm full on.

Prepared for visitors were two long benches on either side. Each identical, each a large log shaved lengthwise; almost black they were brown. They were smooth, glossy, and very dense. White wrought iron made up the supporting base.

Danny was exuberantly free in his motions. "They've closed it off," he said after moving to its far side. "They closed it off. I guess they didn't want little boys falling and striking their head." I went around to Danny who was on his knees and trying to look up the hollow tree.

Thick white iron meshed-in the hole at its base. Leaping to his feet with a fist pump, he shouted; "Yes! Yes!" Without any caution he reached out laying his fingertips on it. "This is what I wanted to show you." His smile was huge as he slapped his hands together and held them clasped.

Danny; "It has been here forever, centuries, all I remember."

Neither Danny nor I; "Centuries, yes centuries. At least five they say." Startled by this deep and steady voice I stepped to the tree and Danny. He turned from the tree and stepped around me. We both faced the man of the voice as he continued. "The State has declared this a protected site."

He was a tall man, easily six foot. With broad shoulders, he was older than we were. I thought in his sixties. Lean and steady he seemed healthy strong. His pot-marked face proudly presented a large nose. It struck me as royal looking. I love Horseman's Dusters and he had a beautiful one. It was thick tan leather. I do not remember ever seeing one quite like it. Under a wide brim hat, not a cowboy hat but similar, his long silver hair was pulled back in a ponytail. I found him to be... it doesn't matter.

"It officially became a historic site several years ago. Moreover, it has long been known." He said this to both of us but Danny was his eyes focus. "The story, such that it is, is that a small group of Washington's men, sixteen in all, were sent from Morristown on an intelligence gathering patrol. Washington badly needed to know the whereabouts and strength of the British regulars. This group of men were camped here when they were surprised by the British. They were overwhelmed and slaughtered."

Danny snap turned back to me and firmly grasped my upper arms. Wide, his eyes were so wide. His mind was rushing to everywhere. Shaking me harder than he knew, he used his outside voice; "He's right! Do you know what this means Pami! Do you! It happened, it really happened. You understand don't you! No, no you don't. You couldn't. Okay..." He pulled a deep breath. His grasp eased and I felt him shaking.

"Are you cold Danny you're shaking? Why didn't you bring a jacket." I started to remove mine.

"You believe me you believe him don't you?" He said this as he pushed my jacket back down over my shoulders. I nodded lightly. Moving aside Danny, I peered over his shoulder. My questioning search turned Danny to look as well. I did not see him, but our informative visitor had walked off. Danny turned back looking passed me and down the path in the other direction. Indeed the stranger had gone.

Danny's mind was running away from me. "Danny?" I loudly tried to slow him. His awoke to me. His eyes were dark without. I waited for them to lighten and be with me. His ears were listening with a lift of his chin. "Danny... what he just said... what am I supposed to believe? What do you believe that you want me to believe?" I thought he grasped my eyes as he turned to the memorial. It was lit bright as the clouds had parted briefly. Up and down, faster and faster, his hand wiped away nothing from his mouth. He changed; tightened Oak to gentle Willow. I thought him deciding to allow me to believe. His pause told me he was still deciding.

A few seconds turned into more. His debating was the delay. If he chose to tell me, how would he tell me? This deciding was the debate. I wanted to steady with a gentle hand smoothing his shoulder. His eyes locked on the memorial did not see the support I was offering from mine.

Pivoting from the petrified tree, not to me, he moved to one of the benches. Danny sat and reached down. Gently tearing individuals, he plucked blades of grass away from their family. He sat leaning forward. He lifted his hand and pulled a long sniff. The aroma of this grass must have been unique as he pulled again. Fingers slipped loose and they returned to their friends.

Danny sighed relief. A long relief of finally! Finished with a smile, a long walk that had begun so many years ago was complete. Danny began anew. "It was so very long ago now."

Not too close, I joined him on the bench. I did not want my afternoon shadow to block where he might go. Still leaning forward, with his hands clasped, his knees supported his weighted arms. It seemed at first awkward for him. However, steadily, wonderfully, his tale of a younger time grew old. It aged delightfully.

What I heard I never before had. I fought dwelling on a sullen disappointment. I did not think that there was anything that my Danny had not shared with his Pamila. However, I was certain that he had not shared this with anyone else either. However, in listening, in him, I knew it had many times gone un-shared. I did think of Rojer, but then I did not think Rojer. Thinking Rojer, I thought a missing of him.

Danny's low chin shaded his chest with memories. His eyes wandering along with his story were still in his head. He walked, ran, jumped, and climbed through where he was. Where he was, was here in a much different time. You the reader have been there.

Peculiar to me when they did, during his telling, Danny would occasionally open his palms to look for an emotional stain. Twice he found one and rubbed vigorously to remove it.

So subtle was his gradual gathering of emotions that I had not noticed it building. His inflection had begun soft and his pitch was playful Danny. Both were now a grey shade of the now brilliant wearying sun. His pace was rushed. The gaining beat of the kettledrum was bringing his telling to crescendo.

Taking in and enjoying its flow, I was easily patient as he went on. "A gash deep and long ran from the middle of his forehead across a closed left eye and trailed down a cheek-bone of dripping blood. This man, soon to be led only by his soul, searched for mine. His eyes pierced, his words fell into a Well of indifference, bottomless. Over time, these words slowly surfaced, floating in a basin of still acknowledgement. Years to follow, time to ponder, words I would consume. I have thought of his words often. At first, I wasn't sure what he had said. Eventually I thought I knew his words. Now, today, I'm certain what he said." Danny sat up turned to me and found my eyes. "That man... he said-"

'Time, space," I punched the man's words at Danny. Without a wasted motion, Danny was standing over me. He stood peering, pondering, bewildering. Not sure if I did it intentionally, I gave him an it-is-okay-smile.

"You've heard it!" Danny pushed air with his shout. My smile grew and touched my ears. He forced a smile that looked like it hurt. Reaching and taking his hands, I rose and met him. With less pain, his smile grew to a Danny natural.

"Danny, we can go now."

Something else.

Daniel:

Pamila was saying a farewell thank you to Harry. Our well-spent time with him was through. This time, as was the last time, was more than interesting; it was unique. And not unique as the word is too easily tossed about. To Harry, me, and all that have heard it, Harry's last tale was unique. In a theoretical world, a place that only exists in consideration, the tale he told today was unique. It was not without intent that I used full name Pamila in the previous; Harry all day had done the same without veering.

Now years later, Harry's physical stature weakened by time, mental acuity pinpoint still, Harry was a different same. Graceful in his acceptance of his point on the time-line of life, Harry was near wizardry in being. That special kind of understanding that comes only with a flow of a life that had been the best of kind. One that was sadly ebbing to its end. Sadly for those that shared him. I had seen this before, this kind of content-ness in good. Always near spiritual in meeting, I always sought this gift that some offered. A simple-ness of life.

Both cliché and wrong it would be to say that time had not been good to Harry. Time had indeed taxed his physical and so blessed the core of his self. As I knew Pami, I knew there would be tears of understanding from her that his journey was near its end. Harry certainly knew his long walk was near complete. Nonetheless, he would shed no tears. Long past, and surely alone, I figured he had done so. His tears had dried and there would be no more. One is ready or not; Harry had guided himself ready. Coming to it only after thought, I found we were here because of that ready.

"Thanks Todd for all that you have done." With my firm and slightly prolonged shake, my eyes fixed in his, and my sincere manner, I hoped he understood the depth of my thanking. Todd's tender smile hinted that he did. Pami lifted from one last Harry hug. Turning to me, her eyes were an emotional sheen. Looking down upon a seated Harry, I was awkward in how our relationship should part for this I knew the last time. Our Harry hosted event had buried me. It was much more than I could have possibly anticipated. My thoughts twisting tight with his latest telling, I fought to untangle for this moment. Harry gracefully and gratefully took the moment from me. He passed the awkward with an extended hand.

"Not until I am gone." I took in his implied meaning, but he wanted to make sure that this stupid kid truly did. "Feel free to write it up but I ask that you not release it until I am standing with Elizabeth." My eyes welled along with Pami's. A final as our hands slid apart. Sharpie indelible in me, I would re-live this memorial often. Perhaps too often. Perhaps not enough.

As a writer, even before clicking the return to open a new paragraph, I know that the following will take place in yet another vehicle. This causes me pause. Dear reader, you would think that if I was trying to tickle your mind, I would fresh something that is not so stale. Perhaps a Handsome Cab, why not a cable car, or how about the space shuttle. However, New York City is over an hour from here, I have never been to Ms. Joplin's adopted home, and reality check please. But the fact is that we are headed toward the airport, home, and Bubba. Perhaps I can Impressionist the written moment now to come:

The late afternoon wind was so very much alive, so very fraught with force, and filled so with anger. Its titanic iron jaws clamped so firm that the test of opening the car door was certain to be failed. My Pami, my tiny frail Pamila, she collapsed in weeping scared tears. Being the Gallant that I am, I freed my tower'd Princess from her entrance that had been forebode.

(Sorry that you were forced to endure that. It was really for me. I mean I sit here on a Sunday afternoon working. I usually do not write on Sunday. Nonetheless, I was forced to do so by my lack of productivity during the week. Therefore, I guess I am not really into it right now. I can call it whatever I want, bottom line, that was writer pissy.

People tell me how lucky I am to have a job that I so love. Well that is- I will stop myself in mid rant. I do not have a job; I do however work. It is a fine line between the two, but I rationalize it as being there. As of work; everyone, everyone has moments when they hate working. If you say you don't, either you're making way more money than I am, or you pants are on fire.)

Princess and Gallant in the car.

"That was amazing! I don't know what to think. Wasn't it?" Pami asked. If it was indeed an asking. As previously mentioned, we were in the car, heading to the airport. 'Amazing'; perhaps my emotional concept of that word was a bit different from Pami's. However, my thoughts had not chosen a word yet. Pami's was as good as any. The interview that really was not, was still ripening in my melon. More so, it seemed a Harry cleansing tale. But maybe that does not pen well either. Harry did not think of it as a tale. He did not want me to think of it as a story either. Was it a spiritual confession? Perhaps, close, perhaps very close.

I did not give Pami anything and she did want me to. "Nothing? That's it! You are not going to say anything." She was looking steady at me. Glancing to her then back, I did not speak. I was trying to get it right. I was not sure what right was. When I do not know, I always fall back on what I do know.

"Well... some of the details, all of the details that I knew of, they were all spot on. They were absolutely perfect. But any student with the internet could find those details. But it was all the details that I didn't know. That is what got me. You know. Harry would not know that unless he had been there. There is no way you could know those things unless you had been there. So I guess I don't know. I can't confirm much of what he said. But... but in the same way, I can't dismiss them either."

My princess kicked aside, she would have none of that royal bullshit. "What?" She shouted. Pause for crowned affect. "The great Daniel Rengaw can not confirm nor deny a historical supposition? Really?" No pause.

"Oh I'll find out alright!" I knew I couldn't, but I wouldn't leave her with hand. The last word her's? Not happening.

As with the in-car reading that you have done reader, surely plane event reading has gotten redundant as well. I am happy, and you will be ecstatic, our return flight home was without mention. However, as the pay-attention-reader may be aware of, I tend to say nothing happened, and then not-so-smoothly launch into a happening. What follows is that not-so.

Pami finished her read of Catch 22. Pami loved Catch 22. Pami wanted escape. Rationalizing this, I pushed aside her words as a passive aggressive Danny damaging lie.

A Daddy Bear hug is one of those father daughter personal's that Rebecca and I have shared since she was a toddler. Now home, thanking them for the airport pickup, I gave, and she got. "Easy Daddy," Rebecca said. She hushed this out loudly as she squirmed away from me. I questioned what had changed in our relationship. Why I did I did not know, but I looked to Wade for an answer. He did not give me an answer. He added to my wonder with a face that looked wondering itself. Reaching to him for a thank you departing shake, he seemed tentative in taking my offer.

Dusk had fallen upon Morrison more than an hour earlier. Because of delays with our flight, our walk to Dennis and Tina's invite was in a darker light. In reality, very little lite was able to push through an overcast March sky. With a happy to be home Pami in hand, and a happy that Daddy was home Bubba leashed, we headed the several blocks to their home. Our path took us past Mister Frick's house. Michael did not seem to be at home. His house held no lite either.

