
# A Puma in the Tree

## Paul Eh-em's Story

By J. K. Mactavish

Copyright 2014 John Kevin Mactavish

All rights reserved.

## Table of Contents

A Puma in the Tree: Paul Eh-em's Story

Dedication

Epigraph

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Part One

Chapter 1: A dark beauty

Chapter 2: Antidote to urbia

Chapter 3: Friendly and abrupt

Chapter 4: Felinae figures

Chapter 5: Making lists

Chapter 6: Be my guest

Chapter 7: Evasions and revelations

Chapter 8: Palpabilities

Chapter 9: Hot and heavy?

Chapter 10: A self portrait

Chapter 11: Drawing the curtains

Chapter 12: As if for the first time

Chapter 13: Into the unknown

Chapter 14: You open?

Chapter 15: A curve

Part Two

Chapter 16: Loose ends

Chapter 17: Cause or chance

Chapter 18: Not alone

Chapter 19: Getting set up

Chapter 20: Snarls 'nd muddles

Chapter 21: I don't bite

Chapter 22: Different spheres

Chapter 23: All too human

Chapter 24: Friends then

Chapter 25: Things left hanging

Chapter 26: Do your thing

Chapter 27: To no avail

Chapter 28: Fugitive deja vu

Chapter 29: Shakedowns

Chapter 30: Let it be

Afterword

Appendix

About the Author

Dust Jacket

## Dedication

This work is dedicated to my children and their children, as well as to young people who have in some way benefited from my being in the world. It is also dedicated to the feminine in all of us without which we would not be, and would be less than we are and aspire to be.

## Epigraph

_Although, as a rule, no reality-value attaches to the image, this can at times actually increase its importance for psychic life, since it then has a greater_ psychological _value, representing an inner reality which often far outweighs the importance of external reality. In this case the_ orientation _of the individual is concerned less with adaptation to reality than with adaptation to inner demands._ C. G. Jung

## Foreword

The following is Paul Eh-em's story as he wrote it. Although not a personal journal or diary, it is an account of a period in his life and the lives of others he knew with some merit and human interest. As a writing, it fits no category other than what Paul himself called it. And so I must consider it in this way also, nothing more except sometimes quixotic and seeming philosophical.

Paul's story comes to you in this form because I believe this is what he wanted. He never saw his manuscript in print. He died early. He gave me drafts and solicited my comments, and on this basis and with the permission of his wife and heir, I have presumed to put forth this work on his behalf.

He included my comments in the final version I received. I thought to include them here, but as the one overseeing publication, I now think it better they be forgotten. I believe he kept them in the manuscript because he eventually would deal with them, but that is perhaps wishful thinking. The fact that he did not take my advice in most instances is testament to preferring what he had crafted versus what the account in my professional opinion could have been. He also may have kept my comments to complexify the character of the work as a kind of meta-fiction; however, such a conceit would distort what Eh-em's effort is, essentially, a singular work by a little-known writer. Whatever the case and so be it, here you have it, without yours truly making something of the story that it was not.

Paul also left a number of quotations. They seemed to be in the order of the chapters he had laid out. I first sorted through them and included them in the manuscript where I believed he wanted them. But upon closer reading, I thought they did not always fit or add anything. Then I went looking for better quotes. In the end, I could not decide. So I took all but six out. I have placed the rest in a file for some later, unknown use. The six quotes I placed before each of the two parts of the work. I suppose all of this is an editorial decision best left to the writer and better editors than I, but without Paul to guide me, I have for the most part let the story he told carry whatever philosophic or sophistic points he wanted to underline by using the quotations he collected.

There is the speculation that the work could have continued beyond its rather abrupt ending; but also in my opinion, Paul accomplished what he had set out to do, even though he had rather vague and wandering ideas at the outset. And that accomplishment is in the telling as well as the view implicit that lives in process do not have clearly marked beginnings and endings, nor are we ever afforded one hundred percent of what there is to know. Suffice to say, Paul told a tale, and in this his moral speaks. With this publication and your reading his job as writer concludes.

More than this I do not wish to say, and thereby respect your understandings of the text. May you find pleasure in reading these pages.

Brian Russel Johnson, Upton, California

## Acknowledgments

The author expresses thanks to his neighbor and friend, Russ Johnson, for reading and commenting on drafts of this work. His suggestions have been invaluable. The author also expresses his gratitude to his wife and children, each of whom he neglected during the months of editing this story, originally written some years ago. Without them and their love and understanding, I could not have expressed myself here. Not finally, I acknowledge those in a small rural California town who allowed me into their lives and acted knowingly or not to make me who I am today, a guy who had some words trapped within that he had to get out. With their utterance here I now breathe deeply and freely. Heartfelt thanks.

P. Eh-em

## **Part One**

_When a person is lucky enough to live inside a story, to live inside an imaginary world, the pains of this world disappear. For as long as the story goes on, reality no longer exists._ Paul Auster

_So here's something I know to be true, although it's a little corny, and I don't quite know what to do with it: What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness. Who, in your life, do you remember most fondly, with the most undeniable feelings of warmth? Those who were kindest to you, I bet._ George Saunders

_Essentially he was an introvert and lived in his head. Don't forget that._ Johnnie Passnstyle

## Chapter 1: A dark beauty

_I saw a puma in the tree behind the whitewashed buildings across the street._

_Sometimes you surprise yourself. On one occasion, say seeing a puma in a tree, you find it extraordinary, and on another you just notice and keep on with what you were doing. My life is like that. I suspect it is like that for other people. But really, how would I know?_

_I was nonplussed at the sight of my puma and just watched for a few minutes through my open window on the second floor. Then I cast my eyes up and down the street to see if there were any people about. There were a few parked cars and no traffic. Upton was a sleepy place on this summer afternoon. I began to ask myself, was this rural California? or some other country in a dry summer clime? Like Spain or somewhere more exotic. Where were the people, and did they know their town had a mascot languishing in an oak tree, a mascot not from the local high school but one with claws and teeth? Maybe it was dangerous. But there was no one about. No one to be concerned. I gazed back at the puma. She was still staring, but I didn't suspect she was focused on me. As it all turned out though, I suppose she or he, or the semblance of it, was waiting and watching intently in a way._

_I pulled down the sash and stepped back to turn on the air conditioning. I sat at the minuscule letter desk and began making notes for what I would ask Hardrey about his business. I had heard he was ready to retire and sell his hardware store, and I was looking to relocate and build my modest savings into something substantial._

      + Can I have a look at your books?
      + When are you open, for example on holidays?
      + Do you need help or can someone run the
       place alone?

_I heard the report of what I thought was a gunshot and I looked up. There were some goings on below my window in the street. I got up from the desk, threw up the sash and looked out._

Two men were poking their heads around the back corner of one of the buildings across the street, and a woman in a dark-colored, long skirt and white short sleeve blouse looked like she was trying to take cover, walking up the street from the left and headed, it seemed, toward the building in front of and below the tree.

"Get him?"

"Naw. He's gone."

"How did he get up there?"

"Dunno. Lost his momma."

"Still. Don't want them comin' round here."

"He was just a little one."

"Well, don't want him to get used to comin' round here. They should stay up in the hills. Safer that way."

The woman was struggling with the lock on the door to the building just opposite, too late for cover it seemed. The wooden door finally jerked open to a dim interior. Above the door there was a sign, Ursilla Sheridan Photography. It had black lettering on a whitewashed background that matched the paint on the building. After she swished in the door, it closed behind her, and shortly the white curtains on the two windows facing the street were open revealing now a well-lit interior. Perhaps there were windows at the back to let in the light. Meanwhile the two men slowly retreated from behind the wood-framed building to the right and stood talking in the street. Their voices were subdued and perhaps they would move off soon.

_I returned to my list on the desk._

      + Is your business well known by its
      name? Hardrey's?
      + What's your opinion? if I buy it, would it
      hurt business if I changed the name?

_I looked up and thought that waiting was a waste of time. Just go over and strike up a conversation. Tell him the truth. Now, what was his name? I flipped through my notes._

_Hardrey's Hardware, Patta Hardrey, proprietor. Patta. What kind of name is that? Wants to retire. Perhaps he will give me some time and introduce me to his regular customers, teach me some things about his business. Defend against non-payers. Entice repeat business. That sort of thing._

_There was a soft knock at the door. I got up and opened it and was greeted by a skinny boy of perhaps eleven who stood at attention yet his eyes lowered submissively._

"My father says he can see you today. Anytime, at the store."

"Oh, thank you very much. And your name is?"

"Henry. Henry Hardrey."

"Okay Henry. I will come round the store today, at four. You can tell your father."

"Yes, sir."

He turned to leave as I said bye. Then I quickly asked, "Oh, Henry. Are there pumas around here?"

"Pumas?"

"Yes, like mountain lions. There was one outside in a tree a few minutes ago and some men chased it away. A small one."

"No, I don't think so. What tree?"

"Didn't you hear a shot outside?"

"I heard something, but Mrs. J. has the radio on in the kitchen. I don't think I heard a shot."

"In the kitchen? You, um, work here?"

"Yes, sir."

"So you don't think there are pumas around Upton."

"Tigers, maybe," he said with a twinkle and a half smile. Then he turned and ran off down the hall and stairs with thuds on the wooden risers certain to wake other guests who might be having a siesta.

_So today then. Not what his letter said. Hardrey's Hardware. Must know I'm here. Perhaps Henry. Best to get on with the adventure to see if this is where to settle._

*******

"Patta Hardrey," he introduced himself. "Patta, like pitter-patter, only quicker, without the _r_. It's Indian."

"It's nice to meet you."

"I got your letter and I hope my reply answered most of your questions, at least for a start."

Mr. Hardrey spoke with a slight accent but his pronunciation was common enough after perhaps years of living in California. Was he born somewhere else? Who could know? Except he did look a bit foreign.

"This is the store, as you can see. Don't worry. Life is lazy this time of day around here. We will be getting a few customers before long. I take a long lunch and people know that. In fact, during summer they kind of disappear during the midday heat. I'm a bit low on inventory, some things, but orders will be coming in for fall cleanup soon. Plus some re-stock items. Well, what brings you to Upton and the hardware business?"

"My partner in San Francisco . . . I sold my share of the business to him. Decided to get out of the city and move to the country. Slower pace and not as complicated. Well, at least I hope so. That is why I have come to talk with you. I haven't decided on Upton yet. In fact, this is my first full day. I am staying at Johnson's B and B. Your son. He works there?"

"Not really. He helps Mrs. Johnson out. You see, Mrs. Hardrey passed away years ago now, and Mrs. Johnson kind of took to Henry. Keeps him occupied after school. Still does. After school and summers he helps her around the property. Maybe because he likes to swim. Her swimming pool is a town attraction. It's for guests, but Henry, Hank, is in it whenever he wants. So he hangs out with her sometimes."

"I see. I am sorry to hear about Mrs. Hardrey. Was she . . ."

"She was younger than me. Sad story. Missionary woman. Wanted to have our child in the States, not India where I'm from. The illness took over pretty quick. That was after Hank was born. When she went I began thinking of selling the business. But that's been years now. My other child is grown. There is only Henry. Call him Hank. When we're horsing around. Keeps me young, you know. So did his mom, but now all that has changed. I am beginning to feel my age."

"I'm sorry."

"No need to be. We get old, right? Ever since I came to this country I have been making it my home. I try to become as American as possible. It is not entirely possible, but I'm pretty much accepted. And so are my kids. About the business, what would you like to know?"

Eh-em didn't want to pop the most direct questions—didn't want to scare Patta, or give him cause to raise his expectations about price.

"How about the name? The name of the business. Do you think the name of your business should be kept by the new owner?"

"Well the name is mine, or really my wife's, my second wife. My name, people had trouble pronouncing it, correctly that is. So we went with her name. It is a family name, native Californians from I don't know how far back. But the family has been around Upton forever they tell me. Just us left now, though. So I guess it is a good name for the business. But you can change it, of course. Will you be making it into one of the franchises?"

"I hadn't thought about that. I don't think so. A small, locally owned enterprise, simple, independent is what I am after."

"Simple? The hardware business is never simple. So many tools and parts and new stuff coming on the market. There's the seasons, too. Like autumn is coming. Ordering, taking inventory. Moved over to a computer for bookkeeping and inventory just recently. Most of everything we need to know is in the computer. I don't understand computers, but it is already invaluable. Have someone to help me. I think it will be more and more important. Especially for a new owner."

_Our conversation went on like this for about half an hour and then a rush of customers came in one after the other, and they needed a warm welcome and "screws just like this," or "a fitting for this pipe from my water heater." Although I could have stuck around to see how business went, I thought I knew something about that from my shop. Retail is retail, wasn't it? I noted the warm welcomes. As to my questions, I felt I was getting an insight into Mr. Hardrey, how he wandered so from the questions I asked. However, I was still not sure what information I should have to make a decision. I didn't think a computer held the answers. The technology too new. Was he covering something up or just getting on and rambling a bit with the slightest suggestion? I didn't know, so I left for an late lunch and promised to meet him just after he opened the store in the morning._

_On the way back from the store and lunch at a small cafe with a staff of one—cook, bottle washer, waiter, busboy—I thought I would have a look at the B and B's pool. It was hot and a swim would be refreshing. I had made a modest profit on the sale of my business in San Francisco, and that afforded me a vacation and some leisure before settling in again to greeting and meeting, the needs of customers that is. I was getting a little too used to leisure though, and that worried me. But not much. This trip to Upton, far enough from my rented apartment in Hayward to warrant my stay at a medium-priced accommodation northwest of the Gold Country, could be a little pleasure along with business. I found in the past years that taking time for me had its rewards in greater interest, or something, and energy. My painting was coming along. I was seeing and taking pictures of things I could later incarnate in my apartment cum art studio/sun room. And life blessed me with health and a sense of youth that should be savored, especially in view of what I had witnessed with friends of my business partner in the final fights against what peopled called an epidemic of unknown cause. So, a swim. Why not?_

_As I walked through the flower-filled garden at the back of Johnson's to the pool at the edge of a small field of some row crop, I heard splashing and the sound of children's voices. Mrs. Johnson was there skimming the deep end of the pool. Oak leaves littered the pool deck and floated in the corners of the rectangular pool, while in the shallow end three children shrieked and screamed in play. They were splashing each other, two boys and one girl. Well, two boys against one girl. A mom, I gathered, now and again issued directions, which were ignored as far as I could tell. But I didn't have any children, so how was I to know how these things went, except as a vague question. What would it be like to have a child, or two boys, and issue general's orders to no effect?_

"Henry, stop bothering Sam. And Samantha, stop screaming. There are people trying to relax around here."

"What people?" asked Samantha, followed by an ear-piercer, something like "Yikes!" but not quite.

What people indeed? There were only Mrs. Johnson and Samantha's mom, neither of whom was relaxing.

Henry's accomplice "got her good" from behind and Henry—the messenger Henry—approved by high-fiving and backing up quickly from the fight. He smacked the back of his head on the edge of the pool.

Eh-em saw it all and the everyday quickly narrowed to an instant. The water surrounding Henry's bobbing head was transforming like number two crimson diluting in a watercolor's rinsing bowl. He rushed to the side of the pool, reached, and grabbed one of Henry's arms so that his head and shoulders reversed and the boy's face turned sky-side up. This all happened without delay, and Eh-em's rapid movement drew the attention of the two other children and Sam's mother.

_From onlooker to actor, as situations warrant._

Henry was dazed and there was blood coming from the back of his head. Eh-em drew Henry to the side of the pool, and putting his hands under Henry's armpits, he lifted him onto the sun-warmed deck. Sam's mother was at Henry's side the next moment, and Mrs. Johnson dropped her skimmer into the pool as its contents floated away. She was moving fast from the far end of the pool. Sam's mother took charge and said brusquely that she knew what to do. Eh-em backed off and became visitor-observer again. Mrs. Johnson looked at Henry and then at Eh-em. She thanked him and Sam asked if it was serious. By this time Henry was alert and Sam's mother asked for a towel. Sam and her other tormentor looked on from the pool silently.

After a few minutes Henry was following Sam's mother's finger as she slowly passed it from left to right and right to left before his eyes. He looked a bit like a swami with the towel wrapped around his head, blood splotches here and there, mostly at the back where the wound was.

"He'll be okay. He just stunned himself a bit. The cut is not serious. It bleeds a lot when you cut your head. Thank you for reacting so quickly. These kids. Sometimes they horse around and I tell them not to and then someone gets hurt."

"I just," Eh-em softly offered. His response trailed off into nothing. He did not know what to reply or do.

Mrs. Johnson interjected. "I'll go get Silla to take him to the clinic. Maybe he needs some stitches."

Eh-em backed away feeling surplus-like. The women were in control and another, Henry's sister(?), was coming. Things were calming down. The other children were getting out of the pool hangdog-style. And Sam's mother just sat with Henry ministering to who knew what. Henry's head, still wrapped in the towel, hung down a bit and he was saying something. Sam's mother was leaning down giving words of comfort like, "You're okay, Hank." Eh-em could wait till the sister or whoever she was came and then escape to the local bar or his room, foregoing the swim he'd thought about.

Mrs. Johnson disappeared down the path toward the house and returned immediately with the young woman in the long skirt. She appeared on the garden path leading from the house to the pool followed by Mrs. Johnson a few steps behind. She was walking with determination and concern, taking giant steps, her skirt, as before, swaying and swishing. She must have had long legs for she was at Henry's side and bent down on one knee in no time. Sam's mother said with relief, "Silla, I'm so glad you're here. He'll be all right . . . "

_I noticed she was a dark beauty, about my height and slim, olive skinned. A girl about twenty. I couldn't be sure. She gave just a quick glance as she passed by me. Beauty, in both men and women, arrests, and if I were talented enough, that is what I would paint instead of buildings and landscapes._

_My time was up. All under control. I could go._

_The young woman glanced up after looking at Henry and asking him if he was all right. She gave a half smile in my direction without eye contact. After that I was gone. She was indeed the one from the photo studio across the street. I wondered if she had seen the puma?_

_What have I got myself into? Little information about a business opportunity, and a challenge to get without interruptions and wading through tangents. Upton seems a sleepy town with no one about during a summer's day to support a store with an expansive inventory and re-stocking needs sprinkled throughout. A small cast of characters, perhaps too small, who all knew each other. Strangers to me._

_First impressions count, don't they? I have found this true. When I first encounter something, a person or a situation, well, that in microcosm is what I usually find later writ large. So Henry will be kidding me with a twinkle in his eye. No doubt his sister will not engage me directly. Other kids and parents will mostly ignore me. Patta will chat and patter on, cordially evasive, or just continue absorbed in his own aging and wishful thinking about retirement. I will be a short-term guest at the local B and B or cafe and eventually poof, gone. Nothing to keep me here._

## Chapter 2: Antidote to urbia

Although Upton had yet to show itself fully, the initial impressions, or his responses to the place thus far, were not encouraging. However, Eh-em could not easily abandon this town quickly. It was possibly the last place to consider, at least from the point of view of his budgeted transition and special savings—reserved for emergency use only.