"Thanks for dinner Tina. I'm glad not to have to cook tonight. The meal was delicious." Pami thanked and complimented.

"Like you were going to cook tonight," I said. I gave a Buddy look to Dennis. Probably shouldn't have done either. Pami was quick in coming back.

"Were you going to?"

"No! But that's not the point." I looked to Dennis to make sure he appreciated the risk I was taking for his enjoyment. He did. Tina, softer, laughed as well. Pami exaggerated a glare of infuriation. One, two, three; the chuckle that Pami so did not want out, got out.

You know that pause, the one that gets awkward after it is noticeable that no one is speaking, that happened now. For me it was a little more awkward as I suddenly became aware that my arms were crossed upon my chest. Body language that I have been told tells of several personality traits. None that I particularly like, none I will admit to. Noticeably unnatural, I rush dropped my hands flat atop the table.

Pami tried to bridge the gap that was still to nowhere. "How is Jill?" A harmless opening to conversation; good. No, not harmless, not good; bad, bad was about to be. Tina's face lost all of the easy that had been our dinner. In his chair, Dennis squirmed as if he didn't want to be here anymore. Tina was on her feet. Her chair made a wood on wooden floor slide, followed by a knock of a wall-unit stopping its slide. Pami made a soft questioning sound. I pulled my hands off of the table. It seemed the safe move as Tina jerked my plate. Without a word, she grabbed other dinnerware, stacked them into a leaning tower, and headed to the kitchen. Her pace was as quick as her Pisa allowed. Pami glanced to me and then peered at Dennis.

Dennis was still unsettled in his chair as he answered the question that had set his ass on fire and endangered porcelain. "She's doing well." Okay... Profiling 101; Dennis is lying. 'She's doing well', means no she's not. It was a far too simple answer. Even CBI Department Head Greg Tillman knows this.

(I haven't bashed Tillman for some time. It just felt right.)

Dennis left that not-enough answer hanging. I so wanted his answer to be enough, but no! "Dennis?" Pamila had to go there. This set my ass on fire.

He leaned to the table and rested elbows. He said to neither of us; "Oh... she's alright. Jill... it's just that... it's just that she's kind of-"

"She's an idiot!" Tina finished whatever Dennis was about to say. A mother's disgust was smothering a mother's love. Her face was embarrassed by where she was headed. Nonetheless, her wanting us to hear this had pushed embarrassment aside. I was sure it was more for Pami to hear.

Dennis; "Do you have any idea what you just did Pami?" He did not say this aloud, but he wanted to. Dennis slowly sat back. His chin dropped. He knew he was finished. Tina was starting.

In presenting my rendition of this evening, I suddenly realize that I have opened an information hole. I should take the time to go back and close it. But it seems like a lot of work. It is the time that it would take. It is the effort and all. Does this make me a lazy writer? I guess what I want, does not matter. Dear Reader, you need to have this. You're welcome.

Jill, their daughter, had been married for less than two years. She was married to... What follows is less than flattering to him, so he would rather go through this part anonymous. The light does not shine well on Jill either. But she has already been named as a witness. So her identity is in your eyes.

(See how easy that was. Now I have time for Sportscenter and lunch.)

Okay I am back. First though, I feel the need to digress.

Does anyone else find ESPN's ten-year love affair with Tony Romo nauseating?

Tina, now standing at the end of the table, has us surrounded. "Pamila did I raise an idiot?" (That is twice.) With a dishcloth, with angered fervor, Tina was desperately trying to wipe disgust from her wet hands. Her eyes went all Helter Skelter as she waited for an answer. Pami's nervous shifting said that she did not want to play anymore.

Pami; "I don't think that you-" Tina, the scarred X on her forehead surfacing, did not let Pami finish.

"That man! He infuriates me. I don't understand that dip-shit Hipster. Why does she listen to him like he is some kind of... of... a prophet. She always does this. She has always done this. Every asshole that she's ever gone out with, she does the exact same thing." Perhaps Tina felt her insides coming outside. With no less meaning, but wanting to soften its escape, she retreated a bit in her verbal assault. She pulled a breath, another deeper, she sat. Her face was in full rose bloom and her lips white thinned tight. Dennis now attempted an escape. Grabbing only those dishes that would not slow his departure, he left me. With an obvious Man-law broken, I held my stare of him on his departing back. The coward did not look at me. He would hear of this later. Him gone, I snapped a look to Pami. She knew that he had broken.

With Dennis's departure, witnessing Tina's face, watching her fortify her sitting, Intel told me this assault would be brutal. Diplomatic end scenarios to this siege flashed immediate in me. None came to me that might work now without later being Pamila assaulted. With no viable option, I would have to take my beating.

I sat back in my chair and audibly pushed air. Pami's searing eyes burnt into me. My shoulders lifted, with my palms off the chair's arms and open, I asked the ultimate question. "What?" Pami's head slowly turned to Tina. Again I snapped; "What?" Good for me, it was a silent snap. I am not an idiot. That is Jill's husband's job.

Tina opened the onslaught. "Why does Jill do this? Every time she gets a man in her life, she changes. She becomes... she changes her personality to be whatever he is. To be whatever the idiot wants her to be." (Three.) "We didn't raise her to be anyone's puppet. Shit Pami what the hell is wrong with her." Tina's expletive modifiers were unusual for her. They uncomfortably fell from her hurting heart. Uncomfortable for her and us.

She paused. Both hands worked the sides of her neck. I hate Dennis. As she gazed into the tablecloth, she saw the face of her son-in-law. Her estranged by stupidity son-in-law. "He infuriates me so. God he makes me so mad. He's just such a... I don't know what to call him. He thinks that everyone else in the world is doing it wrong. Everything! Everyone is doing everything wrong and he does not understand why. You know... everyone works and everyone has a job to pay their bills. Nope! Nope! That's wrong! That's not the way it should be. According to him that is wrong. We are all doing it wrong. That idiot!" (Four.) "Most people, normal people, think in real terms. Nope! That is wrong. We are all doing it wrong. Logical! Most people are logical. Nope! We are all killing this planet. He's not. Just everyone else on the planet is. Damn it he makes me so mad. He is...he's so-"

"Befuddled?" I so wanted to help her with her word choice that I did. Tina jumped to her feet and punched an affirming finger toward me.

"Yes! Yes! He is befuddled. He is a Befuddled!" She said this happy that I had given her, and she now had a title. "And he is making my daughter exactly like him. A Befuddled. He is turning her brain into befuddled mush. She is becoming a Befuddled." Tina paused briefly and then continued. "My daughter is bright, she is educated, and she is turning into an idiot." (I'm done.) "How the hell did this happen!"

Tina's question I assumed was rhetorical. I hoped so, I was not going near it. Her face went expressionless. Posture poured from her. Tina's angry solid fell into a sullen hole. I am not sure what brought on this quick giving up. Perhaps neither of us answering confirmed her worry. Perhaps it was the barely heard awkward chuckle from the Hated in the kitchen. However, it could have been as simple as today's battle was over. All that she had within, thus being let out, she had nothing left. Darting eyes settled into a calm glisten. Paleness replaced rose, shoulders softened as her lips began a quiver. Her transformation was at end. The sobbing was at its beginning. Tina was gone, disappearing down the hallway. My biological emotional system got instantly ill. The prognosis was treatable, but the recovery would be painful. I knew; why is it when a tearing woman runs from my presence, it is my fault.

"Tina!" Pami called to her. Her glare was to me. "Daniel!" Bam!

"What?" Reflexive, my defense was weak. "How is this my fault?" Better. I punched hard my second defense in order for the Mad, Sullen, and the Hated, to hear. Particularly the Hated. In afterthought, my punch was the foundation of my future defense. It was weak. I was going to marriage prison.

'You the most honorable members of the jury. Guided by your truest moral compass, within the legal requirement of Without-a-doubt, am I to be convicted of Marriage Derelecti? Is it true that stupidity may have been in play? That answer would have to irrefutably be yes! However, am I to suffer slings and arrows for the emotional state of another? That answer would have to irrefutably be no!'

Now, I could compare what might be the response from some female readers, with what would be the response from all male readers, but perhaps no. I do so hate kneeling to political correctness, but I am sure that my publisher would instead want me to present the 'Ice cream in the water story' instead.

It was a summer evening several years past. I had prepared a delicious meal of roasted Game Hens, fresh corn on the cob, and roasted garlic mashed potatoes. It was just Pamila and I. We enjoyed the meal and were now finished. Well... the bowl of ice cream that I was enjoying on the back porch would finish it for me.

Bowl in hand; I could hear sounds from the kitchen of what I perceived as Pami preparing a bowl of her own. It was then that I heard a splash. Vulgarity at my expense immediately followed. 'That stupid son-of-a-bitch.' With her tone, her loudness, and the fact that she repeated these words, I knew several things. First, it was not life threatening. However, it was one of those things that she really wished had not happened. Lastly, I could tell that she really did not know what to do about what had just happened. Oh... whatever had just happened, there was no doubt that it was somehow my fault.

"What happened?" I yelled. Being one of the truly caring people on earth, I asked this with the deepest of concern. What I heard was mumbling. This was followed by these words; "I dropped the ice cream into the nasty water. I dropped the ice cream carton in the water!"

On the floor, at the end of one of our counters, is Bubba's water-dish. Ice cream floating in Mervin's water bowl is what I pictured. Responding probably not with the deepest caring, I said; "You dropped it into Mervin's bowl?" Not for her to hear, I chortled with the thought of this picture. Probably where I went wrong; probably she heard. But come on! My mind's picture of Pami standing over Mervin's water dish, staring down at a half gallon of peach ice cream half submerged in water, that's funny!

She mumbled something. I am pretty sure she called me another name. I'm pretty sure I knew what it was. However, not being certain, I will not pass it on to you. Then there was this. "No! Not the dog bowl! Your nasty ass water in the sink. That disgusting water that you always have in the sink." It was, my fault.

My defense: Always, when I am working in the kitchen, I have the right sink full of CLEAN antibacterial dish-soap-water. Hygienic and sanitary; not disgusting, not nasty ass. I use it to wash my hands, prevent cross contamination, and clean things. Not nasty ass.

My reprimand from within as she continued to do whatever she was doing continued. I will not go into details, as it adds nothing to the story. The story, my point, is that it was my fault for being sanitary in my work. Sanitary in food preparation; the same way that I had done forever. You see it now don't you.

So that is the 'Ice cream in the water story'. Oh yeah, there is this: Minutes later, a large bowl of peach ice cream in hand, Pamila joined me on the porch.

Tina run off, Pamila in pursuit, Dennis still hiding, I sat alone at the table considering my injustice. With a timid search of the world, which was my world, Dennis peeked form within his black hole. A raising brow put my eyes to a face that swallowed nervously. Thinking all clear, trying to loosen a tight everything, Dennis stepped into the room.

"I'm sorry Danny." He placed it as a feeler. I was feeling but gave him only a blank face. "Tina has been upset about this thing." I did not care about her thing and I told him so. My words stumbled across an awkward meaning. They gave him a considering halt.

It was not that I wanted to, I had to thrash him. Intentionally I punched hard punctuation. Dennis... you... bailed... on me." These words may not seem much of a thrashing. However, they firmly let him know of his wronging. And wronging was always wrong.

At this point in this stupid game, he knew he had to give an explanation for his wronging. We both knew that it would be meaningless. We both also knew that it was the next play. I waited. He had nothing. Not allowed. He had to say something, anything. 'I did not get a skateboard for my eleventh birthday.' That would have worked.

"Well!" I said. He looked away from me. Oh hell no! "You coward!" It needed saying. I went too far. Dennis instantly looked a pitiful tired. A man with no more fight in him. A Hemingway fish. Dennis gave still a different look. The same look I had seen before from Mervin. It said; 'I'm sorry. I know I was bad. Please forgive me. Just love me.'

With his beaten-ness, with his asking for a forgiveness, I said exactly what he wanted to hear. I said nothing more about it. I kind of felt sorry for him. I will never admit to it, but I may have in the past been weak, scared, a runner. Perhaps my past was the cause of a gentler forgiving me. This is how I choose to rationalize it.

(Now Dear Reader, do you see how trying men relations are. Women think we are ridiculous; stupid even. But the gentle balance that we constantly have to walk is so very tentative. We are indeed so delicately sensitive.)