Existential questions tend to focus one's attention and provide the motivation for finding better answers.

*******

      Dear Mr. M,

      I feel this salutation rather awkward. Are
      you sure your name is M? Does the letter
      stand for something? Is it one letter or
      perhaps two as in Em? You didn't tell me when
      we met, so here I am feeling rather silly.

      But ~~silly~~ bemused is not the least of it. You
      gave me excerpts from the story you are
      writing. I was somewhat flattered, thinking
      that a fellow artist was asking me for what
      she thought of your short story or novelette.
      But after reading your words, I think you are
      not writing a story in that sense at all. All
      your characters are real, and the time frame
      today, and I, although amused and pleased at
      my description so far, find I am a character
      reading about myself in a kind of creative
      not-fiction thing. What a strange notion. Has
      it ever happened in a novel or play or
      something that a character gets to review
      what the author is writing about him? Her in
      this case? I suppose it has happened, so I
      plead innocence or ignorance. All the same,
      it is strange. You aren't going to publish
      this, are you? If you plan to, I will be more
      circumspect when meeting or talking with you.
      You say you might want to settle in Upton,
      and this is your reconnaissance visit. Would
      that you could decide one way or the other.
      It would make any future encounters more,
      shall I say, relaxed and informal. I thank
      you for your appreciative comments on my
      current exhibit of photos. The photo of the
      puma in the tree seemed to interest you,
      perhaps because of the repeated references to
      pumas in your writing thus far. So what is
      this about? This reader is curious. If your
      words are a kind of memoir or journal, I
      understand. But the repetition of puma cub(?)
      makes it sound like there is a point, or am I
      supposed to be reading fiction? Please
      enlighten your reader with some explicitness
      in this regard, that is what I would have to
      say.

      I tell you I am amused and pleased with how
      you have described me, except for the hint
      that I am in some way distant. However, this
      is true. I admit it. I have heard it
      before—distracted, an artist's temperament,
      lateral thinker, a woman! But slim and
      pretty, that is nice but also not true. As
      for age, you have guessed erroneously. I am
      older than Dolly. She was several years
      behind me in school. But I am like other
      women in this regard, either by appearance or
      compliment, we like to be younger than we
      are. I think I will stop telling people my
      real age and when I have my twenty-ninth, I
      will remain that age indefinitely.

      Now if you think that you will somehow paint
      me as a wild and untamable feline, I will
      object, except for the untamable part. (Women
      are not cats.) My father, whom you have met,
      can verify my untameliness, if that is a
      word. And I have come to acknowledge this
      characteristic of mine also. Not to put too
      fine a point on this, my surname change is
      evidence he will never stop stammering to
      say. But perhaps you didn't know I am Henry's
      sister by Patta Hardrey my biological father.
      Complications I need not go into.

      I see my prose is becoming untamed, and with
      that I leave you these my thoughts and the
      copy of your manuscript(?). I understand Mrs.
      Johnson was kind enough to print it. Thank
      you.

      Regards,
      Ursilla "Silla" Sheridan

      P. S. I acknowledge your other words about me
      and how I might have given you a positive
      impression of Upton, but really, I have done
      or said nothing to deserve your feelings. I
      don't mean to be rude.

*******

A handwritten sign in the window of Dot's Diner read, "Air condition inside." Eh-em hoped so and was not disappointed. The air outside was still and humid and hot. Inside he could breathe easier. He also found the alternative to jumping into a cold swimming pool.

Three stools were taken at the counter with large, farmer-type butts in overalls. This was the dominant view from the entry. The gents looked like regulars, and they were flirting with the only waitress, standing with her weight on one leg behind the counter, coffee pot in her right hand, the other arm covering her middle. Her left hand held her arm with the coffee pot. She had a smile on her face as she listened to one of the farmers tell a story. She looked up after Eh-em came in and said, "Have a seat anywhere. Be with you in a shake."

Eh-em chose a booth by a window looking out on the awning-covered boardwalk in front of the diner. There were menus stuck behind a box-like napkin holder at the window end of the table, and he took one and began studying it. He looked up at the red and white Coca Cola clock behind the counter. It was five thirty. A bit early for dinner, but he hadn't had much lunch, and what else was there to do? Stores were closing. He didn't know of any local attractions. How late was Hardrey's open so that after work people could still shop for home projects, garden seed, some parts or tools for farm or ranch work? He didn't know.

A second lazy summer afternoon in Upton was merging into a milder, he hoped, quiet evening. The stationery store, five-and-ten, barber's, TV and appliance repair were all closed. Ben's Bar might be open. He couldn't quite see it from where he sat. Maud's Country Chicken and Steak House at the far end of Main—it looked closed. At least there were no cars parked in front of it. When did Upton bustle?

Some teenagers, two girls with short skirts and a stocky boy with a faux Mohawk walked up to the diner's window and peered in. Concluding that none of their gang was inside having a soda, they moved on towards Penny Market jostling each other. Penny Market had customers, not many but a shopping basket came out every few minutes with brown paper sacks filled with groceries. New cars trickled into the parking lot. Pickup trucks and station wagons were filled with the bags, and plump housewives or thin bachelors drove off out of town without turning up or down one of the cross streets. The four-way stop midtown had blinking yellow lights, which appeared useless. There was not enough traffic to command a yield, stop or a please-you-go-first. Cars just proceeded through, mostly east or west. There were few cars in the small neighborhoods either side of Main and to the rear of the storefronts. Eh-em had noted this tranquility as he walked from the B and B to the diner. Perhaps the townspeople knew about pumas lurking hereabouts and kept a similar low profile. Or was it just still too hot to be moving about?

Eh-em chose the chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes with french-cut string beans for his entrée. Did the waitress, Dolly it said on a plastic name tag, have beer?

"No, we don't have a license."

"That's okay," said Eh-em. "An iced tea, please."

Before she left to give the order to the cook, she asked, "Passing through?"

"Staying a few days, vacation," Eh-em said.

With that, Dolly sauntered back towards the kitchen, order pad in one hand and pencil in the other.

Eh-em looked about and uttered the word proactive almost audibly. There were brochures and a want-ads paper in a waist-high stand just inside the diner's entry. He got up from his table and walked over. He looked over the offerings and chose one of each of what was there. He returned to his table as Dolly served him utensils and a glass of ice water, condensation forming on its side.

"Your order will be up in a few minutes. We're not very busy."

"Do you get busy in the evenings?"

"Oh, yes. Families come and a few of the outlying farmers on weekends. We have locals mostly. Sometimes we have new customers. People on their way back to the big city, you know."

"Big city?"

"Chico."

"Students or?"

"Mostly couples and families. We're kind of out of the way. I'm sure you noticed."

"I'm beginning to notice. Do you live around here?"

"Born and bred. I went off for college, but I didn't finish. My boyfriend didn't like it, me being away during the week and home on weekends. So I decided to seek my fortune right back where I come from."

Then holding a finger up to indicate that she intuited something, she walked toward the kitchen. Eh-em's order was almost ready to pick up.

Eh-em started with the brochures. Five of them. He raised his eyebrows. Five attractions nearby worthy of printing promotional stuff? There was the geyser. There was the state park with reservoir. There was the corn maze, summers only. The winery just down the road with tasting room and weekend tours. Even more interesting, he thought. And then there were the limestone caves with eerie rock formations. Dollar admission, open five months a year. Eh-em wondered if these area assets made for hardware store traffic. He didn't think so, but perhaps a hardware store could stock items for tourists. Walking shoes or hiking sticks for the outdoor types. Headlamps for one-time spelunkers. We are such a consumer society, he thought. Boating stuff for the reservoir, maybe even blow-up water toys like plastic crocodiles or oversized rubber ducks.

Dolly appeared with his dinner, and the aroma drew Eh-em quickly away from the brochures. He set them aside. He pulled the want ads closer and opened the newsprint-style publication to the for-rent section. As he sampled the mashed potatoes with brown gravy, he began looking for what he could rent and for how much. Most ads had prices, a few didn't. And there were not many: there was either a demand and not much available or the inventory was modest to meager. He dismissed any pessimism and focused on the ads with prices. He preferred either in-town close to the store or out in the country where he could perhaps have a dog and small garden. He quickly found he was missing a key tool in his orientation, a map for this place he tentatively thought at this point he could like, initial impressions to the contrary. At least not dislike. He attributed his malleable feelings to Dolly's smile and friendliness. Not a sure sign, mind you, to characterize a whole town, but friendliness always helps.

Perhaps the town offices in front of the post office had a free map. Was there a chamber of commerce?

Dolly was younger than Eh-em. There were teenagers and children in Upton. Good signs. People would be coming and going for the few things to see and do in the area. Albeit small, Main Street was efficient and attractive. Places to eat. A place to drink—he hoped it wasn't too dark and depressing. Oh, and a plumbers' supply and medical clinic, he recalled, on one of the side streets as he drove around earlier to find a shady parking spot near his B and B. Maybe an artist or two, if the photo studio was any indication. Pretty girl there. Silla. So, Henry's sister. So, not all that bad. Quiet place but not out of the question.

In fact, and now more carefully, Eh-em had been looking for an Upton. It seemed to be what he was after, the little big town without the bigger town look and feel. The frenzy and cares of a past life could be set in the background here and a new life could begin without baggage. There was a sufficient supply of those attractions and services one might want to make life interesting and living convenient.

      House in the country. 1 bed 1.5 bath. Wood stove.
      Darling yard. $250 per mo. First and last. Mile 
      off Baseline. 339-9045 eves.

For Sale. Eh-em found all manner of things plus notices of garage sales. He could acquire a house full of junk if he needed plus useful cheap stuff. And for a Saturday morning's entertainment, he could go round the few yard and garage sales. But then again, would he have weekends off? Would there be enough business at the hardware store to warrant hiring Saturday help, like an older teenager or Dolly's boyfriend?

"What does your boyfriend do?"

"He does odd jobs. He didn't finish high school. He's having a hard time. He's interested in computers. Does programs or something. He'll be going to GED classes in a month to finish up. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering. I might like to stick around. Where is Baseline?"

Dolly gave him directions and asked if he wanted anything more. Eh-em said he didn't and paid his check at the counter register. Dolly gave him change and he returned to his table to leave a tip. On his way out he asked her, "Are there any dangerous wild animals around here?"

"Not really. Well yes, but you never see them. Rattle snakes. Stay away from the Curlew Caves, I'd say. I heard they're on the golf course sometimes. It's over near Rolly's sod farm." She pointed in a that-a-ways kind of direction, which Eh-em couldn't fix. "Not much else."

She thought a moment or two longer and smiled. "There are some people you should stay away from if you stick around, but come back and I'll warn you about them if you decide." She laughed and said thanks for coming in.

Eh-em walked back in the direction of the B and B. He walked on the other side of the street. He looked ahead and to the side to see what was what, and by the time he came to the photography studio, he tested the door. It was locked. Closed like the few other places on the street. He looked in the window and through the thin gauze-like curtain. He could see black and white photos on the walls. Some were small and others quite large. The largest was directly in front of him on the opposite wall. It was a picture of a puma cub in a tree.

*******

Life can accelerate unexpectedly in small towns just as it can in larger ones. Changes come from discernible causes and by happenstance. Whether one or the other, the next morning after viewing it, Eh-em tentatively agreed to rent the little house off Baseline Road and then made arrangements with Mrs. Johnson to stay on until he could fix the place up a bit and move in. He figured about a week. Although a rental agreement had not been signed, a handshake sealed a deal. Eh-em figured he could back out, but he wasn't planning on it.

The house was set back off the dirt road and the exterior was immaculate. But the inside would need cleaning to his standard, and definitely painting. Minor plumbing repairs had to be made and caulking and puttying was needed around weathered window panes. Moisture during rainy winters had caused damage and spots of mold in corners and dead air spaces where the ceilings met the walls. It was not much work, and for doing it himself he could save on the first month's rent. Cleaning supplies and maintenance materials could be had from Hardrey's. The work Eh-em saw as a small investment in future comfort and a cozy living space. He could even decorate with flowers and clippings from the garden, something he had longed to do in San Francisco, but decorating in the city was expensive. You couldn't go into the Conservatory of Flowers and pick anything you wanted, although his business partner reported that he had picked flowers in Golden Gate Park regularly. Eh-em planned to scavenge old furniture and furnishings from yard and garage sales to add to his meager belongings. He would begin looking this weekend or next. He had a list of sales scheduled from the news-sheet he had picked up from Dot's.

*******

Silla's photography studio would be closed this weekend. If there were any tourists, they would be about on weekends but would have no luck seeing her work. Summer was the time to be open, and weekends anytime would be optimal. But a sign on the studio door said, "Closed This Weekend," as if this were an exception. Eh-em walked round the back of the studio. He wanted to see the tree he had seen from his B and B window. He found that the tree was at the base of a rocky embankment that sloped up about thirty-five yards, and fifty yards to either side of the tree, a cottonwood or similar variety, not an oak as he had guessed. The embankment made for a barrier between the town and the oaks and scrub above. As the embankment receded in both directions east and west, and the incline became softer and finally disappeared on both sides and led to grassy knolls, the town's residents had built their homes one then two then four streets back off Main on this north side. Silla's block was the only one that backed up to a kind of natural barrier to what lay outside the town limits on that side. The embankment appeared stable but showed signs of seasonal seepage. The soil and rocks had moss and were moist to the touch. Thus the cottonwood. Now where had that puma come from, down the embankment or from one of the grassy knolls either side? She didn't walk through the neighborhoods, Eh-em was pretty sure of that.

He walked west through the neighborhoods and decided he had made a good decision about not living in town. Although small and sleepy, that is quiet, Upton was not precisely where he wanted to live. Country quiet with few close neighbors was the thing, the antidote to urban crowding, not that Upton was in any danger of becoming urban.

Yet Eh-em fell into spirals irresolute: Would he be lonely out in the country? The hardware business would give little time to worry about that. He would be meeting lots of locals and others during business hours. Would Hardrey and family be staying on after the sale of the business? Must. Henry is still in school and his sister has a studio.

## Chapter 3: Friendly and abrupt

Mrs. Johnson asked at breakfast if Eh-em would like to join the Saturday evening barbecue she held for guests and friends by the pool. It was a summer thing and there would be a few families and singles—he was single wasn't he? Meat for the carnivores and veggies from the garden for the ethnics and kooks. Mrs. Johnson was definitely a carnivore. Eh-em accepted. A pool-side get-together on a Saturday evening should be fun.

*******

"Good morning. How are you today?"

"Fine, Mr. Hardrey, fine. And you?"

"Great. Friday and business should be good, you know. Weekend projects and honey-dos. People will be needing sundry items, mostly garden and stuff for repairs. Repairs and maintenance, that is. Paint, replacement blades for mowers. You can't imagine what people need. But it is always something. There seems to be a run on bathing gear this summer. Pretty hot, and folks like to go out to the reservoir and paddle about. Thinking about getting some rubber canoes next year, but I hope to sell the business before then. I'll bet you have some questions for me today. We didn't get much time yesterday. The rush will be about ten, ten thirty, so we have time."

"Yes. Well, this may be a bit direct but I was wondering about price. Can you give me an idea about price? I know word has it that it is five figures. Could you give me a better idea?"

"Yes. Happy to. Do you want the land and building or just the business? That will make a difference."

"Let's break it apart. Price for land and building and then for the business. I have a budget, you know, from the sale of my business in San Francisco."

"What kind of business was that?"

"Men's clothing and accessories, on Union Square."

"Men's clothing. Do you think that would be anything like the hardware business? I'm not so sure . . . "

"My family had a dry goods business with a hardware section in Illinois when I was growing up. I worked there as a young boy. I think I have enough experience in retail, but of course there is always something to learn. I know I will have to work hard when I get into this business. But it is a better bet than men's fashion. Changes all the time and the people, well, my clients in San Francisco, they could be very particular about what to wear and what to buy. In a hardware store you pretty much know what you want or what you need and you come here and buy it. The job of hardware is to have it on hand, right?"

"Yes, that's true. Well, about the price. I must look for my notes and do a little figuring. Won't take a minute."

Mr. Hardrey began writing some numbers on a small pad of paper he kept by the cash register. Before he could conclude his calculations or look for the folder he kept about the property, his son and daughter came in, Henry from the back of the store and Silla from the front. Both greeted their father respectfully, that is in a way that echoed a kind of traditional upbringing. More formal than informal. Hello, father, but it wasn't hello. Something like "Kemcho, father."

"How's your head," Eh-em asked.

"Oh, hi," said Henry. "It's fine." He turned his head and revealed a bandage at the back in the middle of a circle where his hair had been shaved.

"I see."

"My name's Silla. I saw you yesterday."

"Yes."

"I should thank you for fishing my brother out of the pool."

"Well, I . . . "

"No, thank you. You were right there and quick to pull him out. We are very thankful."

"I didn't really . . . "

"Henry?"

"Yes, thanks." Henry paused and then asked with uplifted eyes, "What's your name?"

"It's Eh-em. Like the letter. Just Eh-em."

"That's a funny name."

"I think Henry is a funny name."

"It's not. It's a normal name. Eh-em is kind of . . . "

"Abnormal?"

"Yeah."

"Henry," Silla said with admonishment.

"I'll tell you why. Henry is hen, like the chicken. And the _y_ is a plural. Which gives you Hens. You're Hens, like chickens. Now that's a funny name."

"Hey, you forgot I have an _r_."

"Hmm. You're right. What should we do with the _r_? We can make it for running. Running Hens. Like an Indian name. Sitting Bull. Plays with Dogs. Like that. You're Running Hens."

"That's not Indian."

"Sure it is."

"No. That's not real Indian. That's American Indian. I'm India Indian."

"You are? I didn't know that. How can that be?"

"Henry, you don't need to go into that."

"No, no. That's okay." Patta stepped into the conversation. "We are proud of our heritage. Although our surname is Hardrey, we get that from their mother. All of us. Well, Silla's stepmother." Something prideful had emerged from Mr. Hardrey's past.

"Really? And what is your mother's name?" Eh-em was addressing Henry.

"Henrietta Hardrey."

"I'm confused."

"You should be, and my name is Silla Sheridan."

"More confusion."

"Let's keep him that way," Silla suggested, creating a playful conspiracy.

"Yes, let's," said Henry.

"No, no. You tell him or I will. After all, he might become one of the family. He is interested in buying the store."

"That wouldn't make him family," said Silla to her father.

"Well, in a way it would. He will need to have some time after buying the business to get used to it, learn how we do things. That sort of thing. We, well, I will help him. I owe that to my customers. Just because I am selling and retiring doesn't mean we are going away."

"I might go away," Henry interjected.

"You think so? You're finishing school before you think about doing anything like that," Patta said. Silla nodded in agreement.

"Yes, father." Henry—that submissive side again.

"Well, that all seems to be clear now," said Silla.

"No it's not. There is still my confusion. I have got it that Running Hens is India Indian. And you were named, I guess, after your mother, Henrietta. That's where you got your name, right?"