After more incredibly stupid gentler banter on the topic of Jill, we migrated to the living room. Our new conversation was mostly a stereotypical cliché; we talked sports. It was all easy for the two of us. However, I, and I assumed Dennis, could hear the passing of each minute. The minutes with missing wives. Forty-three in all.

Tina's cheeks were pink and puffy. Although not as visible on her face, Pamila had been crying as well. Noticeable only to me, Pamila was very reserved. Husband knowing, very reserved came right after very angry Pami. I went to DEFCON 3.

However, even with the increased threat level, I knew I was good. You see... when Pami is angry with me, reserved is not next. Well... there was that one time when we were first married and I wrecked her classic GTO. But that was more ignoring. I swear I wasn't racing.

The remains of our evening together was as long as it took to say goodbyes. There was a lot of thanking and some hugs. Dennis did not get a hug from me. One last stupid thing. I kind of felt bad about it, but it had to be done.

Throughout this ending, Pami was over selling the 'It will all be okay'. I am sure Dennis caught me staring at her cheerleader like chipper. Right then it slapped my legs and ached my head. I was tired and ready for my bed. It had been a long day. All of me was ready for it to end.

With the late evening dropping into an early spring cool, with Bubba leading the way, our pace home was brisk. Without any transition in a non-existent conversation, Pami scared the silence away. "Tina is really very upset about Jill. I was very surprised by how upset she is and some of the things she told me." She paused only briefly. "When we were in the bedroom she cried so hard it scared me. I have never seen her cry like that. I am not sure I have ever seen anyone cry like that. She would be sobbing one moment and then so angry with him the next. At both of them really. Tina said some things that..." She stopped mid-sentence. I turned to her. She looked straight ahead. "Tina kept saying that she wished he would just go away." Pami's presentation turned lighter as she continued; "She kept calling him a New Age Hipster Wanna Be." Pami smiled. "In the end she called him a Befuddled. Jill liked that. Befuddled! She giggled a little when she said it." Pamila remembering Jill's giggle shared her light moment.

With all of everything that she has for me, Pami pulled my hand and took me to her side. She pecked my cheek. "I wish I could help her. I'm not sure how." She did not know, but she was going to think about it. I pulled her eyes into question. "What?" she asked. I held my stare.

"I know you Pami." She knew.

Pine lake, my Grandparent's home and adjoined marina. The place where I semi-annually spent my summers. A wonderfully special place for me. The smell of two-cycle gasoline; to this day it is an odor that always brings a smile in my mind. So many memories. So many vivid memories.

I am very much aware that I tend to prattle on about such places; in this instance, I will not. You only need to know the following: It is here, sitting at my Grandmother's kitchen counter that I was allowed to fill hundreds of books with Green Stamps. It was during one of my Grandparent's annual Holiday visits to Jersey that she brought a unique Christmas memory.

Perhaps they have not been left in centuries gone. Perhaps wonderfully special family moments have changed form in the new. Let us go back to the old. It was at her annual Christmas visit that my Grandmother ceremoniously unveiled a wonderful. She presented to gathered family, the way Grandmothers will.

As my Grandmother will, she said; "Isn't it lovely!" Hands clasped, she was beaming. "I got it with S&H Green Stamps," she added. It lay presented on the living room rug. The wrapping paper that had protected it lay aside. Which my Father immediately tossed into the burning fireplace. Which was his Christmas morning job. A job he took very seriously. The way fathers will.

Amidst her grandmotherly boasting, I understood that I was a part of it. All those hours pasting stamps, all that time at her kitchen counter, it was I. I had filled those books, I was a part. This part, now, is a part I wish to hold on to. There then, a memory. Here now, a family treasure. A treasure that I unwrap every year. The wrapping paper that I toss into the fireplace. A missed loving that I place on the rug in our living room.

The unveiled was, and is still, a Twelve Days of Christmas home. It is delicate porcelain and beautifully hand painted. Each closed shutter, when opened, pictures a different day. Before any shutters have been opened, it leaks square candle lite. This now, is Michael's house.

My curious friend's home was lit and candlepower was bulging all seems. Twelve windows were blinds shaded and leaking square white-yellow. Both porch lights were on, as was the garage, as was the walkway. If it could be lit, it was. I stared with curious questioning. "Huh!" Pami said with questioning of her own. I stared at Michael's house until our walking took it from me.

Bubba nearing his home excitedly crisscrossed our path. I had to fight the pulled tight leash. His head lifted as his excited whining changed to a low growl. I noticed. He stopped firm and held ground. Pami noticed. He stood square, chest out, primal warning. I knew there was a coyote that I had not noticed. I pulled to shorten the leader-leash. Both of us searched where Mervin had found. Seeing nothing, I listened for any sound that might SONAR me in. I had closed the leash to where I was now feet from him. "Danny!" Her warning startled me. Pami jerked hard on my arm to stop me. Her warning was now fear. "There is someone on our porch." Mervin reared up tight against the leashed hold. Three snapping barks. Our un-lit porch, one large shadow, was not there to my eyes. I understood how diminished my night vision was. Part of the reason I soon would be seeing a doctor.

Something slid, darkness moved. Pami standing pat, my arm pushed her to a stop that already was. Protective and pissed, my Bubba wanted a piece. Again I saw the gray move. Bubba hard on point, we slowly moved to reconnaissance the porch. Pulled to the start of the walkway I shouted; "Who's there?"

Mervin barked; "Who the #!%^ is there?" Soles were heard quick and light across the wood planks. A man's outline headed toward me with three bangs down and off the porch. Rather diminutive was the outline; I was feeling much bigger. I was just about to release Mervin, but my increase in size ended that.

"Danny?" The voice that came from the shadows I did not attach a name to. But it did lessen the threat more. Mervin stopped advancing but was still tight in my hand. "Is that you Danny thank God?" Bubba barked kinder but still with doubt. Pami had been quick to my side. Still approaching faster than I thought he should, he asked; "Where have you been Danny? I've been here over an hour." His words were rapid; his tone concerned if not scared. I couldn't get it out any faster as I pulled Mervin back.

"Mike no!" Scaring the hell out of him, as was my intent, he froze, as was my intent. "Michael take it easy Mervin is still unsure. Easy!" He brushed by Mervin with little concern. Still with concern but less, Bubba grumbled as he passed.

Pami moved past me to Michael. She did not seem angry, she was angry. Her right hand raised and caught his attention. He leaned back. "Michael what the hell is wrong with you? You scared the hell out of us!"

With Pamila just a flinch from releasing a right-cross slap, Michael looked past her and said; "It's bad Danny it's bad it's really bad." Not the choice I would have made.

Following his spitting sputter, I asked; "What's bad Michael?" Instantly, so instantly that science would find it difficult to measure, I knew this question would be the most regrettable of the day. A day that had walked to cliff's edge, and was now looking down into the presuppose of sleep, now would almost certainly step back.

"Danny you have got to come to my house I need to show you something I have got to tell you something. They know about it Danny and they know that I know. They know that you told me. Danny they know! You have got to come with me. I have to show you something. I have to tell you something." Son-of-a-bitch!

Although these passing minutes were a bit off for Michael, it was not a huge stretch. His current going off was hugely out of time's place, but not so strange. Now bent, it was this now that had me bent.

Pami kissed my cheek and pulled back to find my eyes. Her lips drew a picture of a married sorry-about-your-bad-luck smile. She sarcasm'd away; "See ya!" Turning from me, she paused long and hard on Michael. He was out of striking range but still necked backwards. Lips now tiny, brow mean down, her face said; 'I should beat your puny ass'. I fought to keep the moment inside. Good for Michael, sad for me, she turned and headed down the walkway. "Come on Bubba. Daddy has a crisis." She chuckled. Mervin looked to me.

"Go on Bubba," I said. He glanced once to Michael and then back to me before running to the porch. I watched Pami walk away from me. I understood what I would not get.

There were so many reasons for my sigh. It was very Soap Opera-ish. My chin dropped. Again, daytime programing. I saw a bit of dirt on my left Converse. The patience that I did not have, forced a fake caring as I lifted to Michael.

Whatever there was of an angler in Michael, it told him that the hook was not yet set. Not so hard as to rip the hook from my mouth, he offered with inflection soft solid; "Okay? Danny, can we go now?" I only stared. This was a yes. He spun and headed off. With one last glimpse of my wife getting ready for bed, I began my follow.

So as Pami and Mervin were preparing for sleep, and no doubt talking shit about me, I was heading for Mister Frick's house. Steps ahead of me and moving briskly we passed the walk in silence. Homing in on the shining beacon of his house, Michael suddenly went full stealth.

Hedges ran the length of his front yard. They were three or so feet high, they were bursting early buds, and they were rarely trimmed. Here at the corner is where Michael stopped and dropped quick. He lifted to one knee. I stood! 'What is this?' I thought. Michael peeked above the hedge, peered briefly, and began scuttling on all fours along the sidewalk. 'I do not need this shit', I thought. Lit by a sudden moon, I followed with slow steps. Where his walkway met the bushes, he again stopped and peered. Michael saw me and reached up. He grabbed for whatever he could grab. "Get down Danny!" It was so 60's TV show Combat. Combat was my father's favorite TV show.

I went all in. Dropping to a knee, I adjusted my steel helmet. In case you want to know, it was camouflage meshed. Confused by my in-the-moment ridiculousness, he stared. This made me feel better; he was hovering around reality.

"Are you alright Danny?" he asked. He asked me? He again peered over the Howitzer left rubble. His neck swiveled in a search pattern and then he pulled back down to cover. He jingled, peered one last time, and took off. Still hunched over he dashed to the front door in a serpentine pattern. Perhaps I exaggerate.

He unlocked the dead-bolt, did the same to the handle's lock, and pulled the door open. Light, blinding light, poured into my eyes. Michael grabbed my arm, and forcibly without me resisting twisted me inside. Behind me, wood slammed wood. Metal tumbled twice to lock.

Millions of lit crystals poured into my eyes. Prism blended light overwhelmed. All that I could not see was everywhere. I flinched with a sound to my left. The sound was movement. "Turn off some of those lights Michael." I said this vulnerable and hurried. Movement of sound was scraping and clicking. A hunger screech was added to a cat's claws on a wooden floor. I presumed it was hunger, but who knows. Cats?

One of those brain sores that never heals is my inability to remember which is which, Rods or Cones. Whichever is which, they were slowly adjusting. Less concerned, I again asked; "Michael the lights?" Switches snapped and lamps de-clicked as he turned off half a dozen. Better!

Of all the neurological data I was currently processing, what came to the forefront was that I had never before been inside Michael's house. His home, his inside house, it all was damp in a mid-20th century motif. There was no furniture that you had to put together yourself. All the furniture was solid and much was overstuffed. There was heavy tables and heavier hutches. All lamps were topped with paper shades and were made of porcelain and brass. The walls that were wallpapered were textured. The floor was dark wooden planks. The decorations on the walls risked nothing. I profiled; the gender of the home was female. I thought gender neutral, and then I didn't. This was a woman's home. A woman of a previous generation.

With me still wandering through the room's profile, Michael dashed the distance to the stairs and called from halfway to the top. "Come on Danny up here. It's up here." As I was spiraling around in a Hitchcock visual, 'it's', sounded don't-go-up-there creepy.

Meeting him top of the stairs, Michael turns and starts down the long hallway. My tired mind still vising a Hitchcock parallel universe, the hallway runs from me. Endlessly it flows away from my end seeking sight. Doors sweep past me with a repeating whoosh. The hallway's end distancing itself without shrinking in size. I shake my thoughts vigorously side to side. As I am allowed to play with it in this exhausted realm, reality is once again in my toy box.

This upstairs is not that downstairs. I think to profile and choose do not. I do not think I will like what I think. Letting my brain rest, I only look. The hallway is a mix of unique decorating and a hallucinogenic motif. Black in color of a natural dark that I have never seen, the wood floor pulls my eyes down to it. From there I go up and away. Delicately sculpted baseboards of the same tone run the length. The painted walls are such a subtle shade of white that it is if they are not there. There are six doors in all. Three on each side. They are the walls. Five wooden doors were decoratively carved. Each one is darker than the previous one. They were all from a distant place. A single door, the first on my right, is solid and highly polished metal. I imagined it was from Pittsburgh. The Crown molding was again elaborate in its carving and different in its darker. The ceiling was unique. It was also a scheme gone horribly awry. It was black against white, it was iron trying to float on water, it was wrong pummeling right. 'One of these things is not like the other.' Perhaps it is this Sesame Street flashback that sent me chasing Alfred.