There was a pause. The family was going to let Eh-em hang himself in this mess that in fact he had started by going on about Henry and hens. They continued just standing there. Then came the slightest smile on Silla's lips, but she quickly wiped it off with the back of her hand and continued to stare. Her lips were straight and expressionless, but her eyes sparkled delight.

"Mr. Eh-em. You started all of this yourself. M-mmm. What does that stand for? Man? Manfred? Mystery man? The confusion around here is because of you."

"Silla." More admonishment, this from Mr. Hardrey.

She smiled and said, "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" Patta smiled also, for he knew something his children didn't about the man-on-the-spot before them, to wit how he spelled his name. Now there could be some confusion.

"Good. I used to be called Fred. I didn't like that but it stuck. Better than Manfred, you see. But I am neither Manfred nor Fred, you see. My name is Eh-em. It is like a vanity license plate. I like it and I come when called just Eh-em. But to be less mysterious, I'm just a man interested in starting a new life. I came here to see if this might be a place I would like to do that, but I need an occupation. I am not rich and I like people and to work. This business . . . well, you know the rest."

"No, go on."

"I am renting a place in the country, just off Baseline Road."

"That settles it. We can be your temporary family till you are comfortable in your new life. We don't mind where you come from or what sins you committed in your former life. You can have any name you like. Silla chose hers when she was fourteen, and look at her. She is still pretty and talented. Names don't matter. Confusion all gone."

"Thank you for your confidence, Mr. Hardrey." Eh-em looked at Henry. "I can be an uncle. After all we have some things in common, mystery names. We two know about the local tigers and what not to do next time in the pool. How does that sound?"

"Okay, I guess," said Henry.

"Okay with me," said Silla, "but I still think you are more confused than we are."

"Well, after you get to know me a bit."

"We'll see about that. I'm not too keen on this family idea. Father, don't you have things to talk about with Eh-em first before getting all cozy?"

"There are some customers, the Thompsons. I need to see about them first. Stick around, Eh-em, and we can talk when they go."

"Mr. Eh-em. I think we should give you a better name than this one letter thing."

"Who said it was one letter?"

"Now are you testing or teasing me? How do you . . . "

"Yes I am. I need to see what your father carries here."

Eh-em turned and started wandering the aisles of the store to see the range of inventory. Silla looked frustrated. She didn't much like ambiguity, or secrets, or people walking away in the middle of a conversation, or playful games that led who knows where. But that was the fun of them. Silla looked at her brother and shook her head, and Henry shrugged in return. Now each had come into the store for different reasons. Henry had chores and Silla came to tell her father something.

Eh-em found quite a range on offer. There were the usual things you might find in a hardware store, but there was also that inventory he had questions about. There were things for the reservoir including fishing rods and tackle. There were camping and hiking supplies, sun screen and mosquito repellent. The lighter fare included popular candy and trail-mix bars and one soda vending machine. Something called gorp caught his eye. There was even a small section of toys and knickknacks. The stuffed toys included a domestic cat. And on the back wall, there was a photo of what appeared to be the local archetype. A puma looked down from high above with a handwritten sign below which said, "I am watching you."

Customers kept coming into the store in ones and twos, and so by eleven Eh-em waved to Mr. Hardrey that he'd be back later. Mr. Hardrey looked disappointed, but his attention quickly focused on the sound of glass breaking in the housewares section. He could not see what had happened and went to investigate walking past two aisles and turning down a third where the sound had come from. Eh-em looked in the directions of Henry and Silla and waved silent good-byes. Eh-em didn't let the screen door slam as he walked out. The bell attached to it to announce arrivals and departures hardly tinkled twice before falling silent.

Eh-em returned to the B and B, changed into his swimming suit, and headed for the pool with a clean towel from his room. Notebook in hand with pen and his prescription sunglasses, he planned to catch up on his impressions while taking in the sun during the mid-day heat. Eh-em used his notebook to work through questions and ideas. By writing he solved, on paper at least, life's small and bigger challenges. He began writing by spelling the name Silla and then looked up into the cloudless sky. And that is as far as he got till he woke from a nap at almost one when he heard three splashes. Children had jumped into the pool, and two women arrived dragging pool toys and towels along with oversized bags they clutched to their middles. Henry was not among the bathers.

*******

Silla asked her father if she could do something for him before she left for the weekend. He said no and she said good-bye and would be back on Monday after her visit with the family astrologer in Vallejo. After talking with her father, Silla went to her studio to pick up a portfolio of photos and then home to pack a few things. She went back to the studio in her car and picked up seven photos that were matted but not framed. She placed them carefully in the back seat of her car. The blue, aged Honda Civic puttered through town past the B and B and turned left at the four-way. She did not think of the guest there with the odd name.

Henry dutifully performed his sweeping chore in front and back of the hardware store, hung about a while, and chatted with some of his friends from school who had come to the store with their dads; and after fiddling with a basketball from the sports section, made the excuse he could work no longer. He had a headache. His father excused him. Henry shuffled off down Main to the two story bungalow on East Third Street that the family called home. It was empty and silent, still cool before the heat of the day penetrated the darkened rooms. He flopped onto his bed too eagerly. His head pounded, and jumping onto the bed made it worse. He turned over, pulled a loose sheet over himself, and closed his eyes. It was just past noon.

Saturday morning came and the same scene repeated as if from a forty-five record on replay. Mr. Hardrey did not have time to meet or talk with Eh-em, and he politely excused himself while he attended to customers and gave different directions to his Saturday helper, Doug. Henry was supposed to be re-stocking shelves, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was at the B and B. Boys his age treasure Saturdays whether during the school year or summers. If Eh-em were a father, he would also make such allowances, he thought.

Eh-em approached Doug. He was seated at the computer behind the register. Eh-em asked one or two questions in between commands issued by Mr. Hardrey from the store floor. He realized that this was Dolly's boyfriend. A high school education was apparently not a prerequisite for working a computer to keep books and manage inventory for a hardware store. Doug must have knowledge, Eh-em thought, of both computers and what different goods and parts were for that the store stocked. Education comes at different times and in different places it seemed. Doug was polite and serious. Eh-em left having a good idea that support for the business was in good hands and that profits, losses, inventory, and ordering were being tracked in detail. Doug and his computer and data entry skills were such that any exaggerations about the business could be verified, he hoped, at least as far back as the computer's files were concerned, which probably wasn't too far.

*******

Eh-em drove out to view his new digs from the road. The soon-to-be ex-tenants were still in the house, and various belongings were being brought out onto the porch or set by the garden gate. Moving was underway. Eh-em drove past the house slowly and was pleased with the appearance of the new place he'd call home. Down the dirt road he drove about a mile to a dead end with a locked gate. There a bare, brown-shingled farmhouse stood with chickens in the yard and a huge vegetable garden on the side and extending to the backyard. A dog barked from the covered porch as Eh-em looked out from the car window. He thought that this might be his closest neighbor, not that close really. Eh-em paused, and soon a man about his age appeared through the overgrown vines that partially covered the porch. He waved. Eh-em waved back and turned the engine off. He got out of the car and stood at the gate.

"Hello."

The man told the dog to be quiet and began walking over to where Eh-em was standing. He stopped about fifteen feet away and said, "What can I do for you?"

Eh-em hesitated and then said, "I am the new tenant in the house down the way, Mrs. Corday's place. The old renters are moving out and I was wondering what it's like to live around here."

"Quiet. It's nice. I don't know my neighbors. Those people who have been renting Mrs. Corday's. But Upton is friendly. A bit conservative, but that suits me. I keep pretty much to myself. I'm Russ, by the way. And your name?"

"Eh-em. I know that sounds funny. But it is Eh-em. I'm from the San Francisco area and decided to move to the country."

"Well, this is country and then some. Nothing like the city."

"I noticed."

"Gets a bit lonely sometimes, but I get along. I am kind of a minimalist, in my living, and socially. Hard to find people with something in common around here. At least for me. But here's everything I need."

He coughed and then coughed again and again. He continued coughing and then bent over holding his chest. His dog came to his side and looked up and stared at him without moving.

"You okay?" asked Eh-em as he took a few steps toward Russ. The gate, however, separated them. After he stopped and caught his breath, Russ stood upright and stretched himself back from his hips. It looked like he was making room for more air in his lungs.

"Sorry about that. Have a little problem. Country air should take care of it. At least that is my medicine."

Eh-em decided it was too early, if ever, to inquire about Russ's health. But he did offer. He noticed that Russ's eyes were bloodshot. "Do you see a doctor about that?"

"Yes, but she can't do anything. Don't believe in doctors."

"I know what you mean. I had a partner in SF and . . . "

"Well, Eh-em, come by sometime after you get settled. When did you say you were moving in?"

"About a week I'd say."

"I gotta get back to my reading and do some work around the estate."

Russ had changed the subject and then made this preemptive end to the visit. Eh-em got it. But Russ added, "If you need some tools or something, come by. I am always here, or Killer here is. He is harmless by the way. See. He accepts you already."

After sniffing Eh-em's pant legs through the slats in the gate, he was wagging his tail and already on his way back to unknown diversions in the yard.

Russ repeated. "Got to get back to work. It is very nice to meet you. See you 'round."

What a friendly and abrupt dismissal. And what was it about Russ that was familiar? Eh-em had a vague feeling that he knew a Russ from a different life. And the cough. Was Russ just one of those who didn't trust doctors and didn't go to them? Or wasn't it that serious? He got back in the car and drove out the dirt road back to Baseline and then right in the direction away from Upton. He drove turning this way and that for several hours till he found himself back in Upton late that afternoon. It was a nice area, he thought. Lots of crops planted, rolling hills and woods where there must be deer and other wildlife. Some vineyards. An equestrian center too, a sign had read.

## Chapter 4: Felinae figures

The barbecue at the B and B pool started after seven, and by eight there were about fifteen or eighteen people talking and eating. Among them were Mr. Hardrey and Henry. Henry was bringing food from the kitchen and passing appetizers around. Mrs. Johnson's way of asking for donations was a coffee can with small hand-lettered sign on a serving table with a red and white checked tablecloth.

The food was plentiful. Four vegetarian dishes for those who preferred slower prey and chicken and ribs for the carnivore-hunters. Garlic bread and a cold pasta salad with tuna, onions, and paprika rounded out the fare. Oh, and dessert. A fresh fruit medley and a chocolate cake that one of the families brought. There was beer for the adults and soft drinks and iced tea for children and teetotalers.

Mrs. Johnson asked Henry to introduce Eh-em to the others from Upton, a request he avoided by exiting immediately to the kitchen before eventually and halfheartedly asking if Eh-em had met everyone. Eh-em said he fended for himself with the locals and introduced himself to some of the other B and B guests. Children were in the pool benignly supervised by five teenagers, who found more interest in each other than their younger siblings splashing about. Much giggling and flirting and loud calling came from the pool and the deck around as the adults talked among themselves closer to the food.

At one point Mr. Hardrey and Eh-em found each other and began what Eh-em had been hoping for, more answers about the store. Mr. Hardrey welcomed his interest and did his best to answer each question carefully and thoroughly. They talked about the number of customers per day, the monthly receipts, annual profit after taxes—a ballpark figure—trends in the hardware business, buying inventory on credit and extending credit, how much help was required to run a friendly and efficient operation, Doug the computer guy/bookkeeper, hours of operation. Eh-em discovered one thing he hadn't thought much about, but when he did it was a natural. Sundays. Hardrey's Hardware and General Store was closed on Sundays.

Patta and Eh-em got along, and Patta asked again if Eh-em had another name. The play around Manfred had confused him he said. Eh-em said he did have a given name, Paul, but Eh-em was sufficient. Patta, consistent with his earlier position on names and a person's past, just accepted this and didn't inquire further. He continued talking about his business, markup from wholesale, hot items, sale and sundry items. Patta and Eh-em got through so much that they agreed to clear up any further details the next time Eh-em was in the store. He could examine tax records, or talk specifically about prices—for the business including FF and E, inventory, land and buildings, the store proper and an attached garage currently used for storage.

Between the first and second helpings of chicken and salad, Eh-em decided that he had a more rounded view of Patta. He was quite clear and linear when not distracted by the demands of working in the store. Also, Eh-em was reassured sufficiently that he wanted to proceed in earnest with settling in Upton and purchasing the hardware store. He would go back to the Bay Area soon and bring some of his things from storage and from his minuscule apartment. He would store them somewhere for when he could move into his new home. He particularly wanted to bring his paintings for safekeeping and thought that art might be the next best topic with Patta.

Eh-em acknowledged that Silla was a photographer, and he was interested in photography in so far as photos could be used as inspiration for his watercolor painting. Landscapes and buildings and such. Patta noted that his daughter was a pretty good photographer, and a pretty girl besides. With a look down at his shoes and a smile on his face, Eh-em assented to the latter, although Patta took his yes for both assertions.

"Have you seen some of her work?"

"I know about her photography. I saw some pictures through her studio window."

"She is very talented. Has a show in Sacramento. In fact that is where she is now. She is changing out a couple of photos that don't seem to have much interest, she says. Then she is coming back."

"When will she be back? I'd, er, like to see her work. I mean not through the window."

"Monday. Probably afternoon. She is helping me in the store on Mondays and sometimes Fridays. It is getting to be a lot for me."

"Does Silla? I mean, does Silla spend much time in her studio?"

"No, no. She will do portraits for people with appointments. To earn the money that her art photos don't. Artists. No offense, but it is a hard way to go."

"I know."

"She goes out in the country, to the golf course or the coast sometimes, on photo shoots she calls them. Sometimes quite far away, but then she always comes back and develops the photographs herself in her darkroom, decides which ones, sizes, and so forth. She has a large portfolio. There are even some fashion photos and a few nudes, men actually. But she isn't doing that now, I don't think. Her model is not available, she says. I don't ask questions. Silla is her own boss, sort of like her mother. More militant, I'd say. You haven't seen that, but she can be."

"I guess so. . . . Well, I'm not sure we have a lot in common. As I say my photography is really a means to a different end. Actually, right now I am playing at writing. In fact, I have started a piece since I arrived in Upton a few days ago. Perhaps she might like to read it for me and give me some ideas. Does she like to read?"

"Yes. I suppose so. I don't think she has any particular training or anything. Her grandfather on my side was a writer in India. If she has anything of him in her, you will benefit from her comments. But I don't know."

"Well, it is just a thought. I am not very far along with a story I am working on."

At ten or so the last of the guests had returned to their rooms in the B and B, and the townspeople with children had left. Henry and Patta had also left after carrying a few things from the pool area back to the kitchen. Eh-em helped Mrs. Johnson carry the leftovers and the remaining serving dishes and utensils. He deposited a large trash bag with used paper plates and plastic forks and knives by the garage. In the kitchen Eh-em asked about the coffee can. There wasn't much cash in it. He dropped five dollars in and felt that should cover his share. He had drunk and eaten at least that, he guessed. As for her guests, Mrs. Johnson said, the price of the room covered their share. It was in the brochure.

"Should I take back what I put in?" he asked not seriously. She said he could if he wanted to. The look in her eyes had a hint of sadness, but it quickly disappeared as she busied herself with platters and a handful of serving spoons.

There were questions Eh-em started to form about Mrs. Johnson, her community service as she liked to call it, and her business. The business seemed steady. There were always guests throughout the year, she claimed, when Eh-em had checked in a few short days ago. "In future a reservation ahead would be prudent."

She employed several locals part-time. There was the guy who vacuumed the pool and adjusted the chemicals, spring through early autumn. Eh-em had seen him in the hardware store buying bromine in a large plastic container. There was someone who came a few days a week in the afternoons to tend to the garden. He used tools he fetched from the shed near the pool, the shed that also served as a changing room. A woman came in the mornings to help clean rooms and do the sheets and towels in the laundry room at the back of the garage where Mrs. Johnson parked her late model Buick. This housekeeper probably came as the need demanded. There was Henry, but that seemed to be more about a surrogate son than employment or charity.

Mrs. J., as she was called by most locals, didn't offer many personal details, but she was warm and welcoming. You could notice this at the reception desk and if you encountered her doing this or that about her establishment. She was also helpful, offering brochures for tours and walking trails nearby.

"How long have you had these picnics by the pool?"

"Oh, as long as I've had the pool. It's been about eight years now, I think."

"Do you have regulars coming each Saturday?"

"Well, the Sigurdsons and the McKennas are regulars. They are long time friends and bring a dish to share usually. Although Mrs. McKenna didn't this evening. I don't think she has been feeling well lately. She's the one who left early. gray hair and a little stout. Didn't drink or eat anything. Her daughter and Silla, you know Silla, are best friends. Everybody doesn't come all the time. People don't have money to donate. Keep it for church, I suspect."

"Does Silla come?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes she brings a guest."

"Henry comes."

"Oh, yes. I love his company. He is a clever one, I tell you. Very helpful and a nice family."

"Yes, they seem to be. You know I'm talking to Patta about buying the business. Maybe I should buy _into_ it, saving something for Silla and family and Henry."

"Oh, you needn't worry about that. Henrietta, Hank's mother had money. I think the business is Patta's hobby. Well, not hobby. I think where he comes from, poverty you know, people work hard for anything they can get. Patta didn't have much, except Silla, when he started out."

"When did he come?"

"Oh, before Henrietta, before his second family. They met at Berkeley, you know. He was a visiting dignitary on a temporary assignment, something about Hindu or Buddhism. I don't know which. And they met—he was trying to teach her meditation. Can you imagine? Couldn't sit still, except for Patta, I guess. Henrietta, Silla's stepmother. I miss her. She is . . . was my age. I mean we were the same age. You know what I mean."

"Silla's mother? What happened to her?"

"I'm told she was independent, I'll do it my way, a real artist's personality. But I never met her. Died shortly after giving birth to Silla."

"And you. Do you have a family?"

"My husband passed away just after Henrietta. It was very hard on me. I still have . . . "

"I'm sorry?"

Mrs. J. seemed to have drifted away from the question, reflecting on something or someone. Then she caught herself and said with conviction, "No. I have a son. He lives out Cougar Corner way. You two will be neighbors. How do you like my old house?"

"Your old house? But I thought Mrs. Corday was the owner."

"She is. Sold it to her and put together that and the insurance money after Walt's death to buy this place. Twelve plus years ago now."

"This is a real small world, or should I say town?"

"Town. And yes it is. Yes it is."

Eh-em felt he had not made much headway with Mrs. J. Perhaps she was keeping her own counsel about something she was not ready yet to disclose with this newcomer.

*******

The puma cub he saw, and the pumas he kept seeing, awakened Eh-em to a riddle, and tomorrow he would take steps in solving it, if riddle it was. On his way to the Bay Area to pick up some of his belongings he had a stop to make. Better on his way to Hayward, he thought. Making sense of things was one of Eh-em's missions, and having things pretty well delineated before taking any great risks. The recurrent image of a cat had caused not concern exactly, but sincere curiosity.

Before leaving the B and B and getting in his car to drive south, Eh-em placed a manila envelope with some papers and this transmittal through the letter drop in Ursilla Sheridan's photography studio door.

      Dear Ms. Sheridan,

      Would you be so kind as to read these pages
      from a story I am writing? I have taken the
      liberty of having Mrs. Johnson print off a
      copy for you. As an artist, I would value
      your opinion, although I know words might not
      be your medium as much as images might be. At
      another time I could show you my watercolors.
      I have been at them for years, but they only
      bring personal pleasure from time to time, no
      money. I am thinking to change from the soft
      and suggestive medium of watercolors to word
      pictures. I trust—although I hardly know
      you—my intuition in your sensibilities. Any
      comments would be most appreciated.

      By any chance do you have any more photos of
      mountain lions? I like the one you have
      displayed in your studio, and I would like to
      see more if you have them. Thank you in
      advance.

      I am growing fond of your family. And I can
      see a kind of circle of friends I would be
      most happy to have. Upton agrees with me so
      far. And you have been one of the attractions
      for me. I thank you for that.

      Sincerely,
      M

Eh-em and Silla traveled the same road from Upton to the Bay Area, but as Eh-em continued south, Silla turned west and into Lake County. She had something of a treat for herself, a weekend at Three Springs. Eh-em was immersed in his own past as he drove toward the vestiges of it, a blip in his history yet powerful in its importance leading in part to asking new people in his life to pronounce his name as a single syllable. Its effect he could now see in Upton; it made for an almost new identity. Silla felt her identity was still in the making, although the retreat promised an important piece of a puzzle to pick up again and try to fit somewhere. Silla had thrown the piece down in frustration and rebellion when she was old enough to comprehend her mother's death when she was a child. It was the puzzle of who-am-I, or more accurately: who will I be, if she had anything to do with it. Each of them, Silla and Eh-em, would move on to a healthier and lasting peace, but there were bits, important bits, to put together in a new configuration, or constellation, new relationships with themselves and possibly with each other, although neither could know or suspect.

The California Department of Fish and Wildlife Shelter was Eh-em's first stop. He maneuvered his car into one of the diagonal parking spaces in front of the tan stuccoed building. There was only one other car parked in the lot in a space marked for employees. As he approached the glass entry doors, he saw a sign that the shelter was open. Government visitor center routines could be relied upon in summer. They catered to occasional tourists and the curious. Eh-em entered the reception area, but there was no one at the desk. He found typed and xeroxed papers about the department, its mission, how tax dollars were being spent. He also found glossy pamphlets featuring wild animals and birds of California deserts, mountains, and coastal areas. One featured state animals, noteworthy among which was _ursus arctos californicus_ , the California grizzly bear.

Ursus? Ursilla? Or was it Usilla? Little she-bear? Probably fits, mused Eh-em.

A brochure highlighting cats in the wild covered mountain lions. These cats, although a specially protected species, were not usually held in captivity or state shelters. It would be inhumane, according to the brochure, to contain an animal whose territory could extend hundreds of square miles.

There were some children's books about different California animals and some research reports giving statistics, frequency of road kills ("guesstimates," Eh-em reckoned), and so forth; however, there was no literature on mountain lions per se or other animals except the state animals. The bear, for example, "is revered for its beauty, size and strength." Eh-em found irony in that an extinct animal was a California symbol.

Eh-em gently tapped the front desk bell with his palm and quickly silenced it by covering the bell with his hand. Its ring broke a silence in a seeming sacred place for devoted parishioners.

"May I help you," asked a female officer with sidearm and Taser prominently displayed on an oversized black leather belt.

"Yes, er, are you expecting some trouble around here?"

"Huh?"

"The gun and holster."

"Standard uniform. We lost two state park rangers last year. Ambushed. There are some crazies in this state."

"Yes. I think I have known some."

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Say, what can you tell me about mountain lions in California?"

"Well, we have some literature here you can take. I am sure there is one with something about puma concolor. Here it is."

Eh-em saw that it was the one he had already looked at. "I mean to ask, are they around here?"

"Oh, yes. Lots of them. Well, not lots. They are rarely seen. They prey on deer mostly. You needn't worry about them. They hardly ever bother people. They are pretty secretive if they are about. Plus, they roam large territories."

"I know."

"Would you like to see one?"

"You have one?"

"Yes. She is here till we decide how to take care of her."

"As in?"

"Euthanize. Once they end up in one of our shelters, that is usually the last stop before we have to put them down. Too great a danger to the public. This one is still being vetted."

The officer walked to a metal door at the far end of the visitor's area and beckoned Eh-em to follow. They walked through a kind of veterinary clinic and then into a long hallway past five or six empty cages, the kind you might see in a dog pound. Then they exited outside into a yard with ten or so cages each standing by itself separated by several feet of ground, presumably so that staff could walk around them and either feed or observe or in some way minister to captive animals. Obviously these cages were meant for larger animals and all had chain link sides and tops. In one corner of this yard, Eh-em and the officer approached a cage with a lion lounging there watching every step of their approach without moving detectably. She was aware of everything in her surroundings, and anything that moved was reason to attend without blinking. They approached the cage within a few feet and after a moment's awe, Eh-em began asking questions about the predator. It was as if, however, the puma was the visitor and humans the curiosity. Eh-em recalled the puma cub in the tree. Sitting quietly and observing, waiting for something to happen, or to act with decisive intent given an opportunity, or threat. Or was it just a look of curiosity? perhaps of judgment.

Eh-em admired the cat's beauty and regal look. He also appreciated the barrier between them. They hardly ever bother people? He imagined what the cat was capable of, and any attempt to get close to it could be dangerous. His being so close to this animal brought some immediacy of latent intent or defense or meaning to mind. His question now, brought to the fore because of one sighting and repeated images, was coincidence—was it meaningful or not?

Failing to find an answer in that moment, Eh-em said something about how majestic the cat looked and thanked the officer. They walked back to the reception area together, and the officer, Sally with the lethal weapons, offered to help further. Eh-em said no thanks and left with a mumbled good-bye. He got in his car and for a moment remembered something, something perhaps important.

An apartment in the city furnished in dark colors and tan with a feline figure of a powerful beast approaching as if he, Paul Eh-em, were prey. Another figure in the background, indistinguishable, witness or also perpetrator.

Eh-em quickly dismissed the abhorrence he felt. He shook his head audibly repeating in mantric fashion, "It didn't happen. It didn't happen." After quickly suppressing thoughts that sometimes come unbidden and collecting himself to where he was and what he was doing, he started the car and continued his drive to Hayward to begin collecting belongings for what he was determined would be a new start.

## Chapter 5: Making lists

From a Three Springs Retreat brochure Silla read, "Do you wonder how you might discover more spaciousness inside, more room in which to hold what life brings? More room for creative response and less for that nagging sense of compulsion?"

Silla did wonder, and it was not the first time she had slipped out of Upton to focus on who she aspired to be. At Three Springs Silla found spiritual companionship with other "women on a path." She relished time for honest study into self, which included greater awareness of the effects of past decisions. They might bear insights to be used, or re-framed for her future. In short, Silla, or Usilla Banerjee Hardrey had realized that her youthful rebellion and misplaced "masculine emergence" should give way not to dogmatism or staunchness but to the fullness of femininity and a space for what life could bring. It seemed that this retreat coincided with her most recent perplexity, how to relate to someone who might figure in her family's life. Should she let him get closer, or mark her boundaries clearly? Three Springs would give her guidance and support for how to proceed in this and other areas of her life, or so she hoped.

A minor mission she intended to accomplish was to offer the center some of her photos to decorate the walls of the re-built conference center. The former had burnt down with all artifacts from previous Jungian conferences and retreats: stuff created to give expression to the unconscious and "the repressed children that adults truly are." The conference room needed some ambiance besides bone-white walls. Her photographs provided that for the new conference center, she thought. Plus she needed exhibition space beyond a gallery in Sacramento and her studio in Upton.

The initial suggestion to the Three Springs director, Reverend Tom, got only a vague think-about-it nod. Perhaps the dining hall would be better. They could discuss it later.

*******

"Is that nice?"

"Mmm."

"And that?"

"Yes."

"Is this your first time?"

"Yes."

"Tell me you have been with a woman before."

"I have been with a woman before."

"You like massages?"

"Yes."

"With candles and oil, body oil?"

"Exotic scents. Incense."

"Next time."

"I like incense."

"What is your fantasy right now?"

"I . . . "

"I didn't hear that."

"Can't say."

"Is this something you could get used to?"

"I am not . . ."

"You are drifting."

"I'm awake."

"Is it pleasurable?"

"Mmm."

"Is that, yes?"

". . . Yes."

"And this?"

"Gentle. Softer."

"Like that?"

There was no answer.

"Slow or fast?"

"Faster."

"Better?"

"I haven't . . . "

"Can a man do it better?"

"It's different."

"Does that mean good?"

"Good."

"Have you been with a man before?"

"Yes."

"What was his name?"

"You know him."

"Who?"

"Brian. His name was Brian."

*******

Dreams come in different forms and at different times. Some are disturbing. Some are wonderfully pleasurable. It depends on the dreamers and how they have lived their life and what kinds of experience they want to make sense of. Interpretation is the key, for dreams are filled with symbols.

Eh-em, he is trying to come to terms in his waking life but suffers recurrent nightmares. Somewhere below clear articulation, in his head or out loud, Eh-em wished that a powerful figure would augur a sea change. The fierce and strong and majestic impressed him. He would like to adopt or become one with it to trail blaze his way.

Silla would like someone like Eh-em to help change the daydream she lived in—one more chance. She had the fire of life burning, but for what or whom?

Eh-em liked his Hayward apartment, the small deck off the bedroom which caught sun all day, the efficient kitchen and inviting entry, both inside and curb appeal. The location and meaninglessness, though, of the place gnawed. He knew as he drove up and put his key in the door that this was not where he wanted to spend his days, or any more days. It replaced a divine residence in SF, the divinity of which became soiled with the image of his partner's friend, Brian Dougherty. Brian was nice enough, but a manipulative bounder, a beguiling, smiling incarnation of handsome deceit.

_*******_

_First, there are things I know. Second, there are things I strongly suspect. It is this latter—an inescapable conviction—that grabbed me by the heart that morning. I just knew that I knew but not how that these two—knowing and suspecting—would figure in my story. I_ persona _of the theater here. So I make a note of the insight. Whether or not they, the knowing and the suspecting, would become significant I did not know. And of course, that is what I also struggled with: What I did not know, or could not know. Stories never capture it all. But just in case, in the spirit of approximating and saving something I might want to recall later, I have this, what I write here._

Eh-em saw Henry, Hank that is, in the breakfast room that summer morning. They began another short banter, but abandoned it as Susan walked in and gave Hank a serious eye as she nodded toward the door. Without words she said the two had plans beginning now. Susan was a bit older than Hank and dressed like him in cut-off jeans and white t-shirt. She seemed a tomboy hanging out with a pal the same mental age with boyish interests. Older kids were not interesting and shared none of her zeal for "childish" things. Hank did.

Before they left, Eh-em suggested playing catch, a Hail Mary to recall some of his own good times and to get to know these young people. He had an interest in kids, and if someday he were to have a family, he would like to have a Hank and a Susan, and he wished they could wait for him till his time would come.

Besides their business of growing up without Eh-em, these buddies had something to do that day. The three reached a compromise. At four they met at Dot's and had an ice cream. They had a nice chat, at least Hank and Eh-em did. Susan was quiet. She didn't know who this new guy was and why he was buying her an ice cream, but she accepted his treat without expression or comment. The only thing she responded to was a game of catch, "later sometime." That would be okay. Hank and she left the diner together after Hank politely thanked Eh-em.

Eh-em was content and thought nothing more about these somethings that just happened that day for no reason. There was nothing to make of them, he didn't think. He just liked reaching out to these two, and Hank was a nice kid. Susan was a pretty young girl, but that wasn't Eh-em's concern, nor was it hers. It was all about boy stuff.

_There are things you know and things you don't. And you may never. But you may want to make a note, to remember._

*******

Melissa Baker, 30, lived on Baker Street in San Francisco. She was maiden-like, pretty, and wore the nicest all-cotton "rags" in white and pastels that modest money could buy. She introduced herself to the group at the opening session of the retreat as a fellow traveler on a spiritual quest. The Jungian flavor of Three Springs attracted her. She believed in extra-ordinary phenomena and was open to experiencing same and meeting people who were also interested in what she called the esoteric. No one reacted to this expressed interest after she mentioned it as a part of her "profile," a buzzword at the center for the unanswerable question, "Who are you?"

This or was it something else that seemed to put the others off at the retreat? Although the object was not to meet people and open your heart and soul to them right here, right now, Melissa failed to connect at all. The fact that she was less initiator and more absorber probably didn't help. But she had something about her, perhaps her entitled and sensual demeanor. She latched onto Silla at lunchtime on Sunday, a few hours before the final meditation and "friends meeting," a kind of wrap-up of the retreat's casual way of effecting greater openness, a larger space inside in which to welcome new experiences, new people, new insights and knowledge.

"How are you liking this so far?"

"It's almost over. I think I've got all I'm going to get."

"Me, I think it is just a continuation of what I have been trying to do all along, but I don't feel I've made much progress."

"Why is that?"

"I'm probably not demonstrative, you know, open and communicative. I am not too good in groups. It's my own fault."

"Do you feel that this has put pressure on you?"

"Pressure?"

"Well, maybe not pressure. The word I'm looking for is goal, or something. This retreat was supposed to—I'm talking like a brochure now—supposed to lead to more creativity and all of that. Is that what you might be reacting to? The fact that it didn't take, was not a dramatic moment in your life?"

"Whew, you are off on some stuff. Serious girl."

"Ingested or smoked nothing prohibited, I assure you."

"Well, I had a kind of thing happen several years ago, and I closed down. I tried the substance abuse route, but I just felt worse. I have been coming to things like this and thought it would help. Also I have seen a therapist. That has helped me get into what I am not always aware of. Maybe I am where I should be, and baby steps are all that I can look forward to for a while. Till the next drama in my life, which leaves a gaping hole that needs something or someone to fill it."

Silla did not know what to say next, although a door was ajar. For her to walk through meant, she felt it in her soul, she might have to "share." She was not ready with Melissa. Instead she said, "I have enjoyed it, being here."

"The pool is wonderful, but it is hard not to play and splash about when I'm in the pool. Everyone around the pool is like trying to keep the surface of the water smooth and calm. And if you make any noise, people give you these annoyed looks, like what can you be thinking. They should make rules, you know. Around the pool before the heat of the day at eleven or so, quiet. Then it's play time till dinner. After dinner, it should be nude bathing but no talking. Like walking around in the shallow end without the pool light on bumping into each other. Now that's my idea . . ."

"Wow. That would liven things up around here. As a friend of mine used to say, 'If you want to see movement, light a fire'. It's kind of the same thing."

"Yeah, a bit too serious. Where is the joy and fun?"

"I think that would be good feedback to give at our final session."

"You say it. I don't do groups."

"Well, I could. Something like, Melissa and I were talking at lunchtime and she said that this retreat lacks the spice of life. . . ."

"No, no. Not like that. You have to take ownership of your stuff. If you agree with what I said, then you present it as your idea, for future retreats. I am sure they will be able to use . . . "

"No. Not me." Silla felt for the second time that she had transgressed, or not transitioned as she should have in light of what her goal was to relax more around people. "I'm sorry."

"Why? I'm not trying to force you or anything. Remember pressure. Me, no pressure. Bring it on. But sometimes I wish someone would take the initiative with me. Get me goin', you know. Sometimes you need a little push. I'm a follower participant, not the leader or forbid! A facilitator. Otherwise they should pay me. Not to sound too mammonic or something."

"You mean materialistic?"

"Something like that."

"Speaking of, I love your outfit. Is it all cotton?"

"Pretty much. But I have some lacy stuff for a special occasion, if that ever . . . "

"Where do you buy them?"

"I shop for all-cottons wherever. This comes from Saks on Union Square." She pinched her baggy pant leg and held it out to illustrate. "They have a special section that caters to yoga-types and yuppie girls like me."

"I like your lounge pants and soft tops, or is this a yoga outfit? Different colors. May I touch?"

"Sure. My favorites are camis and panties, soft and sexy on the inside and you can wear anything on the outside to hide your inner whatever."

"So soft. They have thick and thin types?"

"Everything. I have a huge collection. My secret wickedness. I don't like the word vice. Obsession would work, though."

"I need thicker things for winters in Upton."

"Upton?"

"North of here about an hour and a half if you go the back roads."

"In the sticks."

"You'd say, if you're from the city."

"Yes I would. Say, you can visit me. I don't think I'm going to find the hunk I'm looking for here or in your woods."

"Never can tell. Once in a while new material shows up."

"Against all odds. I would rather increase my chances with a bigger gene pool." And they laughed as the bell rang three times for the concluding session to begin in the conference room.

"Better go," said Silla, and Melissa followed.

Silla had planned to go to the family astrologer in Vallejo, but she did not feel like driving in that direction and then all the way back to Upton that evening. She'd get home very late if she did. So she asked Ramish and Dave, the retreat leaders, if she could stay one more night in her room and leave in the morning. She wanted to review again where she had placed her photos in the dining hall. In the end, that was where Reverend Tom had said she could hang them. One last time, she promised, before leaving them. She wanted to add titles and contact information should anyone wish to see more of her work. Staying over would save her so much time and energy, and the retreat had actually tired her. She knew why, but that was precisely why she was there. Life and psychological muddles had their way no matter how hard she repressed what nature knew was in her way. The retreat was work.

Melissa sat with Silla at the final session and was quiet as usual during the whole one and a half hours. She was standing nearby and overheard Silla's request for an extra night. She quietly sidled up to Silla and whispered, "Do you think I could bunk with you? I don't want to drive all the way back to an empty apartment today. There's the pool, remember. We haven't had time for a skinny dip all weekend."

"Ask," Silla said.

So Melissa did and Ramish and Dave said that would be okay. The young women could help in the morning by taking out the trash and stripping the beds. The cleaner, Dave's wife, would put their room last on the list. She wouldn't get to it until sometime tomorrow afternoon at the earliest anyway.

"We're roomies," Melissa said.

"Looks like."

Melissa fell silent again after saying she'd move in. She wasn't sure Silla was all that keen on the arrangement.

*******

"On Union Square, is there, or was there a men's shop?"

"Several. Couple of boutiques and of course there are the big name department stores. Why?"

"Just wondering. I have only been to Union Square once, but I don't really know it. Do you have to dress up to go shopping there?"

"Yes and no. Yes, because the city is The City. No, because why else would you go shopping? to get the latest stuff, right? So, not to worry if you go. You can dress however."

*******

Eh-em found a notice taped to his apartment door when he arrived. It was a notice to quit, or the sheriff would be along in a day to remove his belongings. Eh-em was shocked. He had paid his rent and deposit. The deposit was in cash and his rent was on order to be paid by transfer from his San Francisco bank to that of the landlord in Livermore. Bank transfers were a new service in the larger California banks, so something was wrong somewhere, he figured.