The ceiling directly above me was brilliant white. As the ceiling moved down the hall away from me, it slowly morphed in shade. It smoothed bright white to ash, ash to gray, gray to charcoal, and charcoal to Black Hole. I do appreciate creativity as much as the last guy, but this mixing of 18th century provincial with 20th century Twilight Zone, would have sent Trevor into convulsions.

Pamila, my Mother, my friends, and most of you, would predict where my curiosity went. Directly to and fixated on the single metal door. Unfortunately, the cause of the metal door, and what was behind it, was not going to happen. "Here Danny." My fingertips slid across the width of the Pennsylvania product. 'But what about this single conspicuous metal door?' I said to myself.

Under the Black Hole, it hung on the left side of the hallway. Michael stopped in front of it. My adoration for all things pristine was warmed as the crafting of this beautiful door was not blemished by a modern lock. Before opening it, Michael seemed to pay the mahogany door homage. He stared at the tight grain with respect. "I got it in Olangapo. Philippines. Outside of Clark Air Force base. When Clark was still there."

"When were you in the Philippines?" I think I said. I know he said nothing.

Heavy was it as Michael pushed it inward. Warm was it as air pushed outward. The rhythmic cycling sound of an electric fan blended with the lesser sound of humming electrons. Within was Michael's playground. A mix of old and new school. Analog, which I had once tinkered with, and digital, which I knew how to use.

A fist size bundle of cables ran along the back wall and branched out to gizmos, gazmos, and guzmos. Two laptops, a single PC, a router, several modems, I recognized. Mostly smaller, other equipment that I did not.

Both laptops and the P.C. were running. The first laptop was rolling through a series of four displays: two different pie charts, one multi-lined graph, and the last was a report of some sort. Organized numbers that I did not try to sum. Each was cycling every ten seconds.

The other laptop was awash in a screen-saver of tropical fish. No creativity, but exactly as I would have guessed. The tower fed LED displayed a portion of a global map. Northern Africa, Central America, and northern South America, were the regions. An insert on the bottom left displayed Nicaragua. I knew it was Nicaragua because it said so. The only other text on Nicaragua was the number 757. It digitally clicked to 758.

I am not sure how long I surveyed what the room was, but it was long enough to recognize one thing; Michael was calm and quiet. He was safe and comfortable surrounded by the world. He was silent and still. He did not want to spook me from taking it all in. From creepy crawling, loud and paranoid, to motionless calm, I noticed. His slowed breathing, his face of normal color, his calmness, they all seemed biologically impossible.

"Daniel!" It was not oud but I flinched. "Do you know what that is Daniel? Do you recognize that? You should!" He pointed to the map. I glanced at him and then back to the world.

"A map," I said flatly. He smiled.

"You do not. You don't see any of it do you. You should Daniel." He paused, waiting for a revelation from me. I was looking hard into his eyes. "Daniel it is your vision." Pause again. "You wrote about it." His words forced me to analyze and find what I should understand. I did, and I did not. I rubbed my eyes quickly, hoping to get them to work one last time.

My mind was racing for the answer that God willing, would mercifully end this. Looking at him my peripheral saw change. The insert was now Libya and 1013. I stared at it still searching for what I should. My eyes were overtired aching. My look said I was going home. I turned. "Five Kings!" I stopped. "It is Five kings Daniel." He said this factually.

God had not been merciful. I did not want to, but slow and low I asked; "Five Kings? Michael please... I don't see it."

"You predicted it Daniel. You wrote it and you e-mailed it to me. I read it. This is the beginning of Five Kings." His calm tone became a little ruffled as he said this.

He touched Libya. "Libya, 1013, that's an increase." He jumped over to the laptop and click clicked to the report. His finger scrolled downward as he leaned into the screen. "That is an increase of 212% in 88 days. 212% increase in less than 90 days Daniel."

I must have hit the wall at that moment as I was done with whatever this was we were doing. I turned to the door and started off.

"I'm going home Michael can we please finish this tomorrow?"

"No!" He grabbed my arm turning me to see a once again reddening face. "Stay with me please Danny just a few more minutes." His words were quickening. He quick stepped to the laptop and clicked a key. Back to the PC. "See Libya and that number, I did that." He was leaning in and down to the screen as he continued; "I created a program that keeps track." He stood up and faced me. "You see... almost every country has a program that monitors and keeps track of ships coming into port. Taxes, tariffs, graft, you know. I created a program that gathers this information and compiles it so that I can see it." He points to the monitor as his eyes stay on me. "Libya. One thousand and thirteen. That is the number of boats that are currently in port. Not boats really, ships, sea going vessels." Again, he rapidly and repeatedly thrust a pointed finger at the monitor. "One thousand and thirteen boats represents an increase of two hundred and twelve percent in less than ninety days. Libya has two hundred and twelve percent more sea faring vessels in port right now than it did eighty eight days ago."

The insert switched to Argentina. He saw it and dashed back to the laptop. "See! Argentina has increased two hundred and eight percent in one hundred and one days. It is happening just as you predicted." He paused and squared me. Still getting more and more worked up, he did say with clarity the following. "Daniel, during the past two months, six countries have shown me a steady buildup of sea ships capable of ocean sailing. Significant numbers of significant craft."

"Significant?" I asked.

"Stellar Wind," he shouted.

"Stellar Wind. Is that even still in effect. Is it still lawful?" I asked. Michael nodded slowly. He was silently emphatic.

I mulled over what Stellar Wind was. With one of those cool names that our security agencies attach to programs, Stellar Wind was one of those. Shortly after that attack of September, the President signed a National Security Order; Stellar Wind. Basically, Stellar Wind gave the FBI and all of our national security agencies carte blanche. They could use all of their technology to monitor all of ours. It was J. Edgar Hoover's dream. Big brother was listening. Moreover, most importantly here and now, I was sure that Michael was concerned of their listening to his e-mails.

I guess I did not want to waste my remaining thought strength, but I didn't try to remember when I had sent 5 Kings to him. He said I did, and I accepted his word.

He again nodded trying to convince. "It is happening Daniel. Right now! You e-mailed it to me and it is happening. They know it is happening and they will want to know how you know. They will come for us."

"Five Kings is just a story. Something I created." This time I refrained and only said this to myself. As if suddenly enlightened, Michael took four quick steps to a shelf and grabbed something. He reached it out to me.

"Here!" he said. I took the flyer and briefly looked at it. My eyes lifted to his.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"You know what that is right Daniel."

"Yeah Michael. It is a pamphlet from the National Student Funding Association. So?" He slapped a finger on the pamphlet's selling line.

"Daniel it says right there; 'We need your help'." He said this and looked for a reply from me.

"Michael this is a foundation for student scholarships. They want money."

"No! It is from the NSA."

"No! It is from the NSFA. The National Student Funding Association. Not the National Security Agency. I am pretty sure that the NSA does not bulk-mail pamphlets Michael." Michael looked blankly at me. "Michael, I got one of these at my house."

"You did!" His words were frantic. A sound downstairs. Michael's first step was World Class athlete. Down the stairs two steps at a time and stumbling. At the bottom he nearly fell. He froze momentarily. What was he going to do against armed NSA agents. Or for that matter, armed NSFA administrators.

Taking one more glance into the Batcave, I headed toward the stairs. Partly because I was tired, mostly because this was so stupid, my walk down the stairs was slow. Michael was running a search pattern. "You've got to go now Daniel," he yelled. I did not know why, but I did not move. I tossed my head up the stairs.

"What's up with the metal door Michael?"

Michael's face was easing from a cat sound fright. Cats! He was inner battling. Safety versus me staying even a second longer; me leaving or he showing; should he or shouldn't he. He dashed up the stairs. And yes... I followed.

Both of us standing in front of the silver door, he felt I had sufficient security clearance as he once again jingled. Dear Reader, you certainly know by now that I find many things strange. This was strange; the keys were in his left front pants pocket and he pulled them with his right hand. Who does that?

Twice he rolled a solid turn of finely machined interlocked iron. With keys still hanging, he turned the knob and pushed the door inward. The slight sound of pressure normalizing, released the aroma of spring at Monticello. However, it was synthetic spring at Monticello.

The room was lite lit as I looked inside. I stared at what there was. Surprised by what there was, the time of the stare crossed the uncomfortable line. Bewildered and not wanting to be, my eyes found Michael's. His back was flat against the open door, his right arm extended with an open and presenting palm. With lifted brows and a full smile, Michael was a proud child presenting Mother a cleaned bedroom.

"It has been almost six years. I have been getting ready for this. Every week I would buy one, more if I could. Every week for six years. I never wavered. Vigilant! I knew this day would come. Now... now I am ready. Danny I am ready for whatever will happen next. I'm ready!"

Like a refrigerator packed full and high, light cascaded down from above. A waterfall of soft white light. The contents of the large room both sparkled and hid the source of the ceiling's light fixture. From floor to ceiling, only inches separated the contents from the walls. Geometrically stacked and balanced, perfectly rectangular, Egypt's Pharaohs would be proud.

I looked at Michael. I glanced back into the room and then back to him. He was in a moment proud. I would say here that I did not want to ruin whatever elevated plane he was on. But really, I did not know what to say. What does one say about six years' worth of toilet paper?

Tomorrow, well rested, in this moment, moment perfect, I would have said; 'Holy shit!' But no, it is perfect missed. Of course in future telling of this story, that is exactly what I said.

"Daniel you are the only one, no one else knows. You need to keep it that way please." What did I know? I knew I needed sleep. "You can't tell anyone Daniel! No one. If you tell anyone, I will be overwhelmed. Robbed! Maybe even killed. I mean after it happens."

His moment be damned, I was done. "It's shit paper Michael! A shit load of shit paper." Wanting to ding ding ding the beginning of the last round, my words were said with a tone of emphatically done.

"Toilet paper? That is all you see here Daniel. Toilet paper. I thought you were future looking. A man of vision." My descent of the stairs was two steps from being done as he addressed the future. My path continued toward the door as I went back to the future myself.

"Your Crapper is the only future for that room," I said. His words bouncing off the stairwell walls told me he was still atop as he rambled along his sales pitch.

"Sheets of gold! I see thousands of sheets of gold. This room is gold. Half a ton of gold"

I badly wanted to walk upon the dew of this chilled night. Reaching to the door, my hand lay on the handle but did not twist. I was so close. He saw this. He flew down the stairs. Disappointed in myself, I slowly turned. He walked to me confidently slow. His demeanor was a single move from checkmate. I wanted for the move. "Think about it Daniel." He paused for affect. "When the attack comes; the battle, the overthrow, Five Kings, it will all change everything. Everything will end. Government, rule, industrial production, and toilet paper production, all over." His smile changed and waited for me to have the epiphany that he was sure I would.

He continued; "The rich people, the ones with all the gold, they will run out of toilet paper. And they'll want it bad. Toilet paper addicts, they'll be gotta-have-it frenzied. Paper Junkies jones-ing. What's the current price of gold, sixteen hundred dollars an ounce. But there won't be any toilet paper; only what I have."

His smile again changed. He looked like the Grinch looking down on Whoville. Rubbing his chin, he was satisfied with what he had done. "I will have plenty of TP. Plenty to trade for gold and enough for myself. What's the term. The one percent. They'll have all the gold and they'll want the Good-stuff. Per roll I'll get a thousand dollars' worth of gold." Pulling his thumb'd left hand back over his shoulder, he exclaimed; "I've got over twenty thousand rolls of TP. They'll want it; they all will want it and they will pay plenty for it. When it happens, only gold will be more valuable than toilet paper. And I will have plenty of both."

I had never seen this person in Michael. He was the ultimate dreamer, the Gold Rusher, the Con Artist looking for that one big score, the in the end loser. If it were a movie, it would slowly build anxious pain. You knew it was stupid, you knew it was coming, and you couldn't look away.

This was not a movie, and I would look away. I disturbed the outside with a senseless cackle. I describe the sound so, because it was a release of all the day's emotions. Kind of creepy actually. Michael lost his Mojo. I knew his smile as well.

"Good night Michael," my parting words. Good departing words I thought. They were literal and yet softly placed, snotty in my thought and yet not so in his taking. All that mattered, was that they brought ending.