Eh-em had left a month and a half earlier to research two other business opportunities, both in Nevada. One a hardware store in Genoa. Not a big enough community to support anything of the kind. And one in Austin. It had possibilities, but the traffic would only be locals. No one drives the loneliest road in America to buy faucet washers or blow-up pool toys in Austin. His travels took him north to Upton just this past week. And now he was back in the Bay Area only to find this annoying problem. He was three months into his monthly rental and now this. With a few things in storage in San Francisco and the rest of his stuff inside this apartment, finding it all on the street. . . well, probably not finding all of it after it sat there for a day and a night. The prospect was worrying.

Problems of the mundane sort can be solved if mundanely. Eh-em called the landlord in Livermore. He was polite but firm. He wanted his rent. Eh-em said that he had set up a bank transfer agreement, and there must have been some mix-up. He would take care of it tomorrow morning first thing. The landlord told Eh-em that he had sent registered letters but that they had been returned. Didn't he get the notices? Did he neglect to pick them up at the post office? Eh-em said he had received nothing but that the landlord might have been using his previous mailing address, the one on the rental agreement. Or did he fail to change his official mailing address from San Francisco to the Hayward apartment at the post office so that his mail would be forwarded? He was very sorry and would look into that also in the morning.

With the landlord frustrated but firm and Eh-em ready to sort out all these things as soon as possible, he remembered. He was moving again, to the country. To what he hoped was a quiet and simpler life. Work, home, and . . . which stopped him. To own his own business, a business he knew something about and that he could manage mostly on his own. Check. To live in a quiet place in beautiful and safe surroundings. Check, unless wild animals prowled or poisonous snakes slithered about. Oh, God. The thought. Is there a crawl space or basement in the house he was renting off Baseline Road? To meet new people who were interesting and could be kept at bay without effort. Check, so far. To have nice acquaintances to socialize with if his social needs could not been fully met by work. Check. To paint, or write, in his leisure time. Check.

What else? Something was missing in the new landscape he was sketching in his mind, and it had to do with people not place or work or safety. What people?

The image of a young spirited woman with olive skin, fine features and loose and flowing skirt crossed his mind before he checked it as accounted for on his mental list. Don't need rejection on top of a dumping when his darling Circe found out he "might have been molested by his gay friends." "Oh, yeah, sure," he heard her say. He could feel her parting swipe mortally scratch his heart and his male pride, although his maleness then he wasn't entirely confident about. Victim, perpetrator, or just reckless experimental subject. He couldn't decide which, and so wallowed in shame for some months, sold his share in the business, and decided to retreat from San Francisco completely to rid himself of a certain self-doubt and a bad taste.

Eh-em sat down at the kitchen table, took out a piece of paper and began writing lists. When the shelves get messed up, you need to organize what's there and take inventory for the next orders . . . in preparation for: Escape. The list included the bank, to pay the landlord; the landlord, to give notice that he would be moving out; Upton and Mrs. Corday, to find out his new address; the post office, to effect address change. And so on till the letter _z._ Zip it. Don't disclose more than necessary till fully "together" and ready.

These things would take more time and organization than Eh-em had planned. Best to clear out of the Bay Area as much as possible on this trip. That will fill the car. Then drive back to Upton with that stuff, leave it in the car for a few days, or see about dropping it off at Cougar Corner. By ten he had a to-do list long enough to take him all week. He went down the block to the Frosties burger place and stuffed himself till he would surely doze off, and so he did upon returning to his apartment.

## Chapter 6: Be my guest

_The dark hazy room obscured the furniture and figures from my position opposite the gossamer curtained window. It was either dusk or dawn, a transition and indeterminate time. A hint of marijuana was it? and then nothing, an odorless translucence enveloped my naked and self-conscious self lying paralyzed on the couch as I saw writhing and twisting movements of unisexuals together._

_Imprisoned within I turn my eyes to look and then look away. Butterflies dance between the bottom of my stomach and my pubis signaling excitement and dread. Dare not, my inner voice silently and slowly articulates, move. I arch my pelvis and touch myself as the two figures glide towards me. They play; they stop; they stare down at me. In unison as one nameless person they lean over me with hands to caress a region I cannot cover or protect . . ._

*******

Silla screamed and sat up. Melissa jumped out of bed, sat on the adjacent bed and put her arm around Silla's shoulder and drew her close. "It's okay. It's okay. Just a dream, Silla. Just a dream."

Silla began shaking her head as if to wrench the images free and rout them out and cast them into the night. Melissa turned the bedside lamp on. "See? Nothing here. It's me. Just me."

"Yes. Yes."

"You okay?"

"I think this retreat brought up some crap. I have these sometimes."

"Nightmares?"

"Yes."

"Here, lie back down. Here next to me. Put your head here."

Melissa lay down in Silla's bed and brought Silla next to her with Silla's head nestled in that space made safe by Melissa's shoulder and neck. "I'll tell you a little story. Not a bedtime story really, but one to get your mind off whatever that was. Sound good? Of course it does.

"Once upon a time there was this young, naive girl. She was about twenty. No, maybe a little older. She had this boyfriend. He was the nicest, most handsome guy around. All the girls wanted to have him as her knight. But he chose me. And I was the happiest girl. I even held it over the other girls, my girlfriends. My knight and I spent all our time together. He was rich. (I only like rich guys. It's my weakness. Genetic my mother says. I say it's practical.) Anyway. His name was Michael. And we did everything together. Inseparable. And we got engaged. Too young, of course. Everything was going just fine till this best friend moved to San Francisco. He was supposed to be our best man. Guy. He was French. And he started calling Michael Michel. You know, French. I didn't think much of it. Not really. And then they started meeting up without me. Guess what? San Francisco, right? If you go to San Francisco, wear flowers in your hair. I know. That was before. But in the 80s, they, the guys, all wore flowers in their hair. The feminine energy was coming out all over. And my Michael did too. I walked in on them in my bed in the flat we shared. Well, engagement off. I was crushed. I mean crushed. Michel moved in with Guy and they are living happily ever after."

Melissa paused and the silence grew pregnant. Then she continued. "Me, I was . . . I guess it's correct to say I was traumatized. What was wrong with me? All about me at that time. Was I too masculine? Did I suggest or show him something he was missing? You know, all kinds of questions like that."

Again silence.

"Are you listening? Are you getting this?"

"Yes. Yes. I am with you. In fact the medicine is working. My nightmare is gone. I'm okay now. But I'm awake. You are supposed to tell bedtime stories that put people to sleep, not wake them up, for goddess' sake."

"Well, never have met other people's expectations. So, can I go on?"

"Yes, do."

"Well . . . well, there is not much left to say actually. I went into therapy. This Jungian woman. She was something else. But she introduced me to myself and this retreat center and here I am. I am working this trauma—trauma I'll call it—through. And I think I have it pretty much managed. Only I can't meet or find another guy, I mean man. Man with a big M, right? So, that should make you feel better. A butch, maybe, who became a bitch—to herself—because her self-image as the best catch for a prince was shattered by her first love she could not have as hers and hers alone, without complications."

Melissa paused and then whispered, "It's hard being me, don't you think?"

"Yes."

"Are you sleeping now?"

"Yes."

In the morning, the young women got up and dressed. Silla once again admired Melissa's cotton undergarments and said she liked the feel of them next to her skin. Melissa offered to take her shopping when she visited in San Francisco. She could even stay at her place if there was still room—she was on the sniff "for a guy, a Man that is." They laughed. And then Silla said with some shame. "That happened to me also. Not exactly the same way. His name is Brian. He lives in Upton now. He came back after spending two years away. He lost his partner there in the city. We are friends."

*******

      Usilla dear,

      It was lovely to visit with you the other
      day. I always enjoy catching up and doing
      readings for your family. I miss your mother,
      but it is best not to dwell on that for both
      our sakes. I thought I would make a record of
      what we talked about.

      Remember, this is my reading for you for this
      year. Refer back to it if you like as the
      year progresses. I have written out the main
      points. Of course, if you have specific
      questions, feel free to write me or stop by.
      You don't need an appointment, as you know.

      Your love life will take a decided turn this
      year. The North Node will move into your
      house of love and romance this winter and
      spend the remainder of the year there. You
      may be shocked by your sudden need to go
      directly from dating to mating. This year
      promises to bring serious lessons in
      friendship, love and partnering. Saturn is
      asking you to get serious about your
      sexuality and how you direct your life force
      in general. As much as you love to flirt and
      evade, you'll gain more if you go deeper with
      just one person.

      Try not to give in to what's comfortable,
      because the real magic happens when you go
      beyond what's familiar and safe. Accidents
      and opportunities sometimes just happen.

      All work and no play was turning you into one
      boring person. (I am so sorry to be so
      direct.) But not to worry, you're learning
      the art of working smarter by getting the
      right people to help you so that you can
      reclaim your lost social life. This is the
      best time to take risks to expand your
      earnings. Think big. If you've been limiting
      yourself to just plugging along and trying to
      make ends meet, Jupiter has come to assist
      you in expanding your moneymaking horizons.

      You'll also be learning a lot through your
      everyday experiences, and magic can happen
      through chance encounters with strangers,
      neighbors and potentially your brother—in
      spirit or biological.

      Best to your father, and joy and happiness be
      with all of you.

      Yours,
      Nahla

What sort of witchery did Nahla possess? So much seemed to have a truth laced in with the foreign, yet there was no magic to speak of. Silla felt her heart was open just a wee bit more, but there was no romantic interest.

_This was neither the first nor the last time that a younger family member unwittingly brought an older sibling and future romantic interest together. This time it was the tiniest blip on the radar that came into focus for me. But I must let other events take place and complications unravel before anyone can see this, if it manifests, which is never certain. No one can predict anything, Nahla's talents notwithstanding. Wait and watch._

Silla's return to Upton ushered in a chain of events. No longer was one thing happening and others at the same time all unrelated, but now one thing gave birth or awareness to the next. It was as if each moment became refulgent with meaning and symbolism. Silla blamed it on the Jungian air of the retreat plus astrology reading. She suspected that being with Melissa might have been the start. Melissa was a comfortable urban subject and Silla a contented rural sister. Complementary. But that idea seemed too preposterous, too contrived for her to acknowledge. Would she even see Melissa again? Even if she didn't, Melissa had figured in some kind of magic that had shifted Silla off her center and opened a space for something or someone.

Silla found the note and manuscript that Eh-em had left for her to read, and read it she did. When she looked for Eh-em and did not find him, she went to Mrs. Johnson and inquired. "Mr. M still checked in?"

"Yes, dear. Said he'd be back in a few days. Fact is, I thought he'd be back by now. Kept his room for him. He paid for it. Private sort of fellow. Keeps to himself during the day. I think he's writing up there. You know, he gave me something to print for you."

"Yes, well I finished reading it. Here it is and I enclosed a few comments. It was interesting. Mrs. J., could you tell me how he spells his surname? M sounds like it's not a real name."

"E-h-e-m, hyphen between the _h_ and _e_. First name Paul."

"Well why didn't he say so? He was such a mystery when I met him. Evasive. What is that about?"

"I think he said it was a Moroccan family name."

"Moroccan? Mysterious foreigner comes to town and rumors have it he intends to settle. But then a little girl disappears and he becomes the prime suspect. Strangers always do . . ."

"Oh, you have an imagination. I'm sure I don't know about missing persons and all of that. He registered as Paul Eh-em and has been quiet and pleasant during his stay. I wish all my guests were as polite and easy as Mr., er, Paul. He came to the barbecue on Saturday, and many people said they enjoyed meeting him and hoped he would settle here in Upton. My understanding is that he plans to. Also something about buying your dad's store. Not the profile of a . . . "

"I was just kidding about Mystery Man. My father and he have been talking. And I find him very nice, maybe too nice."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Just we don't get much new material around here very often."

"No, not really. Oh, I see what you mean. Silla?"

"Say, could I leave some post cards here advertising my work? I know it is across the street, but exposure, you know. Plus something free for guests to use. People like that. Maybe these would get more visitors to cross the street to see my work. I need sales."

"Of course. Now, your brother. He needs something to do besides hang out in my kitchen or play with his friends in the pool. Isn't there something we could do to sort of occupy his time in the summer more constructively? The next one will be here before we know it. I've run out of . . . "

"Sure. Which reminds me, I would like to have a swim one of these days. I can talk with Hank at home . . . he's not lazy, just needs a hobby or a sport or something. I'll put my thinking cap on and talk with him."

"Good. He is always welcome here, you know that. But a child his age, well, he'll be a teenager, and maybe you know, that can be a difficult time. Hormones and girls and hanging about and all that. It would be good to get him involved in something he likes. Photography, perhaps."

"He has shown no interest in that, I'm afraid. We'll think of something. Next summer is really not around the corner. But this one is almost over."

Silla said she would see Mrs. J. later and went back to her studio to develop some shots she captured during breaks at the retreat. People shots. Maybe the center could use some for their promotions or something.

Several days passed and Eh-em had not returned. Mrs. Johnson checked his room, and everything seemed to be in order, and enough personal belongings had been left so that she was sure Eh-em would return when he could. He had paid through that week.

Silla, not wanting the summer to end before she had taken time for herself in the sun, decided to go swimming late Thursday afternoon. She wriggled into her white one piece in the changing corner in the shed at the back of the B and B pool and jumped immediately into the cool water. After thoroughly immersing herself and having laid her head back to gather her wet hair so that it fell down her back and out of her face, she lifted herself out of the pool twisting to land in a sitting position on the pool's edge. She sat there for a few minutes kicking the water with one leg then the other and watching the gentle undulations on the surface of the water. She turned and scooted back and laid on her stomach on the sun-heated deck of the pool. She shivered a little until the brick tiles warmed her all over, and she closed her eyes and drifted into a half-sleep.

Hank arrived with Eh-em in tow. They had met at reception and Eh-em suggested they take a swim. He was hot and tired from a long drive. Thankfully, he told Mrs. Johnson, the Upton traffic was such a relief from the Bay Area. He looked forward to settling in to his new home as soon as possible. Had she been able to contact Mrs. Corday and confirm his intent to rent? She had, and for the moment, Eh-em thought it best to enjoy his vacation of several more days including a dip in the pool and some sun. Hank ran off to change in the tool shed. Eh-em appeared ready in black and white trunks.

A felid figure arrested his gaze. He knew it was Silla and hesitated, not knowing if she was asleep. Should he disturb this creature with the graceful body framed in his view, as if he were seeing her as a living photograph. At that moment he wished he had a camera to turn watching into a study, an observation fixed worth revisiting and painting.

He caught himself staring and dismissed artistic intent and recognized what he saw. The picture of a beautiful girl. And as with life itself these past two years, he didn't know whether to approach or not. After depositing his towel and sun glasses on a nearby chaise, he quietly turned around and went to his room and got his camera. He returned to the pool and sat on a chair across the pool from Silla. Hank was already in the pool splashing around, and upon seeing his sister proceeded stealthily towards her as if a water ghoul. The singular splash up and over the edge of the pool and onto his sister's back brought her upright with a scowl and a pounce. Silla was in the water splashing Hank with a vengeance. When a truce was called, Silla looked up and saw Eh-em with camera focused on her.

"Hey, stop that. Please. My hair."

"Don't worry. It's not for publication. Stay right there."

"No. Henry, stop it. I'll tell your father."

"Tell him what? He's your father too."

"You are tormenting me again."

"Torment is what kids do. It's age appropriate."

"We'll see about that. You need a job."

"Job? It's summer. Eh-em what do you think?"

"What I think is not . . . "

"Important," said Hank, finishing Eh-em's thought for him.

"Oh, really?" said Eh-em.

"Yeah, really." Hank repeated.

"Yes." Silla was offering her two cents. "He's not family yet. I haven't approved. Besides, put that camera away."

"Why? You are always taking pictures. I have never seen you but I know you do. Do you always ask permission?" asked Eh-em.

"I take pictures of things not people. Well, that's not exactly true." She recalled her weekend and the pictures she had recently taken.

"Well, I don't either, usually, but in this case I'm making an exception."

"Don't, please," Silla pleaded as she moved to the stairs at the shallow end of the pool.

"Okay, just one last one. Pose for me. Just one, and I'll stop. I need something to inspire me."

"That sounds naughty."

"It isn't. I'm . . . I do a little painting. You know, with watercolors."

"I thought you were a word person, Mr. Eh-Ah-Hemm."

"It's just like the letter. M," Eh-em corrected.

"But I found out how to spell it, and Mystery Man has become the articulation, no, the incarnation of hesitation and uncertainty. So there." She re-pronounced his name as it was spelled with two syllables.

"There what? There is no mystery."

"You expect me to believe you paint pictures? You're not the type."

"What type do you have to be?"

"Well, not you."

"Check out my car."

"Why should I do that?"

"Yeah, why should she do that?" Hank was weighing in.

"You'll see," said Eh-em with a self-satisfied look.

"Later. First I have to dry off and get out of this wet suit."

"One pose first."

"Can I put a flower in my hair?" Silla was standing on the pool deck by this point, wringing out her thick hair.

"Anything you like."

"You are naughty. Mystery Man and naughty."

"I don't think so." Eh-em shook his head as he cleaned the lens of his camera with the corner of his towel.

"What about me?" asked Hank.

"What about you?" said Eh-em.

"How about my picture?" Hank said as if he were being left out of the fun again.

"Hold still and smile. Not that kind of smile. That's a goony smile."

"Age appropriate," declared Hank.

"I think you are not the quiet little kid I thought you were. Kind of cheeky, I'd say," said Eh-em.

Silla had put a flower in her hair and stood with her back to the shed door, waiting. Eh-em got up and walked over and snapped her picture.

"And what are you going to do with that picture?" asked Silla?

"Use it to paint from. I take photos first and then later use them in my studio. I don't have a studio now, but when I do again."

"And the story you're writing?" Silla had become momentarily compliant and inquisitive.

"An experiment. I don't know where it's going."

"Well, it had better stop with some of the characters you have introduced," Silla warned.

"Characters? Oh, yes. Characters. Yes, there are a couple of characters who are developing nicely. You mean I should stop writing about them?"

"Exactly."

"But I don't know yet if they're interesting or not. How can I just kill them off at the beginning without changing the whole story?"

"It's only the start. Get rid of them or at least me and write about somebody else." Silla appeared firm in her request.

"What do you mean? What are you guys talking about?" Hank was feeling left out again.

"Nothing," both Silla and Eh-em said simultaneously.

Eh-em held the camera to his eye once again. "Hold it right there. You've done this before. That's nice. I think I'll focus on the flower. Composition. Something like that."

"I would like to see it when it is done."

"You can't," said Eh-em.

"Why not?"

"Because you just said to take you out of the story."

"Oh, geez. You're impossible."

"Not really, not when . . ."

But he couldn't finish his sentence. Silla was opening the shed door to change. Eh-em walked back to his place in the sun and put his camera under his towel and jumped into the pool. He and Hank had a short water fight and then quietly soaked in the cool in what was still a hot summer afternoon.

Silla came out after changing and was wrapping her hair like a Hindu maiden emerging from some sacred river. She had the appearance of an Indian, which in fact she was, her dark skin lightened by the genetics of her mother. Eh-em was stunned back into shy reticence and said he'd see her later as she walked off.