I did it, I was gone; porch, stairs off the porch, and down the walkway. From Michael there was only silence. Turning left on to the sidewalk and toward home, he broke Radio Silence. "Darnel I don't think we should speak again. No communication of any kind. Nothing! Ever!" Michael wanting to both ensure that I heard his final words, and not wanting 'them' to hear, his volume wavered throughout his words. My pace remained steady, I did not turn, I tossed a disgusted wave. It was a leave-me-alone type. From behind was heard wood on wood and two metallic latching's.

At the ending edge of the bushes, I looked back to a house that was putting the day's life asleep. It was a practiced sequence. Perfectly timed, each window lost its light. I paused briefly deciding what category to file this under. The last second floor lite lost, the house went quiet.

Turning to home, I did not start to it. The moment was boiling and held me. The only way out was through. Through meant a chuckle of release. For the late time that it was, and amongst the neighbors that I was, my release was too loud. I hope 'them' did not hear.

It was so very dark. It had not been this dark last year. I was missing my lead dog. He was fast asleep on my side of the bed. My mind was so everything that the walk home seemed without time spent.

The day that had fought so valiantly was finally giving up. Time with Harry and all that that was, the dormant mount Tina that unexpectedly erupted, weird scenes inside Michael's goldmine, they were all going into the toy box for this day.

After securing the house, I climb the stairs and enter a bedroom that I can only feel and hear. Bubba's tail thumps the comforter repeatedly. The bathroom night-light is my beacon as I sail on. Pami, maybe now awake, maybe close to sleep, groans with a roll to one side. The switch's click fills the bathroom a soft white. In a voice that did not care and showed this with its lack of effort, Pami asks; "What does Michael need?"

"A padded room," I answered.

Every night the same routine: "Mervin get down." This I say without emphasis. No movement. "Mervin! Get down!" He jumps quickly down finding his place on the floor. Once he is comfortable but not happy about it, he lets out an emphatic huff of disgust. Cats!

The final end, settled and ready for that end. Pami rolls toward me dropping a hand to my chest. With intended inflection of sarcasm, I offer; "He's got half a ton of toilet paper."

"That's nice." Sarcasm wasted.

Something else again.

Pamila:

July 9, 2010

For several years now, years that on a daily basis have challenged who Daniel Rengaw is, Atticus M. Finch has been a large woven piece amongst his puzzled afghan of life. A jigsaw that he has so deliberately been sewing together. Each piece that he finds to fit, adds to its strength. When finished, although doubtful to me that it ever will be, the picture will be in an album that only he can truly appreciate. Yes, it is true that those of us that share him will see the portrait displayed. However, only he will know all the labored details of its making.

Selfishly, I am glad that I have nestled his fellowship with Atticus in the crib of my heart. He shares it only with me. I keep it warm in darkness. It only sees light in one of those attachment moments. An unseen path of emotional time that only husband and wife travel. This being, his being, my being, being ours.

Patterned in white, but mostly black, his words were never harsh; never would they kill a mockingbird. Tom's Atticus knew no law. Tom's Atticus had never crossed on Harper's Ferry. Moreover, he certainly had never been in Lee's Army of Northern Virginia.

The lifetimes pre-Danny, a different lifetime, I had been so alone with my Framers. No one, with me, helped me. Danny rigid and exacting, as he is with all his understandings, calls them Significant Life Experiences. Me, I prefer the term Frames. A life-book, I will always prefer over a textbook. Personal, Frames square us. The painted picture of us, not the undeveloped us.

Back several years ago, the Thrice Framed Years, Danny was squared three times with rapid repeat. More Frames than some have in a lifetime. It was during this time that exercising his body was renewed and brought about a dedicated regiment. A product of his exuberance in this undertaking, was a new interest in mountain hiking. Specifically, the Fourteeners. This of course sent him to Mountain Climbing web sites. It was on one of those sites that he met Atticus Maxwell Finch.

Black and decorated with white, Atticus is a twenty-pound Miniature Schnauzer. Atticus was a natural climber, an unnatural for his breed. I knew that a family pet of Danny's had been a schnoodle named Luna. Danny knew it was not a travel down memory lane that had him enamored with Atticus. Not this time.

Little Atticus and his owner Tom Ryan are legendary on the East Coast climbing scene. Famous for their climbing of the Whites of New England. I will leave it for Tom Ryan to tell you of Atticus's exploits. Their story is delightfully told in 'Following Atticus'.

What Danny found, embraced, and put into action from little Atticus, was Soul Work. It was Atticus's strength of body and soul. It was what Tom Ryan called Atticus' Soul Work. It was work that Danny wished to make his own. A Mantra? I do not think that quite defines what it is. That little guy's essence was mental toughness and strength of body. Danny borrowed it for will of heart and mind strong. For Danny, this was the simple of this Dumb Friend.

For A. M. Finch, the means to reward was Soul Work. Means given, and opportunity accomplished, Atticus' reward was what enveloped him. Atop of every completed mountain plateau, Atticus would sit high on haunch and survey the view from his accomplishment. Yes, this was his reward, but it was more. His taking-in was a need of his being. Not a part of Atticus, Atticus. So in him was it that it was not a thing. Without Danny's Soul Work, Danny would not be Danny.

From this littlest of dogs, Danny took the biggest part and forced himself always forward. Danny never turned back. On occasion Danny would look back; only when he needed to revisit a lesson not quite learned. Pushing forward was always an effort for Danny. He understands that only when it is no longer an effort, will he stop pushing. Forward took time; time that he swore he would never waste again. Never to be beaten again was the direction that he willed forward. A mantra? Yes! Danny's mantra; "I have no choice but to be rewarded with a view."

Danny's Soul Work pushed him forward past an addiction. He battled and won a fight over diabetes. He was blessed with a new Kidney. My Danny had been framed three times. Each time, his Soul Work vigilantly squared him. He was a vision of determination rarely seen. His drive not to be beaten again, his wish to be better than before, his will to be happy, I know I had not known.

Danny told me once in a candid Danny way, that he felt lucky for his trials. He said he had never seen things clearer.

It was a year ago on a warm spring evening; four of us were sharing a quiet evening. We were mellow on the back porch sharing the slow approach of thinning stretched shadows. There was a break of words and Danny's father fixed it. "You've changed. You are a different person." This he said to Danny while looking skyward. Danny's eyes and thoughts turned to his father. Danny pondered as if there had been a question. Danny's mother and I waited. Neither of us looked to Danny's face for what it might hint. Gordon wanting a reaction, he did look to his son. Danny huffed light and uncomfortable. His father's words were a sincerely proud exclamation to his son. Danny could not just accept what it was.

This part of Danny, this analytical and over analytical part, was sometimes, as in now, a blemish of his personality. It was who he was, but sometimes it would be nice if he could just put it aside.

Danny's face smoothed round all the edges that preceded a Danny exclamation. His mother saw it and made a soft here-it-comes sound. Danny made a deep thinking sound. "You think so Dad." Danny's head centered and his eyes looked away. His tone was polite and his words were meant to inform. "I don't really think that I have changed. Who I am has long ago been ingrained in me. At my age I am who I am. I am what I was made. You made me; and you and you. All that I have interacted with over the years. All I've experienced. That is what made me. However, I do think, that when you become a certain age... I don't know what age that is, but younger than I am now, you're done! You're done. You are who you are. Your morals, your faith, your personality, they're all fixed, all engrained. I don't think you can change them. You are who you are. Now..." We all knew what 'now' meant. "I do believe that you can strengthen good traits and subdue bad traits. You know... I mean long ago the clay was shaped and kiln fired. It is burnt and hard set. It can still be painted, but it is what it is. You can present more of what makes you good and hide what makes you bad. We all have them both, bad and good. I guess it is how hard you work on them. I mean it's like anything else, practice makes perfect. Don't you think. And I think that is what I have done. Change no! Grow? Yeah I've grown. I wanted to grow. I needed to grow and I have tried to grow. Don't you think." Danny finished and held on his father.

"You're welcome." With Gordon's words, his wife laughed a good motherly moment. Danny's father smiled with a Dad victorious face. I shook my head at Danny. Danny looked to Mom and me for an answer to a Dad victory that he could not see.

That is what I mean by leaving it alone. He could have just taken the compliment and said nothing. However, to me, his informing was one in the same. But to Danny, in Danny's little mind, they were very much different. A textbook versus a life book; Significant Life Experiences versus Frames. In the end, it was all Soul Work.

'I have no choice but to be rewarded with a view.' Danny had more work to do. Optometrist to Ophthalmologist to Retinal specialist, Retinopathy was the peak Danny now would have to scale. Poor blood flow due to diabetes had caused the damage. Irreparable and permanent, he had lost fifteen percent of his vision in his left eye. His right eye was less damaged. Both were going to get worse.

In Danny's case, poor blood flow to the retina caused his eyes to respond. They tried to fix the problem by creating new blood vessels. Doctor Pitman called these vessels Dysfunction-ally stunted. The new vessels were a bridge to nowhere. These misplaced blood vessels had no tissue to feed. Like an overstrained dyke, the vessels eventually burst. This leaked blood into the retina. It had gone undiagnosed and been happening for years. Now, the inability of the eyes to drain the blood quickly enough, and the scaring from the dead blood vessels, Danny was noticing a vision problem.

We had gone to the Optometrist thinking that his eyes were showing their age. Much like the Hubble Telescope, we thought he needed an optical re-clarity. We left the Retinal specialist with a new Frame, and another Significant Life Experience.

Danny and I listened intently to Doctor Pitman's diagnoses and prognosis. The Doctor finished. A rushing of what the future held crushed me. My tears, though fighting them, were beginning to corner. Danny shifted in his chair and lifted himself to a stiff sit. Looking to me, there was a sadness. My throat tightened and I lost my tears fight. His face was flush with too many questions. My Danny forced a smile. Barely noticeable, he shook his head. He looked to the doctor. He sat back softer. I am not sure if he knew that he did, but he said; "Remarkable. The human body is remarkable in its trying to fix itself." A tear fell from his cheek. He took a slow deep breath. He looked up. "Okay Doc so what do we do now?" Danny found my eyes. His cheeks lifted. He found my heart. His work had begun.

We'd had many near silent car rides over the years; this was not that. Our trip crosstown was deafening silence. From my heart outward, there was a slow traveling tightening. My thoughts tracked a continual loop of Pitman's prognosis. At the end of each loop, I knew I should begin a spoken purge of my thoughts. With each cycle ending, another began in silence. My mind's pantry was bursting stocked. Yet it was empty of words.

'Daniel's vision will continue to degrade. I can do laser treatments to destroy the bad blood vessels. There will be scarring. The scarring is the big issue. If necessary, I can do fluid replacement surgery to remove the built up blood. The blood may drain itself. We will have to see. All of this will help to keep Daniel's vision at the best possible level. Unfortunately, his sight will not be good. Severe and irreparable scarring has already been done to the retina. It will get worse. Within the next ten months or so, Daniel will have less than thirty percent of his vision left. His vision loss will be gradual in the beginning. Then... it will crash. No later than twelve months from now Daniel will only have ten to thirty percent of his vision left. Nothing can prevent it. I am sorry that I have to tell you this. You need to know.' These words looped continual.

Denny was a restless subdued. His thoughts wandered to a resolve that he could not find. Physically, he was motionless. I only imagined how numb he must be. Passing through urban Denver, suburb Lakewood, and into foothill's Morison, he may as well been ocean adrift for all he saw. His car stare I had seen countless times before; not this one. Sadly though, I had been here for this moment before; more moments than any two should share.

Our car had slowed but not yet stopped, outdoor sounds entered the interior. Danny was out and headed away directly. He was twenty yards away before the car was fully parked and I was out. "Danny?" Again and louder; "Danny where are you going?" His right hand lifted into a backwards wave.

In a weak attempt to explain himself, and without turning to me, he said; "I'm going for a walk." I held him until he had disappeared behind the pines.

Mervin dashed passed me through the open door. With attached panic that pet owner's use in an attempt to stop their pet from possible impending harm, I screamed; "Mervin!" He stopped at the car, sniffed, and looked for his Daddy. Not finding, he turned his head to me looking for an answer. I had no answers.

Mervin's question became mine. Why didn't my Daddy take me with him. A flare of panic, normalcy left away from me. Danny did not take his always with him buddy. Wanting him to be there, I looked to where Danny had rounded the trees. Taking three quick steps in that direction, I turned back for Mervin's leash. Entering the house and grabbing a leash, I dropped to one knee at dog level. Searching for black eyes behind his shag that covered them, the day's doings, and the now happening, finished me. Dropping my head tears flowed freely. Quick and loving Mervin twice licked my forehead. Going around my scared, I chuckled and hugged the only composed being in our house. 'All would be good.' Our Dumb Friend told me so.

Pushing time forward was not without effort. Not really being able to concentrate on anything else, I did mindless tasks that one does while anxiously waiting. I reset the time on the coffee maker; it was a minute slow. I purged the far left kitchen drawer; the one that you put stuff in that you are not sure if you will ever need. My cell toned a text: RIVER, BACK SOON. I dusted off the top of the fridge. I arranged the glassware cupboard by glass type and size. My cell toned a text: 'ON WAY HOME. I refilled the basement bathroom soap dispenser; it was not low. I grabbed Mervin's leash and we were out the door to find my husband.

Veering off the last walkway that was useable to get to the river, Mervin's pull and tail first told me Danny was there. He was just paces out of the woods and walking the single-track that was cut through the thick summer mix of weeds and wild flowers. Within my sight, my husband was safe.

Like a day's gone and successful hunter, the returning raised a stick high above in victory. Unclipping his buddy, Mervin sprinted to and played the jump game with his buddy. The felt bumping of my heart slow calmed to unnoticeable. All was good.

"Danny I've been scared to death." A dozen or so yards apart I said this. Mervin was circling Danny, dashing to me, and then repeating. Again Danny held high his weapon. My worried words had breezed through him without a wisp of meaning. He gloated of his caught prey.

"I got a stick! You like it?" Danny's child face was now. Not a color, a promise to himself, his eyes sparkled carefree blue. Of this dead stick, his new Work was born.

The river stick was where his work began. Over the next three weeks, this working man cut and shaped, sanded and sanded, filled and glued, stained and sealed. The river stick had become a walking stick. It had a meaning that would become an Icon of his work. A walking stick that he had plans for. It was the first tool of several that he would gather for the time that would come.

When Daniel was working, there was a way; that way was silently alone. This was his choice, but I have never sensed that he thought it one. He could not emotion where he was going with what he was doing. To him it was personal and it had to be left so. If his work were shared, it would not work. This was the way he was with all his work. I understood, but I did not understand.

Danny was blind as he worked the stick. Sleep mask on and using only an undeveloped sense of touch, he made the most beautifully functional walking stick that his eyes had never seen.

"The key is repetition!" He told me this as he presented me the finished product. Be sure, only after it was finished. "See... repetition ensures its integrity. Sanding it perfectly, staining it without missing a spot, sealing it completely. It is simple repetition. That's the key."

On this presentation day, I'll admit that I did not get it. I couldn't really grasp how proud of it he was. But what I really did not understand, was that to Danny, hope streamed from this river stick. Hope now that there would be a future then.

Every day, Danny tweaked his normal writing routine and put aside space for his work. As the weeks went the way of half the summer, he was repetition simple. He stripped down, rebuilt, sanded, stained, and sealed a wooden highchair that he bought at a discount store. He did the same with a coffee table, and a cedar chest that we bought at an estate sale. Each, when finished and presented me, was skilled artisan magnificent. He had developed his sense of touch. A sense not lost on me.

His work continued; as he would walk the house with eyes closed. He counted paces, placed things where he wanted them placed, counted stairs, and learned to control stride length. Repetition. He was preparing himself for living a grey life.

With the first level on Rengaw's hierarchy of needs learned, he moved up the pyramid. Danny identified everyday tools that he used every day; he began placing them in specific places. Specific places, always they must be there. This was a norm that I as well needed to grasp. Honestly, at first, I did not appreciate what he was doing. We shared many words that we had not in the past. 'Where is...' 'No! It belongs here!' 'It has to be here!' My learning curve was steeper than his was. Months of frustration later, we met on top of the curve. I do want to say this though; IT WAS ONE OF THE GREAT PLEASURES OF MY LIFE THAT I WILL NEVER FORGET.

He, we, were, and are learning the sightless life. This home schooling included new methods and existing technology that he would have to adapt to keep writing. Danny was very concerned about continuing his walks with Bubba. Of all he had to think about, this he thought about most. Relearning simple tasks with eyes closed was taking time. However, that time was getting shorter. Danny's work list was long and getting smaller. Each day he walked further from sight. Each day he understood more.

At times it was frustrating for him. All the time it was hard for me to watch. His frustration showed less than my hard to watch felt. Frustration aside, his work made him happy. He knew that this work now, made him happy now, because he would be happy later. His life would be the same done differently.

'Bigger than the Beatles.' Billy's words may have motivated, probably they did not, but it did not matter. Danny and Billy wrestled with egos, and silently criticized each other's writing. Emotions settled as much as they could be, they got it done. Their twelve week run in the Trib was complete. Each week's posting was read more than the previous one. Other news agencies picked up and ran their Op Eds.

''Op Eds! That's crap! They really aren't you know. I don't know what they are.' Danny wanted me and everyone else that cared to know this. I still do not know what he means by this. As far as I am aware of, Danny has never tried to explain what he means by that. It was much like him hating the Saint Louis Cardinals because they are the Saint Louis Cardinals.

Danny was pleased with what he wrote. Mister Keefe was ecstatic. Since the final posting, Danny had been on two Denver daytime talk shows. I thought he was good on the shows. He was Danny natural and cleverly humorous. But I don't think he was what the producers of the shows wanted. It seemed like they expected some kind of twenty-first century historical prognosticative prophet. They weren't going to get that from Danny. Billy wanted more prophet also. But again Billy was thrilled and thought this only the beginning. "The beginning of what Billy. I am done! I'm done with this Billy. Moving on." This was Danny's reply to Billy's excitement. However, later and for the first time, away from Billy, Danny told me that he was not done. He did not know what done was, but this was not it.

Still wanting to chase the Beatles, Billy was acting as Danny's agent. Danny had never gone close to asking Mister Keefe to act in this capacity. Nor was he paying Billy. I did notice however that Danny did not try to discourage Billy. I think it gave Billy something to do. So Billy did and continued booking Danny. The bookings were in front of always-larger audiences. Billy was talking of Prime Time. Danny was okay with it. No! Danny was enjoying it. He would never say he was, but yeah... he was.

The Chicago Tribune thing came about before Danny's Soul Work began anew. I don't think that Danny saw it as a piece of his work, but I did. I saw it as a good timing. His writings closed a black hole that was getting a little... a little scary weird. The appearance of the calm normal Danny was almost always around now. The part of Danny that was not here amongst the rest of us seemed to be gone. There were moments still when I would look into his eyes and see that he was somewhere else. But that was not new.

The Document, that term, he had not used for some time. The power that it was wielding upon him had withered to a flicker. The document was just that now, another document. It was not mystical. It was only as spiritual as the other thousands of documents that he had. They were just written words. Written words were Danny's scepter. He once again carried it steadily.

Speaking of myself now, I am not sure where I am. And in a way, I am not sure that I need to know. I question if it matters. I have been for many years with Danny. That is where I am. Not from the first day that we met, but there was a specific time that I became aware that we were one. Danny forward would protect me. Danny had saved me. That day I began leaving all else behind. What I was leaving behind did not matter anymore. It is not now. That is where I am.

During the screening process to become Danny's kidney donor, one stop along the way was to meet with a social worker. It was during this interview that she asked me why I wanted to give Danny my kidney. My reply; "He saved my life; now I want to save his."

What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. Cliché as that is, it did hold for our lives together. I don't want to sound like I have feelings of bitterness... I guess I just did. Psychiatrists would call this a deep-seated something or another. I say that I do not hold anything deep; seated or not. That said, social scientists would describe another socio-neurotic-phobic-psychosis within me.

Some unfortunate winds have blown through our marriage sails. It is said that good luck is made. If so, our production level has been too low. Whatever has made it, Danny's newest given challenge sits very heavy in my heart. The unfairness of its yet again has shaken me. I struggle with it more than Danny knows. At least I hope that is the case. It is more than a melancholy. It is opaque. A blackness that I have not felt in many years. The light has once again left me. Darkness has come, I am afraid.

How much can one person take. How far can one bend before its spirit snaps. Are these questions for me. I believe I ask them of Danny. I am not sure.

Am I selfish. Is my selfishness Danny's unfairness. Is it my fear. Is it my problem. My past returning, will I push this on Danny; a man that needs none of it. It is not these rememberings that I fear, it is I placing them again on my husband. I so wish not to overcast his life with my day's gloom. I rationalize; we are where we are, it is what it is, it is mostly good.

Danny's writing work was something I did not have a feel for. I did not know where he was with it and I did not care. He was working at it, but since the finish of the Trib articles, I didn't know what he was percolating. The Harry story was finished; this I knew. Beyond that, I hadn't a clue. For months, there had not been any Newtons. No meals had come to a sudden Danny inspired end. 'Here Pami. You gotta read this!' Not even one of those.

His writing work had taken a backseat to his Work. I was sitting next to it. All good. When it was time, as always, he would share. However, his Work did include his writing. Not putting ink to paper creatively, but how he was going to do the same in the future. The new different. This writing process was changing. No longer without thought, he was taking baby steps to learn different. It was new technology, different skills, and more 'Systems in Place'.

There had never been a thought, let alone a mention of him not continuing to write. I never expected there would be. Danny was bad with change, it interrupted his world. Danny was good at change, it kept his world going. His Work would not, if his work could not.

A welcome return.

Daniel:

With the changing seasons, my Bubba schedule varied with each new equinox or solstice. The July schedule was early morning, before the overnight cool went warm to hot. This day's lunchtime meal was taken consumed in thought. Having many times been where my mind was at this moment, I never fought letting my mind race around the track. My thoughts were interrupted by an unscheduled walk bark. "Great idea Bubba!" Walks wrote many a story.

Bubba was always ready for a walk to anywhere. This where, took us through his park and a swim in the river. For him a near perfect adventure. We headed back home and were now close enough for me to see an unfamiliar car in the driveway. My stare tried to focus an unfamiliar vehicle. My left ear pulled in the rolling sound of a car. My mind's focus was on focusing on the mystery car. A surround sound fade passed the same ear. "Daniel they got me." The scream was muffled as if from within a wooden barrel. Looking to the passing large dark car, I saw a blurry face of terror in the back window. Actually, it was only half a face straining to look over a shoulder. The muffled voice, mixing with the blurry face, Michael's lips were rapid with unheard shouts. I watched the car disappear. What the hell?

I went back intent on the vehicle in my drive; its mystery suddenly had more meaning. My thought was months back on Michael's warning words; 'They'll come for us.' Looking for more signs that something cloak and dagger may be amiss, I found none. However, not wanting to be careless, I looked to the trees for snipers. There were none.

As Michael wanted, we'd had no communication of any type. Since my late evening visit to his home, I had not seen or heard from him. Stopping at the end of our drive, I checked the car for signs of government. There was no back seat shielding screen, no mounted shotgun, and no decals. Of course, there would be none if this were the secret government.

Trying for an insight through the front windows and around the curtained panes, the curtains did not allow a scouting report. Pamila chosen, thick and the color of rust, they weren't showing any persons of interest. Thinking on it, I was most likely the person of interest.

Stepping up on to the porch, the wooden door scrape slid inward. The screen door popped hard against its spring. "Daniel we have a visitor!" Pami using 'Daniel' did not get by me. Nor did I miss her punching of 'visitor'. Looking into Pami's face did not yield a warning nor settle concern. Her eyes were focused on me, her face was easy. Her lips were not in a smile but they weren't gripping her gums either. Two long strides and I was in. A tall man lifted to a stand from the couch and stared at me. Bubba barked once as he fast walked to the man. Mervin pulled two quick sniffs and relaxed. His tail went into gentle wag mode. My buddy was fine with the man that I did not know. I profiled that this man was not government anything. Well maybe a social worker or some such, but he definitely did not have a weapon. Protection went to relax.

His hair was military short. It was auburn, layered and feathered. Not military. His face was clean-shaven, except for thin and too long sideburns. He was trying for hip, New Age. He was neither. It wasn't working for him.

(I know New Age is old time, if it was ever anything, but that is all I got. Leave me alone.)

His scalp hair did not seem to match his sideburns. His eyes were clean of glasses as well. He was fit but not thin. I thought him older than he was trying to look. My guess was mid to upper forties. "Are those Buster Brown tasseled Loafers?" I didn't really ask that. Khaki pants, a brown leather belt, and a teal golf shirt finished his attire. He may have been a manager at The Gap, but not government.