"I'm going to check out your car. Which one is it?"

"Be my guest. It's parked in front of your place. Can't miss it, full of stuff."

"Okay," she said as she elongated the _a_ sound.

"You like ice cream, Hens Running?"

"Yeah, Paul." Hank held the _l_ note longer than Paul's short name warranted.

"Let's go after we swim."

"Okay."

*******

"Surprise, surprise. Mr. Paul has some pictures here. Can't quite see too well, but not bad. Not bad." Silla turned after looking in the car window and unlocked her studio and entered.

## Chapter 7: Evasions and revelations

Silla entered her studio and checked her answering machine and began organizing last week's negatives on her light table. She had developed the film from the retreat and so began viewing these pressing the celluloid strips down flat on the table with two straightedges. Her thoughts turned to what had just happened at the pool and all the impressions she had from last weekend. Was she making room for something or someone?

Nice guy. Nice looking, she thought, and then she turned her attention back to the film strips before her. She noticed she had taken a number of portrait-like shots, candid, a look or a pose caught unawares. This was not typical for what caught her interest. Even before her astrological reading, was she noticing people and their expressions more? In sum, different moments caught for show, preservation, or the bin.

You flirted. You definitely flirted, she said to herself. With someone you hardly know. Would hardly know without coaxing. You bared an embarrassing episode in your life with Melissa after she bared her scar to comfort you. And although Eh-em disclosed almost nothing of himself, there you were revealing yourself, even posing. He would be around and you will see him. He will live out near Brian. Will you visit Melissa in San Francisco? Ghosts and demons along with saints and angels . . . no. No plans or further meetings seen from this perspective.

These thoughts and questions refer to nothing, just words silent and hidden inside and the exercise pointless. Never would mean anything.

No one can be confined to a box and be just so, the way they were back sometime then or the way you wanted them to be now and always, she rationalized. Not even in these moments I see before me in black and white. There are no gods on this earth, or in men's clothing. And there are those gods and goddesses of a different order, when they come down from some heaven somewhere and in human form they are lesser gods, and they tempt and entice you, get you to do things you wouldn't normally do, or they change your focus or type you and you believe in this new but false you.

As Silla was reviewing her work and having conversations with herself, on the edge of the pool so was Eh-em. He wondered if he should continue writing or go back to his watercolors after he got settled. He thought lyrically and wrote idly in his notebook, and then he composed a reflection as if a mirror of his current dilemma.

~~Caught between old ways and new, always the case, knowing what to do.~~

But this dilemma was not new.

If the photo of Silla was a good likeness, he'd keep it. The moments bantering with her were the most energizing he had had in a long while. They were a memory worth keeping, and her picture could have such a power as to call the time again and the experience, a private treasure for him, him alone. The photo was a key to unlock a memory and a smile. He felt expansive and a surge of confidence filled his heart, or was it just some flow of testosterone?

Henry said he was ready. "But you're still in your bathing suit," said Eh-em.

"It's summer."

"What would your father say?"

"Nothing. He's working. We can get ice cream at Dot's."

"Let me get dressed. I'll be back and meet you here," said Eh-em.

"Okay."

*******

Eh-em retrieved his overnight bag from his car in front of Silla's studio. The studio had a sign on the door saying it was closed. Eh-em walked across the street and into the B and B. Mrs. Johnson gave him the package that Silla had returned. He walked upstairs and unlocked the door to his room. He placed his bag on the luggage stand and turned to the letter desk. He took the package, opened it, and examined the contents. There he found his work. The pages were empty of notes or questions. Apparently Silla had read his story, however. There was a handwritten note on top of the few pages he had printed for her. What stood out among her comments was an admonition not to associate her with anything feline. Well, if he continued writing, he would honor that, although he did not understand the objection.

The image in his mind, as clear as it could be, was intensity and strength—the puma at the shelter watched him. He was prey for her. He was vulnerable, a potential victim. It was about him, not Silla. What he was about with his story was egocentric, and the idea of "his story" preposterous. Continuing the Silla-puma conceit now held an ontological barrenness. He would drop it. He would continue his story and resolve Silla or the puma or both as soon as convenient.

Danger does not come from women but a particular woman, or a particular type. Should he be afraid of this sparkling life form he had taken a picture of and had conversed with so pleasantly? Although personal history said yes, his heart said no. He fell back into his patterned response in his vaguely visualized life in a new place: wait and see. But the picture of Silla would be his alone.

Which brought up the question, seemingly and incongruously on the back instead of a front burner: Hardrey's Hardware. Although Eh-em had made a decision to live in Upton, he had not included or crossed out the first and only practical thing that mattered, the return on the investment of savings and time and talent in a new business. Would it afford him enough to make it in Upton and then some? He must re-double his efforts to get prices out of Patta. Spending capital for living could not justify itself. Without other resources or people to rely upon, eventually you run out of survival's wherewithal, or so was Eh-em's fear. Tomorrow he needed to get Patta to declare what he was offering. They then could work out what Patta would be willing to take. Also he had to see Mrs. Corday and give her the deposit on the house at Cougar Corner. Not to forget that.

But it was time for ice cream.

*******

Until dinner called for another visit to Dot's, Eh-em thumbed through his notebook and reviewed his last entries. He then put a clean sheet of paper into his Hermes portable and began catching up on the story. He had a lot to report, so by six—the time went by so quickly—he was hungry and ready to see a familiar face again.

Dolly at Dot's fit his mood. He thought of himself as soon-to-be regular. She was reliably and judiciously communicative and shined like an unselfconscious star. On his way to dinner he stopped by the hardware store and saw Patta closing up. He asked him if it would be okay to talk again about the business the following morning. Patta said he would be ready for him.

At ten the next day Eh-em walked into the hardware store and noticed a sale on folding aluminum chairs. He would have to replace the nice wooden ones on his future porch, which were newly painted and fit the space nicely. He was sure they belonged to the current tenants. Something inexpensive would have to do until he could replace the more sturdy and attractive wooden ones. They went well with the character of the place and his idea of country living. Pitty they would not be there for him to use. The store was empty but for Doug behind the cash register working at the computer and Patta up on a ladder adjusting a banner announcing the end-of-summer sale. Summer stuff had to go; fall and winter items were arriving. Patta turned and saw Eh-em, and cautiously backed down the ladder.

"I think I should tell you straight out. I've decided not to sell. I am not that old, and besides what would I do? I'm sorry you came all the way up here to find out I have changed my mind."

The declaration and fast open and close of the topic took Eh-em aback. He lamely inquired, "Oh. What made you change?"

"I thought I would not be able to keep up, getting older and all of that. But I'm only sixty-one. When I start to slow down I can take on help or a partner. I don't need a bunch of cash and end up sitting in a fake leather recliner dozing off. Not me. Not yet."

"I see."

"But I do need some cash. This place needs a few things. Imagine a hardware store needing repairs with everything to repair it under roof already. Which would be the first thing."

"What?"

"The roof. There is a leak. You can see it upstairs in the attic. There is a bucket under it right now from last winter. Come this winter and the rainy season, I'd like to have that fixed. There are also some expensive things to replace in inventory, like a couple of power generators and a gas-powered log splitter. Some other things too. I am really sorry about this."

"Don't be." Eh-em's tone of voice leaked disappointment.

"I didn't really think this thing through until you showed up and asked me all about the business. You have been the only serious one in over a year. But I think what I have decided is best."

"I don't know what to say." In fact, Eh-em didn't know what to do. He immediately thought of his cute abode in the country and that moving there was perhaps unwise.

"I am sorry I made you come all the way here. I have a couple of ideas for you, though."

"Yes?"

"Well, the annex next door. I own it. It was used as a car repair garage. It isn't really necessary if I just want to keep the store the same size. I just use it for some storage right now. That is for sale, or I could rent it to you. You could have a gallery, kind of like Silla's, only for your paintings."

"She told you about . . . "

"Sure. She tells me lots of stuff. When Hank's mother died, Silla sort of became like his mother, took care of him. And she tried to comfort and protect me. She grew up faster than she should have and didn't carve out much of a life for herself, except for her photography. She says you're a pretty good artist."

"Well, that idea is interesting, but I'm not sure. I was sort of visualizing myself in the hardware business."

"I'm afraid I can't offer that now. I am truly sorry."

"Okay. Time for me to think about this. Well, not this. What I'm going to do. Say . . . hi to Hank and Silla for me. Maybe I'll see them later."

Patta regretted how Eh-em took the news as he watched him walk slowly to the door, open it gingerly, and walk through and out and under the covered storefront. Eh-em stopped and looked at the chairs on sale and then at the other items brought out to attract traffic on a late August morning. Then he walked off in the direction of the elementary school.

Eh-em reached the school yard and recalled the game of catch with Hank and Susan they'd talked about having. The school yard was one-third paved and two-thirds dirt with scattered patches of sun burnt wild oats, their seeds long gone. There could have been a baseball field there, it was that big. Maybe with a track around it and a fence with a Hardrey's Hardware sign on it as a sponsor for the field or a team. Now he felt that would never be, not without someone to take the initiative and get parents and kids organized. Upton needed a ball field of some kind. And teams. No, there would be no teams or mascots nor would he be involved. He had no children and no role he could see in Upton.

Eh-em never thought of exhibiting his watercolors much less putting prices on them. It was kind of like his writing, just a personal pastime because he liked seeing things in different ways and somehow grabbing them and holding them still and then letting them go. He doubted that if he owned gallery space and showed his work, there would be enough income to keep the place open much less pay expenses. Maybe his story too was coming to an end.

"Hey, what ya doin' there?" It was Dolly.

"Sitting and daydreaming. You caught me. I must look a little distracted."

"Now that you mention it, you been smoking or somethin'? You had this kind of stare."

"Naw, quit."

"Sign of maturity. Once you leave the pleasures of youth you're over the hill and no fun anymore. That you?"

"Me? I guess. I had a little disappointment just now."

"Silla's not interested, right?"

"No, nothing like that. Mr. Hardrey doesn't want to sell his business and I was counting on that and settling here in Upton."

"You can still settle here. Just need to find something to feed yourself. Can you cook?"

"For myself, why?"

"Clarence is always threatening to quit and sell the diner. Says there's not enough business to keep the place open. He gave me the day off. Said he could manage by himself one or two days a week for a while. Saturdays are usually busy, so I wonder how he's going to do it today."

"Well, I'm not a cook and not looking to get into the restaurant business. I know nothing about it. My luck someone would order something and get sick and die."

"Oh, you are in a mood. Douglas gets like that sometimes. I have to kick him in the butt to get him back on track. You want me to kick your butt?"

"Definitely not."

"What about Silla?"

"What about her?"

"Pretty girl, right? She could kick your butt."

"Yes. Very pretty. And no, I don't want her kicking me in the rear."

"So?"

"So what? I hardly know her."

"Well, get a move on. She's had only one boyfriend that I know of and that didn't work out very well. Spends too much time telling her brother what to do and taking pictures of things. She needs people, somebody her age, before it's too late."

"Too late? She's young."

"Not that young. She is mid-twenties, and you know what that means."

"Yeah, it means she's not my age and everything's fine, thank you."

"You're not. Could have fooled me. I thought you were younger."

"And I'm getting older pretty fast sitting around here. I need something to happen."

"Well, I've told you what I think. Learn to cook, buy Dot's, change the name, get some different food in there, Mexican would be good, hire me as your assistant manager. I'll get you fixed up."

"I hope I don't need fixing."

"You know, take care of your business for you. I'm dependable."

"And friendly, which counts for a lot."

"Yes, it's better to smile than go about grousing all the time. So are you out of your mood or do I have to set you up with my dealer?"

Eh-em looked at her with mild shock.

"Just kidding. But you know they grow that stuff in the woods around here."

"I didn't know. Besides, been there, done that."

"Oh. Well in that case you know what you are missing. I don't."

Dolly, Dorothy, continued for a few minutes giving advice, but Eh-em was not much interested. Soon he was left alone with his thoughts, which turned to optimism about life in general and finding a way to be in Upton. There seemed to be options he had not thought of yet, or that had not materialized. He tentatively resolved to rent the house and find a way to make ends meet without spending too much of his savings. Upton seemed a better place than those he had driven through or considered recently. And better than some places like Hayward. Here he could see himself staying and living. Dolly's friendship—was it?— helped.

Then there was Silla. Eh-em wanted to have the picture he took of her developed as soon as possible. He felt that he needed to study her face. He wanted to know that face and who that person was deep down. Come this week, he would drop off the film at Center Drug and have prints made.

But as the next opportunity presented itself, he balked. Although her studio was open as he approached his car parked in front, he just got into the car and moved it into the shade of the cottonwood next to the B and B driveway. He got out, locked it again, and went inside to his room. He began writing and got immediately stuck. There was nothing to write about. He had caught up with recounting his experiences, except for the morning's disappointment, and could not think of anything worth saying. When depressed or slightly down, a sure remedy, or escape, was a nap. And that is how Eh-em spent the afternoon, sleeping and lying on his bed reading. Dorothy's therapy had worn off, and he didn't know quite what to do with himself. He had successfully managed his affairs in the Bay Area and crossed the figurative and literal bridge and headed north, but his destination, he was unsure where that should be now. He thought he might need a little more evidence for and against Upton.

_Vacillator!_

Saturday's barbecue at the Mrs. J's saw a bigger crowd than the last one he attended. More guests had checked into the B and B, and several townspeople that Eh-em had not met arrived with children, who immediately jumped into the pool. There indeed were a lot of children of elementary school age, which meant young families and a prosperous community, or at least an antidote to the ills of paved life in other parts of California, not to mention forlorn parts of Nevada. Patta and Hank were not present, but Silla arrived as the first burgers were coming off the grill.

It appeared to Eh-em that she was avoiding him. There was no reason she should be there just to see him. This was her town, people she knew, her place. She said hello to all except Mrs. Johnson's guests, and then she proceeded to greet and begin conversations with them. Eh-em for his part introduced himself to a few couples and met their children, whose attention span was frequently broken when seeing other children they knew and had to chase into the pool. By the time Eh-em had finished his burger and second beer, Silla approached with a shy smile on her face.

"Hello."

"Hello."

"Well, the elephant in the garden is reminding me to express my, my, what can I say? My inside knowledge about . . . no, that's not it. My chagrin? I don't know. I know my father has decided not to sell the store and you were the only prospect. You came all the way here from, from somewhere, to investigate the, er . . . and you find there is nothing. Are you disappointed?"

"I've had a few hours to get used to the idea. Where is Hank and your father? I thought they might be here."

"They're home. We see a lot of Mrs. J., so we don't need to eat all her food every Saturday."

"I see."

"You don't want to talk about it," Silla sensed. "I would be disappointed. You were going to rent that house, too."

"I don't want to talk about it. I want to talk about you."

"Me? What for?"

"Where have you been? What have you been doing? How's business? Who was the guy you were involved with? Do you take pictures of people? not portraits but candid shots?"

"Whoa. Whoa. Why this great interest? I can assure you my life is pretty boring. Let's talk about you. Where do you come from?"

"It looks like we are in competition as to who will win getting the other to talk."

"By my count I have lost twice already. Maybe three times. I don't remember. It is my turn to grill. Paul." Silla verbally underlined his given name with a knowing stare at him.

"I see. Grill away."

"Where do you come from?"

"I have a better question."

"Here we go again."

"No, this will be helpful."

"I'm yours to be helpful," Silla quickly replied.

"That's encouraging. Now, should I rent out by Baseline Road or not? What else can I do here in Upton to support myself?"

"Don't go into the gallery business. Or at least photography. I don't do that well, and frankly, I would hate you if you were my competition, in business that is. I haven't decided yet about anything else."

"I'm serious. I don't know what to do. I have spent three months at least trying to find where to be and what to do."

"Some people do that all their lives."

"Yes, I know. You don't have any suggestions?"

"Well, you kind of spring, sprunged, springed this on me. I am not prepared."

"Sorry."

"No, I just need to think a little." After a moment, she began questioning. "First, do you like it here, Upton? The people, the climate, the countryside. All of that."

"Yes, especially some people." Eh-em waited.

"Okay. You could have another clothing shop. We need one, but you would have to carry men's and women's clothes, children too, to make it."

"Nope. Not interested. Did that."

"Okay. Do you want to live in town or the country?"

"Depends. But I think I would like the country."

"So would I, but there are complications with that. Let's see. Ever thought of farming or having a vineyard?"

"No experience, and never really had the inclination. Not animals either, like cows or something."

"Okay. Let's think stages. Like you do something at first then move into something else and then something else. Like that."

"Like what, for firsts."

"Well, you could . . . you could hang some of your pictures in my studio and try to sell them. That wouldn't take much of your time. And keep us from competing. While they are there selling like hot cakes, you could be starting something else. Like . . . like, I don't know, help me. What are you good at?"

They talked for an hour between potato salad and a second burger for Eh-em and a burger and macaroni salad for Silla. They had no solution to Eh-em's dilemmas, although by talking about them with Silla, he felt much better and more optimistic. He also felt alive and excited around her. And it was a different feeling than with Dolly. As for Silla she felt a warm glow, that glow that comes from nurturing and sharing herself with someone who listened and was alive. She got the sense that her astrologer was onto something, not a prediction but a kind of path she might be on. It felt right.

So by a series of evasions and small revelations, whereby neither Silla nor Eh-em satisfied any details of consequence about each other, they became more and more comfortable with each other. And as the evening came to a close and the townspeople and guests slowly helped clean up and return to their homes and rooms, Silla and Eh-em said good night. Eh-em would select some pictures he had brought with him in the car to hang in Silla's studio in the morning.

## Chapter 8: Palpabilities

Russ coughed till he thought his guts would beat a path from the depths to the back of his throat, and then he'd have to swallow very hard or expectorate disgustingly. After the bout passed and in the cloud of smoke that filled his living room, he settled back into his overstuffed chair, threw his head back and cursed the effect he blamed on smoking. After a moment he looked down at the paraphernalia and books scattered about his feet. It was morning and time to get busy doing something, but as the thought passed, the stupor he felt grew exponentially as his personal stash dwindled. The day would progress like that, and half-carved figures and reliefs would see another day without feeling the chisels that liberated them from the chunks and slabs of oak, cherry, and birch that held them.

*******

Today was the first day that Eh-em could get into his new home to begin readying it for move-in. His first task was to empty the car and assess how much work he had to do. Silla watched from her studio door as Eh-em got in to drive to his new digs. They said good morning to each other, and he thanked Silla for the previous evening. He really enjoyed getting to know her. And perhaps later today they could have dinner together at Maud's Country Chicken and Steak House, or just a drink if she liked, at Ben's Bar. He had not been there yet, and wondered if was it any good. Silla begged off, saying Sundays were when she, her father, and Hank had dinner together. During the six-day week that the store was open, there was never time. Either Hank and she ate alone, or each grabbed something and ate separately. Summer evenings were particularly iffy. The daylight kept Hank out playing with friends or helping at the B and B. Patta didn't feel like eating much on summer eves. The weather was his excuse, said Silla. But Sunday was sacred, a time to sit together, share a meal around four or five, and talk. Eh-em said he understood and mentioned maybe he'd grab some groceries at Penny Market and have a picnic in his new yard. Silla looked hopeful for an invitation to begin after the family ritual, but it didn't come. They parted with a nebular see-you-later, although Eh-em mentioned he would be happier sooner than later. He would work with her tomorrow on hanging selected watercolors in her studio, which he left in a corner of her work space next to the darkroom.