My cautious curiousness now had me just feet from him. Without a dedicated effort, he leaned slight and brushed by an attempt to pet Mervin. Pami had sidled me. Time seemed stopped, but the silence was not that long. The man seemed to be forcing a poker face. "Mount Rushmore," he said flatly. Our eyes were fast on each other's. His voice was so recognized that I didn't. Nor did I try to profile it.

Softly, probably because my brain was unaccepting, I said; "Excuse me. Mount Rushmore. I don't-"

"What has four upon that in time, are: one, three, sixteen, and twenty six?" My mind's Starter spun without engaging. He paused one tick in time and continued; "Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Roosevelt." With this end, he shitty grinned. "Danny you told me to get back to you with that." Pami giggled.

"Holy shit what the hell happened to you?" I asked.

"Oh nice! Very nice! I fly across the country and that is the welcome I get."

"You didn't fly the plane did." We both smiled large. I continued; "What the hell! Look at you. You look like you just stepped out of a Docker's commercial."

Pami slapped my shoulder and said; "Rojer don't listen to him you look great. He's just jealous that's all"

"Jealous! Oh... it's Kaitlin isn't it! Your young chemist lady friend did this to you didn't she?" I took a tick as well and followed up; "How is Miss Lewis?" I tried to say this with a stupid sexual innuendo. It was so badly done that neither of them picked it up.

Rojer, in a far less than pig horny tone said; "She's doing good."

Now... 'She's doing good', that is not good. Looking up and down him, I shook my head. "Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm," I noised disgust.

"Pamila I'll never understand what you see in him."

We all settled into a post-surprise visit. I was ecstatic with his surprise. Pami was as delighted as the word can be. His news that he had accepted a teaching position at Colorado State University was the best better kind of surprise. My friend had come to play with me. At least for now. He'd signed a two-year contract to teach 20th century American History. He had done it again; another great job. Another bounce back. Another job that I was jealous of. I was thrilled.

The afternoon visit rolled through a meal into a twilight back porch relax. Today, Rojer, both one in the same, had re-energized me in a way that I knew I needed. Reenergizing that I could only get with a happening such as this. But as much as Rojer had inner strengthened a welcomed energy upon a taxed spirit, my Pamila was just as lifting. She made my heart sing with her young girl giddy-ness. A part of her that I so loved, and a part that she had been forcing fake at times of late. However, none of what she forced was truly light with her now happiness of heart. Right now, it was not forced. She danced all her movements as she silly'd away. I lost track of how many times she kissed Rojer's cheek, how many times she hugged appreciation into him. For brief seconds, and without music, she danced Rojer into a blushing.

During the Pami party, there had been several glasses of wine. Therefore, it may have been the courage of the grape that brought her to say; "So Kaitlin can't be thrilled with your moving." Even with her poured courage, she realized that she might be slipping down an icy slope. Her sentence was peppy loud at its start and concerned soft at its finish. Rojer's expression was that of a schoolchild who had lost his lunch money and now had to tell his mother. Quick his chin dipped and then his eyes lifted toward me. Whatever it was that he was going to say, he wanted to say it to me.

"Kaitlin and I... we kinda aren't really... I mean it's okay. We had a good time and all..."

"That sweet little young thing was killing you wasn't she Rojer!" Quick reader who said that? Nope not me. My lovely nectar swayed wife said a funny. I was jealous that she had beat me to a Perfect.

Our porch time was much of the same light. All that really had any meaning was that Rojer was here now and would stay with us while he got settled in Fort Collins. I will add that Monticello never came up. I did not want it to. Pami never thought of it.

"I read all of your articles Danny. They..." Rojer shook his head slight. "They were wonderful." I quick went to whether I had ever heard Rojer say wonderful before. "I really don't know what else to say about them Danny."

I doubt if I can convince you of this reader, but compliments are unsettling to me at the time received. More believable to you, I am comfortable with them later. I would say; 'An artist's life is so little.' But that just sounds stupid.

This being the case, I deflected it. "William Keefe was a big help."

"Danny he didn't write them you did." Pami was loving supportive.

'I really do not know what you see in him Pamila.' I heard Rojer thinking that.

Rojer ignored my unease and continued; "I've never read anything like that from you before Denny. I don't even remember a conversation like that. If we did, it would blow me away. I know how well you write, that is not it, it was just so far from your normal writing. Kind of out there. It was awesome. I don't know... I just didn't recognize them as you. That's all. The first article... Monticello, it was so elusively factual. Does that make any sense. It was so real. But if the readers believed it, they would have to be questioning their own sanity. They knew it to be true and yet they couldn't believe it." Rojer stopped for a second and looked at me. "I think that is what you were going for. Huh?"

I was not sure if he wanted an answer. Still looking at me he went on. "They had to be thinking that Rengaw believes this in every fabric of his being. He knows it happened yet he knows it did not. The readers wanted to believe that it happened. In some sort of actualized happening." 'Actualized happening'?

Now I wondered if I had ever heard Rojer speak like this before. He rarely expressed what was rumbling around in him. He sounded as if he had philosophically been enlightened. That sweet little young thing was killing him. However, I was pleasingly impressed with his interpretation, and I did know what he meant. It was not because I had written them; it was because he and I had read it together.

I was beginning to warm to his compliment as he continued. "The next ten articles, you know, describing the things that our country needs to accomplish, all were perfect simple. So un-politically common sense." Those words placed me inside our Monticello.

"Danny your words... your thoughts were right there. Goals, aspirations, where we are, where we need to be, they were easy and real. Not crap, not promises. Real tangible things that people can touch. Not shit that seemed unattainable." That is our Rojer. "Danny your goals weren't even goals. It was as if you were saying; 'They are lying around on the ground and we just need to pick them up. So obvious that we must be blind not to see them.' s" Rojer sat backward swiftly with a startled gasp. "Danny I'm sorry I didn't mean to say that." Pami laughed brief and hard. Rojer smiled at what Pami told him he had not said wrong. It took me a moment to see any of it.

The house phone rang from inside. Pami maybe wanting a brief out, stood quickly and went to answer it. Chuckling slightly as she did.

I will admit that now I was very flattered. I respected his opinion more than most. Not expecting him to, Rojer began anew. "The twelfth article, the last one, all I got from it was easy. It was so easy, so right there, so do-able. I understand that you were summarizing, but that is not what I got from it. Easy, easy is all I got. I've heard others say the same. People I respect, well-read people." Rojer was most comfortable with those that could talk on the same level as he. There were not a lot of them.

I had not thought of Michael's demise for hours. It was either Albert Einstein or Homer Simpson that said; 'When things happen at the same time, they are never simultaneous.' What happened next was one of those.

There was a metallic click and rattle, a loud bark, light from the streetlight poured through a swung open gate, and a Bubba dash to that light. Up and heading to the corner, I heard; "Danny I was hoping I would find you outside alone." Back over my shoulder, the screen door was sliding open.

"That was Liz. She was telling me about Michael." So much for that. "Billy?" Pami asked.

Rojer was now standing. A surprised Pamila was looking at a surprised Billy. There were several questions of him in her gaze. A tennis match on, I went back to Billy. My read; Billy wished he were elsewhere.

I asked; "Billy what's going on?" My attempt at a lightening didn't help him.

"He's missing." Billy's sentence was soft and tailed to silent. He did not mean to say it amongst a guest. Nervous, no, more than nervous, he did the imaginary hat held over the heart thing. "I'm sorry Miss Pamila for showing up this way. This late. Please excuse me. But-" Pami was on Billy. She kissed his cheek and gently pulled him toward our chairs.

She said; "Billy please come join us. We are enjoying the beautiful evening. Please have a seat William." He walked to our circle led by Miss Pamila but did not sit.

"No I really can not stay. I was hoping that I could get just a few moments of your time." Billy fixed on Rojer. He waited for what I had not given.

"I am Rojer Ousten and you must be the family famous William Keefe." Rojer extended his hand. For the first time, William Keefe found Billy.

"Oh me new friend, I am surely more than family famous. Still... your words are of the most kind indeed." Billy left. He again slipped back into whatever quandary he had come with. "Daniel, Pamila, can we talk?" His eyes flashed to Rojer. "Alone please?" I sat hoping my ease would do the same for him. William Keefe, or who I thought was Billy, was without words. He gathered himself, forged a stance, and said; "I think we should talk privately." Rojer did not wait for Billy to again visually ask him to leave.

Rojer cleared his throat. "Pami I will go put my stuff upstairs."

I jerked forward and spat the word; "No!" Pami snapped to me. With less projection, but still a good pace, I followed up. "No Rojer sit down please." Billy did not react. Rojer's head slid backward with an asking.

Pamila; "Daniel?" Quick I need a save.

"No it's okay Rojer you can stay. It's all right Billy. Rojer is family. He is okay! He is cool!" The save was forced and retro sloppy. Nonetheless, it seemed effective. I mentally slowed down. "Billy, please feel free to speak." I could feel Pami's eyes on me.

William's look to Pami was brief and he settled on me. "It is Mister Winster."

"William Keefe!" Pami scolded Billy.

"I'm sorry Pami. Winster." Billy paused to see if that was acceptable. Pami was silent. Billy stayed on her and continued; "Winster! He seems to be missing. For several weeks now. The police have opened a file on him and actively are searching for him. My sources tell me that they are not spending a lot of man-hours on him. But they are looking." I could see that she was getting there. Pami's head tilted down and slightly to the side. Her eyes stayed up and on Billy. She was there.

"Who the hell would report that piece of shit missing?" Billy seemed to be pondering whether he should, or how he should answer her.

Billy; "I guess it was his mother." Pami lifted her eyes to the sky and exhaled disgust.

"I just thought you should know. Again, I apologize for disturbing you. I just thought you should know. You know... because of what-"

"Thanks Billy." Pami was quick to thank. She said it calmly and sounding sincere.

"I guess I will be heading out now." Billy spun toward the direction that he'd come from and started off. None of us moved. For seconds we rudely reflected. Each of us reflecting differently. Pami left rude behind as she dashed to Billy. The two of them turned the corner arms around each other. Billy was again back in Billy character.

Rojer and I had a moment. It was neither rude nor deep. Just time. However, it was the time that I needed. "Where are you going Danny?" Rojer called to me as I fled through the house and up the stairs. Minutes later I returned. The two of them were in a scientific sounding conversation about farm animals.

Our evening ended shortly and I helped Rojer to get settled in our guest room. Now to be Rojer's room. As I headed out of his room, he called to me with a serious Rojer tone. "Danny?" He wanted his face sincere. "Your articles... did you do what you needed to. Did they help you to settle it all?" My eyes fell from his and I gently shook my head.

"I did. They helped. But I don't think I'm done." He smiled in thought.

"I'm here for you Danny."

"Yeah I know buddy."

"Good night Danny."

"Sleep well Rojer." He looked into my eyes; he picked up something unsettled in my tone. I smiled. He noticed that as well.

Next morning, 6:00 a.m. (Around)

From the end table on my left, the alarm from my watch rings me awake. I'm up and out. Down the hallway and now listening at Rojer's door. Counting seconds, I can't stand it.

What happened next was not the first thing to happen. There are two six-foot-tall thuds of sleep heavy feet hitting the floor. Three scattered steps are immediately followed by the dull thump of a two hundred pound bag of cement hitting a carpeted floor.

What happened first happened first. Unseen, from under a startled awake Rojer, came 140 decibels of screeching farm animal. The cringing sound of a chest-exploding rooster. It would not stop and Rojer wanted it to. Barely heard above the cock's crow, but distinguishable because my ears are intently focused, I hear words of... shall I say, dissatisfaction. Mixed amongst are multiple Dannys and many other words unspeakable in church. From behind me I hear; "Daniel!" Then a pause. With the moment taken softly in, Pami reconsiders. "Danny." It ended in a chuckle.

Pushing the door open into the still dark room, I flick on the light. The crowing continues louder. Rojer's head, shoulder, and arm, are hidden beneath the bed. To his ears, the sound had to be painful. Like a successful bare-handed-catfish-hunter, Rojer yanks the clock from beneath the beds bank. Holding it but not quieting it, he looks to me. I am having a very good time. With a long waist turn and a quick swing of the holding arm, he yanks the cord from the outlet. The barnyard that I have set goes silent.