As Eh-em drove the short distance to Cougar Corner, he tried to recall Silla's face. The contour of her lips, the slope of her nose, the color of her eyes, how she combed her hair. He had the clear idea that he could recognize her now anywhere, but he was stumped for details. Her face was a kind of blur in his mind, and this disturbed him. How could it be that an image of a face he knew and found interesting and attractive could not be reproduced in his mind? In fact, was that the way it was for him for anyone he knew and recognized? He thought it was, and a kind of conundrum. It certainly provided a rationale for taking pictures for paint re-presentation later.

As he played with these questions, he thought of his watercolors. He liked taking pictures of scenes he found intriguing or interesting. The paintings were never exact representations of those places and things but approximations. For one reason, he was not skilled at painting realistically or naturalistically, nor was he interested in doing so. More important for him were the feelings and tones and nuances. And he was quite satisfied once he had captured these intangibles on his cold-pressed papers. The works, as he called them, were not painted to be sold but to capture and hold something, to express something more than a bare image. He would have to change his outlook now if he sold his work, or keep it the same but acknowledge that once produced and mastered, he could let the moment go if someone else wanted to own and view it. Why not? He had enough works he liked that he wanted to keep—to live with and look at. These before long, though, he could let go of, he thought. They were tiny monuments of moments past after all. Perhaps he could do more people pictures. He would need more photos and probably permission for taking them. But then there was that re-presentation issue. Would he do with people-pictures what he had done with the feeling-tones of places and buildings?

Could Silla help him? It seemed unlikely. She was into nature and black and white. Hers was a different medium and mindset, probably. As he drove up to the front of his house he concluded that they would have something to talk about the next time they got together.

The house was not in bad shape. A superficial cleaning had been done, so there would be a thorough one, which he fully expected to do, to suit his standards. Repairs appeared minor and not many. But the painting of the mundane kind was another matter. The house interior needed brightening, and it could use accent walls, or perhaps decorative trim. He wasn't sure yet, and decided to let that problem clarify as he walked around and surveyed each room carefully. Where would he do his watercolors? where just chill and let the quiet days in the country pass? would he have such days? He had no objection to work for money, and he wanted his own business; but what would that be now? His alternative might now be plural instead of singular: not the hardware store as planned but a series of things to meet expenses. Eh-em felt a slight panic taking hold. To relieve it the best approach would be to keep moving and move in. Settle first things first. He stepped out onto the front porch again. With no place to sit he stood on the top step and surveyed the yard and garden and then the road on the other side of the hedge where his car was parked. Ah, the country. Refreshing.

"Hey, neighbor." It was Russ and his dog. Eh-em descended the steps from the porch and walked to his entry gate.

"I haven't anything to offer. Just got here. I'd offer but the house is empty, totally."

"Where are you living right now?"

"In fact I am at your mother's place in town."

"My mother's? Of course. We were just out getting some air and supervising the help on the estate. This is about as far as we get these days. Not much energy. But it's a beautiful day."

"Is the weather always this nice?"

"Nope. Winter can be cold and wet. Till March. Then it gets nice again. The spring is the best time of year. New growth. Place comes to life."

"How big is your estate?"

"About an acre, but I can use the land around me. It's all fenced. The owner is never here. He says I can walk and do whatever I like. Walk, hunt. I can even grow things."

"So estate is ironic."

"Yes, but I had you there for a minute. I have nothing really. Just the house and land immediately around it. Nothing valuable. Me and the dog. Nothing that nobody would want. But be careful, when your house is empty or people think it is, they can come around and steal stuff."

"Should I be afraid of that?"

"Just a caution. They want things they can sell. Not hurt anyone. But funny thing happened three or four years ago. A family was living here and some guys came. They were sneaking around trying to find a way in when a cougar jumped from the roof onto one of them. Got him around the neck before the other guy could chase him off. So that is why this place is called Cougar Corner. It's not an official name or anything."

"What happened after that?"

"Well, the people came home and found a dead guy and his buddy. Police came and took him. So that's how the story got out. I didn't pay much attention, but I watch out for my dog. Haven't seen a cougar around here since, not even scat or sign."

"That's still a bit unnerving."

"Look at it this way. He got the bad guy. Just like in books."

"Well, that's one way of looking at it, but I hardly . . . "

"Don't tempt fate. I know what I'm talking about. Tempt her and she'll bite back, or kill you."

"You sound like the Cougar Corner philosopher."

"I am. I'm a reader, too. And this is my Socratic student." Russ pointed to Killer. "We talk about this stuff together all the time. He doesn't say much. Quiet student, which is ideal I guess. Which reminds me, gotta go."

"Oh, well, it is nice to talk with you. See you around, Socrates?"

"That works. But I like Russ just fine. He's the one I can't get rid of so I just come to accept him."

Russ strolled back down the road with a cough or two towards his house. Killer followed.

Eh-em's sense of his abilities to assess people was shaken. First impressions did not count. This Russ, whoever he was, held a kind of allure he did not see at first. This quality was playful thinker. He was bright and thoughtful, even communicative. Perhaps not entirely open, but more so than a first impression. Mrs. Johnson's son? He had her kindness, he was sure. He did not have her sadness. Both were reticent in going too far in sharing details. Were they close? in contact? Did she visit him, or he her?

_I can't answer all the questions I have._

The house called. Eh-em could move in in a few days, and he wanted to get started preparing the place. As he re-entered, he looked up to the roof. Nothing there but dead leaves which probably would clog the gutters and down-spouts come the first rain. Best clean them before the season changed.

*******

The phone rang at the Hardrey's and Silla answered. A familiar voice but one Silla could not put a name to asked, "What is your address?" Silla gave the information, and the caller quickly hung up without identifying herself.

Life presents things with explanations, or we have to make up the explanations. In both instances we are often the true butt of fate's joke, because explanations have more to them than the comprehensiveness and facticity we give them. Reality is more complicated and more interesting. Then there are the things we never get to the bottom of. Perhaps we never will.

Fortunately, this phone call was not one of these, for within a few days a package came from San Francisco. The box was wrapped in kraft paper with brown hemp string tied around in knots that Silla had to cut. The unwrapped box revealed it was from Saks. The white tissue papers on the inside held a carefully folded white cotton camisole with simple lace trim and a pair of cotton, bikini-style panties in the same color with the same trim. A matching set. The enclosed greeting the size of a business card said, "Enjoy" with a phone number beneath in parentheses. The signature looked like Melissa, and Silla knew it could only be her. Silla fingered the material of the camisole and held it up to her cheek. It was thin and soft. Perfect for summer. So, so pretty. Silla knew that such feminine wear was meant to be seen. She wondered if it was Melissa or someone else who was meant to see her in this and only this.

*******

Eh-em worked until about nine that evening cleaning and preparing the different rooms for painting, which he would start the next day. He took a short break around seven and had sourdough French bread, Italian dry salami, cheap red wine from a screw-top bottle, and some dark chocolate. The first meal in his new home would be a symbol of the life to come, one full of simple yet special pleasures. When he got back to his lodgings at Mrs. J.'s, he took a quick shower. With the window open near the letter desk, he wrote notes in his notebook, and then began writing his story again. The typewriter would be too noisy, although he had no idea whether or not there were any other guests on that Sunday evening. By midnight he was in bed ready for deep sleep after a productive day.

*******

Wet dreams for males are reminders that nature will have her way; the same for females signal that a vague figure will have his (or her) way. Tension begs release, and the tension itself often can be traced to a kind of sensuousness in a series of events in the hours or days before. For Eh-em, that chronology included a stealthy threat, an eye-full of beauty, an increase in testosterone, and something in the air, a particularly lovely scene or scent. Silla's attentiveness to Eh-em's decision to stay in Upton also probably helped. For Silla it was more straightforward—as a result of intimacies shared, someone to care about if not care for; spending time with people you know and like on a summer's eve, food and drink, a panoply of nature's bounty included; and presents, delicious personal presents from people who knew just what you wanted. A healthy self interest always playfully sings along with nature's ways as we receive gifts in the form of boxes in the mail, or attention from someone we find in some way special.

For Eh-em his maneuver to change his life by location was now palpable with each hesitation that gave way to decision and its effects. For Silla her opening came in degrees as she noticed her experiences more and more and allowed herself to be less the artist and more the friend.

Silla was not in her studio the next morning when Eh-em stopped. He left a note on the door saying he would drop by the next day to see if that would be more convenient to help organize his contributions to her exhibition space. Before returning to work on his house, he went for coffee at Dot's. Repeated pleasant times reinforced his will to be here now and nowhere else, like some vague and foreign somewhere where he'd have to find and nurture such experiences as he had found and realized he was having here. He had resolved to start again but not after the decision on this place. He was fully present he realized in a process already underway.

*******

The little blue Honda—the one that puttered—made its way down the dirt road from Baseline past Eh-em's empty house and stopped in front of Russ's. Silla got out and quickly covered the distance from the road to the front door under the overgrown porch. She knocked with urgency, impatient for the door to open. Inside she could hear Brian coughing. Between coughs, he called, "It's open."

"How are you doing?"

Between coughs, Brian said he was in bad shape. The cough was producing blood, and sometimes he could not stop. Silla looked around the living room and saw signs of Brian's having smoked recently—"for medicinal purposes," he always claimed. There were piles of reading materials of all sorts. She asked the obvious. "Are you still smoking?"

"Sometimes."

"You have to stop. That is at least part of your problem."

"But it calms me down. It's better than what they gave me to take . . . makes me sick."

"What can I do right now for you? I hate to see you like this."

"Just sit with me for a while." He got up from his chair and moved to the couch, shoving off old newspapers and magazines onto the floor to make space for two. They always seemed to accumulate just there.

"Okay," he said as he patted a cushion for Silla to sit down. They sat quietly together, Silla's hand on Brian's shoulder.

"Better?"

"A little."

"I'm sorry, Brian, but you have to do something about this. In fact, stop growing. You are still . . ."

"I need the money."

"You don't, if you asked for some help. Or did more of the work you're good at."

"I can't."

"You can."

Ignoring the obvious practical change of career path, Brian said, "You know I can't. You know what she said. My father never knew."

"I don't know anything about any of that. You left for two years and came back. And things were different. I never got details from you or your mother."

"Different with us?" asked Brian.

"Not with us. That was over and we are very clear about all of that. I am talking about with your mother. And coming here to be a hermit and live on what?"

"I have Killer."

"He doesn't count. I'm talking about normal work and people. Even me. You have shut yourself off from my family even and your friends."

"There aren't friends. Not after I came out."

"Well, I think you never tested that. I am sure most would stick by you no matter what if you would only let them. I did. But you only call me now when you get into some crisis like this."

"I am not in crisis. I just needed someone to be with me. I thought I was going to die."

"Let's talk about what you can do to help yourself if you get in a jam. Do you think we should go to the clinic?"

"No."

"You have friends you don't even know, but that seems to be a closed subject or something."

"The only friends I have are those who want crop."

"That's not true. They aren't friends, for one. And for two, I don't want to argue with you about your real family and friends. We've been through that. Besides, am I chopped liver? I'm here."

"Chopped liver. That's good. Where did you get that, some Jewish deli?"

Silla didn't answer and just looked at him with affection and irritation all rolled into true fondness. They had covered the ground before. She was no longer Brian's girlfriend. They had figured that out before Brian went to San Francisco, and they learned to love each other as two human beings can. But Silla felt an energy, a force inside her to move on; Brian had shut down and was determined to stay put, in shame or guilt or alienation, he didn't know. Until this sickness took him, until he got into stronger medication and drugs to manage, what was the point? Silla saw the question clearly. Brian, now Russ, well, he probably didn't. It was a day-to-day thing with him. For Silla there was a future. Russ did not believe there was such a thing. He sat back on the couch. He was breathing normally. The coughing spell had subsided. He was calm.

"When you called, did you have something like a panic attack?"

"I guess so. " After a moment's thought he said, "I didn't want to be alone."

"I know. Have you thought about moving back into town?"

"No. That doesn't feel right. I like it here."

"But you are alone here. I know the dog, but there are no people."

"The new tenant down the way. I saw him yesterday. He seems nice."

"He is I'm sure. But that is not what I'm talking about."

"I know."

"Well, what should we do now?"

"I think I am better." He didn't seem convinced. "Yes, I'm better," he said trying to reassure himself.

"I'll stay for a while. I'll make lunch. How about that?"

"I don't have much in the house. Maybe nothing."

Silla checked the fridge and the pantry in the kitchen. Having found nothing to make into a proper lunch, she came back into the living room. "I'll go and get some things and be back. Okay?"

"Stay just a bit longer."

"Right."

After a while, when Brian said he'd just doze off for a bit, Silla slipped out and drove back to town and the grocery store. She picked up some groceries and returned in forty-five minutes. A curious neighbor, forewarned about thieves, wanted to know who was traveling the dirt road. He saw Silla's car going from the direction of Russ's and returning a while later. He wondered what that was about, except that it explained a missed appointment that morning.

*******

Eh-em saw that he could move in as soon as he had a bed, linens, more clothes to wear, and kitchen stuff, pots, pans, dishes, utensils. Moving out of the B and B and into his home as soon as possible became a measurable objective, in one or two days at most. Then he could focus more on other matters like how to support himself besides selling his paintings, which had never had a market test. He was not confident this something he played at and passed the time doing would produce much in the way of ready cash.

Secure oneself with food and shelter, and then mount the climb for self realization. That could. . . .

_I am playing an academic game with myself. It is mere amusement, but at the same time the principles have validity. They have a palpability in this situation. But why waste time?_

Eh-em's reveries tapered off as he focused on when to make the final trip to San Francisco to clear out his stuff in storage.

## Chapter 9: Hot and heavy?

Eh-em stayed late into the evening to finish painting the accent walls of light gray and merlot. He then cleaned up and prepared materials to pick up brush and roller in the next day or so to finish the job. There was not much left to do, but he had run out of energy and white paint. He also needed a step ladder to reach the ceiling in the bedroom. As he got into his car and drove off in the dark back to Upton, he decided to stop at the hardware store before his return. He pulled out from the front of his house and drove the mile to the junction with Baseline Road. From there he turned onto the two-lane highway and headed back to Upton. He should be back at the B and B in ten to fifteen minutes except his station wagon surged twice and the engine stuttered and died. Within a hundred yards the car rolled to a stop. Eh-em steered it as far to the right as he dared in the dark, not sure there was much shoulder. He was out of gas. The gauge said so, and he concluded the same when he thought about how far he had driven since filling the car last.

The two-lane highway to and through Upton was not a busy road. Although it connected several towns in the county and was a country arterial that no one could do without, it was a lonely stretch late in the evening. Eh-em sat in his seat and wondered what to do next, and why hadn't he noticed that the trip from Hayward and the several trips to and from Upton to his house had drained the gas from the car's tank? The reserve, he thought, should have taken him miles and miles, but assumptions can prove wrong. He was stuck. Walking back to the house made no sense. There was nothing there, not even a bed to sleep on. Walking to Upton, well, that would take longer than he cared to contemplate, but it was the only alternative. He hoped for a late night traveler going his direction.

He began walking and his car was soon out of sight behind him. The road was straight to just this side of Upton where it curved this way and that before delivering traffic to town's edge where Maud's parking lot reserved for guests marked the city limit. Eh-em rounded the first curve on the final approach. It had taken him how long to get this far? And thankfully he met no nocturnal creatures; but unthankfully no one drove his way to give him a ride. His thoughts wandered to and fro, but mostly he focused on where to walk on the road should some car happen along. When one did it was anticlimactic. He was about a quarter mile from his destination.

Silla stopped ahead of him on a short stretch between two gentle curves and waited. By the time her car stopped and sat there idling, Eh-em knew who it was.

"Hop in, stranger."

"Thanks. What took you so long?"

"I, I was visiting a friend out your way. I thought you could take care of yourself."

"Apparently not. I ran out of gas. I left my car back there."

"I saw as I drove past. I didn't know if I would be lucky enough to rescue you."

"Hell, I was hoping someone would."

"Would you like to get out and wait for someone else?"

"No, no. You have me in your debt, again."

"Again?"

"Well, you threw a lifeline to me the other evening. I am thankful. I haven't gotten round to hanging my pictures in your studio yet. Been busy with the house."

"I've been busy also."

They arrived at the B and B, and Eh-em asked Silla when he could come by to hang his watercolors. "Any time."

"I stopped by and you weren't there."

"Sitting in my studio when I don't have work isn't very interesting. I busy myself with other things. Perhaps I should be more. . . ." She searched for the word and found it. "Responsible. More responsible."

"Well, I could sit in the gallery part, where you have your photos. I mean, when I finish settling in, I could be there just in case someone wanted to see what's on exhibit or buy something, especially weekends."

"That sounds like an idea. Let's talk about it."

"Tomorrow?"

"First thing. Nine?"

"Deal. I can help you arrange things with your new inventory, solve my car problem, if the car is still there by about noon . . . "

"It will be. No one will disturb it. Although a call to the sheriff might be a good idea. I can do that for you."

"Great."

"So, until tomorrow then."

"Yes, tomorrow. Good night."

Silla felt a little distance had been drawn between herself and the lost soul she thought Eh-em might be. She had not thought through her suggestion to Eh-em and his paintings yet, although it all seemed so simple a few days ago. Maybe it was not going to be that simple. It seemed that Eh-em was offering help with her business. She didn't know if she wanted a business relationship with him, she thought, as she parked the Honda in front of her house. The lights were out. Patta and Henry were surely asleep. And she would have been by this time had not Brian needed someone to talk to. They had a nice visit, and for now Silla felt Brian, er Russ, was back on track. Where that track was going though was not a destination Russ was willing to name. He was parked on a siding waiting. Silla was on a track moving, but with no clear destination either except to new and different horizons. Perhaps tomorrow at least one route could be taken and she could see where she might be headed.

She undressed down to her new camisole and panties and slipped into bed silently and turned out the light. Soon she was cozy and wishing there was someone to keep her company. Giving was great, but getting was sometimes a need, or the two were inextricably tied together as in when we give we receive. Contemplating stuff late at night in bed, one loses oneself, and the Self-realized takes over in a kind of waking sleep. However, Silla soon passed this state and fell into a dreamless sleep.

*******

The sign on the door read, "Open later. Emergency came up. Sorry." Eh-em wondered if she was ever in her studio-gallery. With this frequency of absenteeism, there might never be sales of anything, photos or watercolors. His offer to cover the shop seemed like a practical idea; however, he didn't think that he could spend all his time in a gallery. They are notorious even in big cities for having few visitors and fewer buyers. Eh-em shrugged and walked off down the street to the Four Corners Garage and gas station to inquire about a gas can and how he might get a ride back to his stranded car. Mrs. J. had said that Ed at the garage could help him, and if he could not get a ride, she could take him at about ten. It was just after nine now.