"You are an ass!" he yells.

"How you like your Howler Monkeys now!" He understands why. Pami is in the doorway with hand over mouth giggling. The play to me was over. In no particular order, I laugh and leave. Passing Pami, she says; "You are an ass."

"I know." My huge smile hurts.

"Danny?" I turn to her.

"Yeah."

"Perfect!"

Done Speaking.

Pamila:

There is a virgin layer of new snow; covering the back porch and beyond. The Colorado Snow Gods have blessed the Front Range with four inches of crystallized water. Without rhythm to its beat, my heart taunts my chest with sadness. Danny taking in the beauty, and my unknowing to him watching, has become all too familiar. Familiarity is a knowing that usually is a strong building of comfort to me. However, this familiar, I would be better off without. This though is not about me; Danny gets this comfort. Although as he does this for its purpose, he has to be taking it in with now pain. Later for him, if the pain is now, there will be less pain later. Thin by a thread, I hold onto that there will be one more. Danny accepts that this is the last winter wonderland that his sight will gift to him.

Meticulously creating his pyramid over the eleven months that have passed, there has been a gathering of paintings that Danny wants to be always galleried in his mind. Though only a single stone that he has placed, it is a cornerstone. A permanent vision of how it is. Color photographs.

It is about eleven p.m. on February 6th, 2011. In order of relevance: Danny's last Superbowl; my daughter Sarina's 25th birthday.

Next morning. 8:36 a.m..

Daniel:

"Get some water buddy."

"Danny you okay?" Pami breaks from her reading and asks the question that she asks often.

"Bubba!" I shout at him. Ending his re-hydrating, Mervin heads to his mommy in the living room. Leaving behind a trailing of water. The hair on his face is a mop. Why on this particular happening it brings a shout from me, I question. Although, since rising today, I have been nervously tingled by a touch of anxiety. A feeling that I last remember during m sobering days. I feel it and it adds to my anxiety.

"Yes I'm fine Pamila," I shout back. Softer, I add; "Always fine!" I hear my bad mood rudeness. "Thanks Babe, I'm good." A kinder person.

Am I okay? I do ask myself. I try not to ponder it more than is healthy. Whatever that time is. I understand Pami's concern and I appreciate that she is watching. But sometimes her parenting sparks my stored black-powder. It is rarely a musket explosion; more of a slow sizzle and a smoke puff. No matter how I aim it, she should never be the target. I will say that she is comfortably skilled at deflecting the live rounds. However, on occasion I hit the mark. She fires back.

In fairness to her, and for you to know, she had reason to ask. I had gained much walking stick experience. Some of that fallen experience was more than walking. Low hanging branches, tree roots, rocks, slopes, and snakes, were not my friends. The experiences left scratches and bruises. Some worse than others. None worthy of an emergency room visit.

The gradual and unnoticed failing of my vision, noticed only if looking months back, Bubba's river, park, and street ventures have had incidence. Black Ice, snowplow left-behind's, and curbs, all have dropped me. One such painful tossing slid by Black Ice had tested the strength of my coccyx. I refused my doctor's suggestion for a Bone Density test. I had administered the test myself. I was good.

On a route of nine paces through the living room, up the twelve steps, with final destination eight feet to my office, Pami and I pass. Her gait tells me that she is headed to the kitchen with a purpose. Faint to me at the top of the stairs, the kitchen phone rings twice. Not assuming, my had assures that the opening of my desk chair is where I think it. I settle in for a morning's work. A knock on the front door. Five quick hard raps. Serious barking and quick paws take Bubba out of the office and down. Knowing that Pami is on the phone is not the reason that I follow; the anxiety in me skips a heartbeat.

Reaching for the door handle, I recognize a serious Pami phone voice. Twisting the handle, I tell Mervin to get back.

Pami; "Oh my god." I flinch toward her.

"Mervin get back!" Sweeping my leg, I push Mervin from the opening. The still low eastern sun pours in and around two figures. At least one other person moves in the lit backdrop. My foot is placed firm against the partially open door, a protecting doorstop. Pamila's words again want me to turn. Security holds me at my post. Mervin tastes bad with a teeth shown growl. I grasp his worry. A man on the left, a woman on the right. I'm on the man. Mervin snaps at him. "Doctor Rengaw?" the woman asks.

"He's not a doctor." She glares at him. More than one in the back move toward me. My hand is flat stiff against the door. I let Mervin move in front of me. This causes only the woman to take a step back. Her head and eyes drop to Mervin's peeled lips teeth.

"Pmi come here!"

Rapidly she says; "My name is Deputy Sheriff Wilson. Could you... could you..." She is looking down at a squared and pissed Mervin. I pull and scold Mervin who moves behind me and stays behind me.

"Pamila!"

Mervin's neck is pressed hard against my thigh. He is still angry but a little less so. My actions tell him the enemy is passive. Pami is still talking but I cannot make out words. With her eyes back on me as her head is again up, she continues introductions.

"This is Special Agent Tillman."

"Special Agent?" Snapping this off I smile. I was pleased, despite knowing that their visit was not social.

Papers in hand, Officer Wilson pushes forward an offering. I was pretty sure that it was not notification that the Jefferson county sheriff's office had nominated me for citizen of the year. Still, I did hold out the slimmest possibility.

As I was unfolding the five blue double fold papers, Tillman parted with wisdom. "It's a warrant!" he said. Wilson's face turns to the Special Person. Glaring at him, daring him to speak, she speaks to me.

"Yes... as you can see Mister Rengaw, it is indeed a search warrant."

"Deputy why is he here?" Wanting it to be a noticeable slight, I ask this without looking to him.

"The Colorado Bureau of Investigation and the Jefferson county sheriff's office are joint in an investigation. This warrant is part of that investigation."

"Investigation? Why am I... am I a person of interest!" Thinking me clever, I chuckle. It was a nervously awkward one. She did not think me clever.

"You are in a lot of shit Rengaw!" said Tillman. I lifted and examined my shoe.

"I don't think so." He and I were in a boxer's stare.

"Doctor Rengaw the special agent is well within his rights to be here." She paused slightly and attempted to curb my disgust of him. "Please... just don't... please deal with him." She again glared at him. "Please Mister Rengaw be the better man." She paused, and then softly added; "It shouldn't be hard." She again glared at the Muppet standing next to her. (No disrespect Miss Piggy.)

The Deputy continued the search warrant serving process. "Per the warrant, these Techs are here to gather all items outlined in the warrant. All of your digital communication equipment. Everything: computers; phones; pads; etc. For both you and your wife."

"My stuff costs a lot of money; it is very specialized!" I sounded like a grade school kid talking about baseball equipment. "I make a living with that equipment. You can't just-"

"He's dead!" Turning sharply to Pamila's words three techs scurry in and past me. My eyes jump to Pami's. Mervin snaps at a tech that is moving too quickly and too close. The tech jumps aside and away from teeth that are a warning.

The Deputy; "Dead?" She asked it very calmly. From an officer of the law, I thought the word dead would liven emotion.

Pami is not aware of our building legal problem. Her eyes are not teary. Thus, 'dead' is secondary in immediate importance. Me turning back to the law, she finding he, she is aware. "Greg?" Her tone is of true asking. I would have preferred more contempt. "Danny what is happening?" Again pure asking.

Greg's eyes are pinpoint on Pami's face. That is where I choose to believe they are. She is now on my left side. She pulls my arm in. She glares stern at him and tightens on my arm. Not moving off him, she yanks the papers from my hand. Contempt! Yes!

"Pamila." Fake in every way, Tillman greets her. Pami flips through the document in a quick scan. She drops the papers to her side and says; "Department Head Tillman-"

"It's Special Agent Tillman." I would have loved to say that, but the deputy was the one that corrected Pami. She seemed to enjoy saying it. Pami looked to me.

"Really?" she said to me oh so cutely. I add to the officer's enjoyment and mine.

"Yes. You see, it seems that Special Agent Tillman, took a little stumble on his career path. Let's call it the Monticello mistake." She snaps back to Tillman. He looks as if he has soiled his drawers. She smiles at him. The deputy does poorly at trying not to laugh. The bear has been poked.

Pamila Bear; "Special Agent! You come into my home, and you present this homogenous search warrant. This warrant that as far as I can tell is nothing more than some sort of a fishing expedition." I cross my arms on my chest. Pissed Pami continues; "You... you bring these geeks to rummage through my home, how dare you. Greg what the hell happened to you!"

"What the hell happened to you?" I throw in. She glances to me. Okay I will be quiet.

I was a bit surprised by the pissed pep in her voice. Perhaps the phone conversation was stoking this fire. I also thought that the 'geek' thing was a bit much. It flew a bit too close to my sun.

Taking a step back from Tillman's personal space, Pamila did not leave the Deputy without a directed glare. Pamila's comments, or some other reason for no lost love, the deputy was harsher toned with Pami. "Ma'am you need to take a step back please." The deputy's 'please' was a wasted word. Not lost on Pamila, Tillman smiles smugly. Pami changes shape. I slide left and between. Marital experience has taught me when she is about to go all Hulk. She bumps into my shielding back. Shielding Tillman from a one hundred and twenty-three pound tornado. She is Yosemite Sam when she goes off. The poor stupid bastard had no idea how close he was.

"Ma'am!" The officer's eyes dart from Pamila to me. They tell me that I need to stop the Morrison Mauler. Like a boxing referee, I separate and back push her away from a staggering Tillman. Tillman was groggy and staggering. H just didn't know it.

Pointing to the warrant that was sill dangling in Pami's left hand, the deputy continued; "As you can see we have a legal right to be here. We need to collect all and everything." Talk about homogenous. I tried to clarify with tone.

"All and everything! What the hell does that mean?"

Deputy; "The warrant is very specific if you read it complete."

The deputy suddenly turns aside. From behind my right ear there is; "Excuse me sir." My tower in hand, a tech brushes by. Instantly wanting to be love protecting, I had to let it go. Without pardoning words, a second leaves out the doorway; Pami's Notebook and my laptop in tow.

"Deputy?" My head turns to the remaining technician's word. He is holding my cell phone in presentation. I try to remember where I had left it.

Deputy; "I need all of your phones. Is that the only cell that you two have? We are checking. If you hide evidence it is a felony." Looking back to the deputy's question and threat, I travel back to age fifteen. Should I lie? Is there a reason to lie?

"I am not giving you my cell phone."

"Pamila?" I question. Tillman decides to stop looking stupid and add something to the situation.

"Per the warrant, if you knowingly keep any digital equipment from us, you are in contempt of court and subject to prosecution for hindering an investigation. If we believe you are hindering an investigation, we can take you into custody immediately."

"You're and idiot! I say to the idiot.

Pami; "What investigation you moron!" Pami turns inward with an offering palm. "Well then I guess I better give you our microwave. Oh! And our coffee maker is digital!" No not the coffee maker. "How about our remotes. How about our cars and thermostats and clocks and-"

"Misses Rengaw!" The deputy was done. "I am only going to ask you one more time; do either of you have any more digital communication equipment of any type?" She paused. Calmer she said; "Misses Rengaw, I need your cell phone."

Pami's energy drained into the grounded floor. Her eyes briefly caught mine as she walked off with a disgusted sigh. Her paces seemed larger than normal as she took only four to get to the coffee table. Retrieving her phone from within a small foo foo decorative wicker basket, she says; "Your techs suck!" I muffled a brief chuckle. The last tech seemed a tad miffed. He slammed out his asking hand. "Here you go honey!" She drew out 'honey' long and snotty. I had gotten that 'honey' before. The tech lifted it from her held open hand. He headed off with a sound of his own. Pamila headed off.

I watched her turn the corner into the kitchen. Turning back to the two, a metal pan cluttered loudly on a counter-top. Neither of them spoke, so I did. "That is it. We do not, knowingly, have any other communication systems."

Deputy; "Thank you. Would either of you like to make a written statement at this time?" She had little conviction in her words. She seemed confused by her own words. I know I was.

"What? I don't understand. Why would I make a statement? About what?"

Tillman; "Rengaw you know very well!" I laughed brief nervous at the moment.

Deputy; "Perhaps you'd like to contact a lawyer before speaking to us."

"Are you arresting me? Am I under arrest?"

Tillman; "Just a matter of time Rengaw." Looking into her face there was a pale seriousness.

Well thought out and definitive, my chosen words were; "I am done speaking."

The end of the center.

Speak with you soon.