Ed was a large, affable man about Silla's age. Eh-em wondered if they knew each other. Must. Ed looked like an Upton fixture who would know everyone in town, there being only one gas station. Maybe they went to school together.

Eh-em explained his problem, and Ed had a loaner gas can that Eh-em could fill and use. "Just return it later today." Eh-em said he would and walked back to the B and B, but Mrs. J. was nowhere to be found. A guest said in passing that she had gotten a phone call and rushed out without serving the late breakfast that they had arranged the previous evening. They did not know where she was or when she would be back. Eh-em schlepped back to Ed's and told Ed his place looked like a good one to pick up a ride out to his car. Ed concurred. One of his customers would be going that way, and all it would take would be a polite request, which is just what happened with the next customer who drove up and filled his tank.

After emptying the can into his gas tank, Eh-em started his car and drove back to Ed's. He returned the gas can and filled the car's tank and drove to the hardware store to purchase a step ladder and some white paint. After making his purchases, he drove back to his house to finish his work. He passed Silla's studio without thinking to stop. He was on a mission. Get the house done and move in. By three that afternoon, he had finished all he could and was on the road to San Francisco.

Life is sometimes more complicated by the designs we have for it than it is if we just let it run its courses. Eh-em had no place to stay in the city, and what would he do with what he had stored there which would fill his car and more? His final trip to his apartment in Hayward thus became the first stop. The modest amount of furniture there would have to be moved, including the bed. And then the stored stuff could be picked up in SF and brought back to Upton. How this could be managed would require a rental trailer, preferably one that could be dropped off in Upton or somewhere nearby. Unfortunately, the U-haul agent on Whipple Road said that the closest drop-off points would be Chico or Redding. Eh-em could pick either without extra charge. Things were beginning to look as if they would take forever to get into his house, and only then could he focus on other priorities. Any thought that Eh-em had about new friendships and connections in Upton, well, they lay in wait at some further reach in his mind. Painting was nowhere on his radar either.

Whenever Eh-em found the administrivia of life a bit much, he looked for an empty Chinese restaurant with the family at their own table in the front or back chatting, reading Chinese newspapers, or smoking and waiting for customers. San Francisco was full of them, as it was full of the administrivia of living and having a business. It was often overwhelming. He didn't know of such a refuge in Hayward, so with trailer in tow, he drove around till he found the Golden Dragon Chinese restaurant on Foothill Boulevard. A quick look in the window proved it was just such a place as he most often sought. Eating out alone was a hobby for Eh-em; he found it relaxing. A few years ago, when Jennifer felt on again and not off, they would go to Chinese or Indian food and sometimes afterward to a movie before ending up in her king sized bed for the night. But before, during, and after Jennifer, Eh-em was quietly ecstatic with a quiet space in an empty ethnic restaurant. Tonight he needed that bit of isolation and peace. He would have a long day or two beginning tomorrow.

As he sat waiting for his pot stickers, fried with sweet pork filling, and nursing his beer, he thought about Jennifer and how that would never have worked out long term. They had parted amicably. Eh-em had ended it saying he wanted to see other people. Jennifer accused him of having already found another girl, but Eh-em said it wasn't true. She didn't believe him, but later when she had found another and Eh-em was still alone, working all the time and not seeing anyone, she came to accept that they were not a good fit. In the end for her, it didn't matter that Eh-em wasn't seeing anyone. They weren't meant.

The pot stickers came and shortly after his entree with a bowl of steamed rice. His full attention was food and only secondarily what he would do first then second then third tomorrow. He took out a pen and wrote on the paper place mat, which he folded and put in his pocket before he paid his bill. He placed a ten percent tip in the brown plastic tray that appeared with change after paying his bill and left for his apartment for his last night in Hayward.

*******

Silla and Mrs. J. were at Russ's bedside chatting cheerfully with him as the duty nurse was checking his bandaged leg, her hands protected by rubber gloves. Russ was giving a lucid account of his having shot himself in the thigh early that morning and thought he was going to bleed to death. How silly he had been thinking that some animal was a thief rustling about in his yard. And how stupid he had been walking about the house with his finger on the trigger of the .38 pistol. However, as the pain killer worked its magic his lucidity became giddy incoherence. The laughter and concern subsided as he fell asleep.

Silla recounted yet again how she had received Russ's call and rushed to his house to bring him to the clinic. Mrs. J. thanked her again for bringing her son to town and alerting her to the emergency. She thought the accident, thankfully not life threatening, would bring her and her son closer somehow, or at least there was that possibility. Mrs. J. had prayed for anything to improve a kind of stalemate. She had not imagined such a dangerous accident as this, however. The longer silence persists between family members the more awkward and deliberate the breakthrough. A loss can open a door closed too long. Mrs. J. knew why the door had been shut. Russ had shut it, not her. But of course, there are always two sides.

"Mom, I'm gay."

"Don't tell your father."

Coming out in the Johnson family comprised that simple interchange. When Russ left for San Francisco in the early eighties, nothing was said except, "Good luck, son." Returning home briefly a year later for his father's funeral broke no ice with his mother. Russ understood her silence as denial or rejection. In fact, it was neither. She had adopted without reflection her husband's manner of handling conflict and differences. Her own views lay hidden behind a code of dare-not-speak.

Another year later when Russ took up residence out Cougar Corner way, Mrs. J. saw that her son did not accept himself. Whatever happened while he was gone, she did not know and it did not matter. She finally told him that and more. She accepted his sexual orientation. She dearly loved his first love, Silla, like a daughter, she said. But no matter, Walt, her husband, was gone. He never found out the secret between mother and son. And she was prepared to accept but not reveal Russ's ways of living chosen or not. It was this conditional acceptance that Russ quietly brooded about and in part it caused his alienation, his isolation, his hiding. That is as she saw it now, she said to Silla, as Silla sat in the waiting area with her. Silla suspected something more with Russ, something that had happened in San Francisco.

"I don't know what to say except I think Brian, I mean Russ, he and I will always be friends. I hope so."

"I know he adores you and sees you as one of his closest. I am grateful for that."

"I think we should take that gun away from him."

"Not we, dear. I think it would be best if you could do it. Will you tell him or just hide it, or what?"

"I don't know. Do you think it will make him angry if I take it?"

"You would know that better than me. All I can say is that it was his father's. Walt was a good father but not, I say this because I have known it all along, one who would take the news of a gay son very well."

"I will bring up the gun with Russ. We talk through a lot of things. Recently we have spent more time together. Talking."

"You know best. But I think if the gun is gone, things like this wouldn't happen. There are no people about out Cougar Corner way. And no wild animals, at least dangerous ones."

"There were people a few years ago. And I have reason to believe there may still be people poking around out there."

"Why is that?"

"Let's just say I have reasons to believe."

"Secrets and mysteries. I don't much like them, although I'm one to talk."

"I'm no mystery maker. We have some mystery people around here, but I am who I am. You get what you see. But I must also honor some confidences."

"It's what I see that gives me the idea there are secrets. I heard you talking quite nicely to one of my guests on Saturday evening."

"Oh, him. Well, he sort of needs some help."

"You can't save everyone, dear."

"No, but . . . what does he do all day?"

"Him? He is working on Mrs. Corday's house. He's moving in there in a day or two. He'll be leaving his room soon. He is nice. He writes a lot on a typewriter, you know. A story, he says. You remember."

"Yes."

At this point Silla drifted off somewhere while sitting there with Mrs. J. Mrs. J. brought her back saying that they should check on her son again before leaving, since he'd be in the clinic one or two days before being discharged. They both laughed again and made a joke with the different uses of the word discharge. Silla's parting comment was that she hoped Russ had learned his lesson about carrying a firearm about in the dark with his finger on the trigger. Mrs. J. said she hoped so too. "And please, dear, get rid of that gun somehow."

"I'll manage it, Mrs. J."

"Thank you, Silla."

*******

The garage off North Point overflowed with the belongings of three people—Eh-em, his former business partner, Lance "Bunny" Bundell, and friend, sometime partner, Brian Dougherty. Fortunately Eh-em's belongings were at the front; the advantage of being the last to store stuff made vacating storage and packing a U-haul simple. The quiet side street made backing the trailer right up to the garage door easy.

Progress, Eh-em thought. Progress.

_Got to get . . . keep moving, moving, just moving. Illinois great for growing up. But summers hot and sticky. The winters cold and gray. California a good move. San Francisco a good experience, with exceptions. These guys . . . I will be glad to leave all this behind. Not bad people but not my . . . something._

As the last of his things were safely in the car and the covered trailer and he double-checked the garage door to see that it was indeed locked, Eh-em drove to Bay Street and straight on toward the Golden Gate and north. It would take at least four hours to his destination. He should be there by evening.

*******

Silla was in her work room by nine. She hoped that Eh-em would stop by to help with hanging his watercolors, but he had gotten up early, checked out of the B and B and was already pulling up to his house at Cougar Corner. Silla spent the day organizing her negatives from the past year, putting aside some in a drawer marked with just the digits for the year; and inside, the drawer was divided into two spaces, one for Unused/Archive and the second To Be Developed/Proofs. By the end of the day she had begun sorting negatives in order to make proof sheets for closer examination in a day or two. She wanted to see if she had some photos worth working with. She would print the best two or three for display and the second best would go into her portfolio binder. At the end of the day she locked the studio. No one had stopped by either to look at her work or book a portrait. She walked to her father's store and found him dusting shelves. Everything had its place and space, and stock should always present itself in neat and orderly rows. Dust gave the message: "Don't buy! Out-of-date."

"Dad, are you sure you don't want to sell the store? I think Mr. Eh-em, er Paul, would have made a good choice for a new owner. I don't know if he can afford what you want, but he is now, well, he sort of has to figure out what to do. He has decided to stay in Upton."

"Well, I think I need to be busy. And besides, I need to take care of you and Henry. I'll never retire from being your father."

"But that doesn't mean you have to . . . "

"No, but things are working well. No need to change. I'm sorry I got Paul all the way to Upton and encouraged him. But once I began answering his questions, I realized I have a pretty good thing here. Plus, I like the business and helping out people I know. Money goes out, but it also comes back. We make a nice little profit."

"Just thought I'd ask. Do you need me this Friday? I would like to make a quick trip to see a friend."

"A friend. What friend?"

"Don't get excited. No one you know. A girl. Someone I met recently."

"Oh. Where did you say?"

"I didn't, but San Francisco."

"You met someone in San Francisco? I didn't know you went . . . "

"Dad, please."

"That's a long way for a day, there and back."

"I know. I don't really know her very well. She said she would go shopping with me, some places she knows. I'd like to take her up on the offer."

"Well, that's fine. I will have Hank help me. He can learn to do more work around here. Maybe he will take over the business someday. What's your friend's name?"

"Melissa. She's very interesting. We have some things in common. But she leads a very different life. It's nice for me to meet new people once in a while."

"What about Paul? I heard you and he were hot and heavy on Saturday."

"Where did you get that expression? and the idea? And it's not true by the way. We were just talking. More heavy than hot. Well, not hot at all. Things you come out with."

"Hank said it. I think it comes from his buddies."

"His friends? They're too young to know what that means. Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Know what it means?"

"It means . . . serious. Two people having a deep conversation."

"Okay. That's the start, I guess."

"What is it then?"

"Never mind. You're not fifteen, so you don't need it."

"Is it bad?"

"Not bad. Well, I don't think it's bad. It could be bad. It's complicated."

"Okay. Erased. I won't use it. But what were you talking about, if you don't mind that question."

"What Paul is going to do now that the store is not for sale. That's all."

"Ah. I'm sorry. I guess I messed up his plans. Maybe we should have him over for dinner. On Sunday. We can at least make him feel like he belongs here in Upton."

"That is not a problem, I don't think. I mean feeling welcome. He is going to help me with the studio. Fill in for when I am not there, and hang some of his watercolors, try to sell them."

"Really? Hot and heavy, it sounds."

"Dad!"

## Chapter 10: A self portrait

_I am still writing. A kind of fantasy with one exception. But even this character I am not sure about, not yet. The rest is conjectures all. It takes up my evenings mostly. Pass the time. I watch, observe—sometime actualities—and I put them—not all—in this notebook or on an onion skin. What will become of these fragments mostly in random order?_

_I imagine I am being watched by a chimeress. Or maybe she is a true thing, an animal archetypal I myself have materialized at this transition in my life, a sentinel or harbinger. She would save me with her forbidden knowledge, but essentially a muse whose knowing eyes can kill, at least mesmerize._

_The presence I can feel. Sometimes she is there in a photo or in a tree or a scene, a memory . . . to remind me of something I need to be about, or that I am about and in process of more comprehensively realizing. A guardian of what is precious inside as well as a danger to myself. An uncovering or revealing I would dare play with like a snake a boy finds and handles too long and eventually kills._

_This is all air, but there is comfort with her about, even though she is just there and maintaining her boundaries, at a distance, dimly seen. She is so close._

_I have no specific idea except to keep up the practice and proceed to where it will end, or begin._

Early that morning Russ could not sleep. He lay in his bed, the vestiges of medication and weed dissipating and leaving him alone and alert. A discernible noise broke the silence. Was there someone outside the house on his way to the crop hidden behind the brake? An animal perhaps that had inadvertently knocked over a piece of wood in the pile he recently split? Again, the dark matter before dawn registered a noise. Quietly Russ opened the drawer of the night stand and withdrew the pistol. He uncovered himself slowly and swung his feet down onto the rug beside his bed. The wood floor creaked as he raised himself. He winced. Mustn't reveal himself until he was sure his yard and house and crop were secure. He held the gun in his right hand at his side with his index finger on the trigger. Slowly he moved from the bedroom to the front room where he could see out to the covered porch and beyond, but it was too black. He paused stone still and listened carefully, breathing inaudibly lest the intruder was listening for sounds from within the house. Slowly Russ turned and took silent giant steps towards the kitchen. Killer's head popped up from his bed in the corner of the kitchen and he gave one loud bark. That did it. Whoever was there had warning, and Russ made for the back door, stealth no longer his objective. He hit the screen door with his left hand and stepped out onto the back porch. It was not the screen door that made that loud bang. Russ had shot his own left thigh by his own right hand. He dropped his gun, screamed, and fell onto the wooden porch. Whoever or whatever made no sound from the dark beyond.

*******

The lessons of opening self fell into the background and became implicit. However, one thing stood out for Silla and remained in awareness. Openness involved looking into people's eyes so deeply that you intend, reaching out and in as it were, to connect with the other's soul or spirit. She was not able to do this without concentration, and felt it unnecessary with those closest to her already. In fact, there was something wrong with consciously using a technique to achieve what she felt was something that should come naturally, easily, guilelessly.

Silla had a strong sense of Russ's inner self, so much so that she knew, just knew that his gunshot wound was not intentionally inflicted. It was also obvious. You don't try to take your own life by shooting yourself in the leg. She didn't have to look into his eyes deeply for that truth. Her extended visit previously also told her even as she left that Russ may have his issues, but one was not self destruction. At least not self destruction in that way. The marijuana was cash and a crutch, the business of avoidance for his feelings of deviation and isolation. She could rest easy that taking his own life was not among the options she would expect him to consider. Besides, accidents are accidents.

Silla was not aware that she looked into Russ's eyes, but she felt she must have done so if only because they had had so many intimate discussions about their relationship and Russ's choices and his post-relationship adventures. Opening oneself to others, if that was Silla's intent or current phase, fate, or whatever, would involve not just staring but invasively searching in the other. Now, if she could suspend her feelings of artificiality in practicing being open, who would be her first victim for such an experiment?

Saks San Francisco was an institution as was the City of Paris department store. Across the street and up the block from the two was the Metropolitan Club, a women's club dating from the early twentieth century. Melissa invited Silla there for a long luncheon. It would take all morning for Silla to get to the city from Upton. After their lunch they could step into both department stores and find, well, whatever Silla wanted to find. Melissa would show Silla the all-cotton wear sections, and Silla could be on her way back home by late afternoon. She'd be back in Upton before midnight.

Just as with rules, plans too are broken. What broke this one was that lunch became further bonding through shared intimacies. These take time, and the young women delighted in each other's company. They recalled their retreat together. They talked about techniques for becoming more creative. Melissa confessed that she had not much to be creative about, and she noted that Silla had her photography. Now that involved creativity. Silla elaborated on her vocation and regretted it was more hobby than occupation. She didn't sell much, which she felt was a kind of measure. Creativity was fine but she was trying to do something for growing her independence. A hardware queen was not the kingdom she saw as the means to develop oneself into the person-professional she would be. Melissa agreed and with a great deal of sincerity said she herself could pursue a special sort of creativity. She didn't have to worry about the messy business of making money, but fulfillment, personal fulfillment sans partner appealed to her—in the abstract, she qualified. Silla said that was true for her also, but it would be lovely to have someone to share stuff with. Even sleep with.

Which brings up the broken plan. After shopping and a call home, Silla stayed overnight with Melissa and drove home after a leisurely brunch the two created together the following morning in Melissa's Cow Hollow apartment. A friendship had been sealed in the best way that women can, by sharing the intimate details and relational dilemmas their lives brought them in their twenties, forever their twenties. Melissa adopted Silla's stance on arrested birthdays with the twenty-ninth, although she had to count backwards. Silla and Melissa hugged and kissed each other, both cheeks as they thought sophisticated people did. Silla left happy and ready to meet whomever or whatever, and she carried two shopping bags home with her, one from Saks and one from the City of Paris.

*******

Eh-em stopped by Silla's studio and the same sign was there. She must not be interested much, he thought. Well, the watercolors could wait. If it wasn't urgent for her, it certainly wasn't for Eh-em. He had slept two nights at his new digs and he had new lists. One was hate-but-have-to-do. The other was nesting needs. The first was boring. Take the U-haul somewhere and drop it off. Get telephone service, change utilities into his name, and so forth. The second was necessities for living that he lacked. Then buy painting supplies of the artistic kind. He was thinking about trying acrylics. New ribbon for the typewriter. Mustn't forget that. Cheap chairs for the front porch. Beer and wine, sometime lubrication for doing art, or at least reward for surveying a day's production as the sun set.

The drive to Redding was easy. Eh-em dropped off the trailer and drove around till he found Hilltop Drive and an art supplies store. It was next to a Chinese lunch buffet, and there was little question where to eat before checking out what the supplies store stocked. His lunch was quick and he was not the only customer. He was the only customer, however, in the art supplies store, and after wandering about he asked the elderly sales clerk about acrylics versus watercolors. The clerk gave Eh-em a short course on methods and a long one on materials and brushes. Based on this and the clerk's kindly manner, Eh-em decided to purchase ten acrylic colors and three synthetic brushes. He also bought extra tubes of titanium white and slick-back black for a project he had in mind. Oh, and several pre-stretched canvases in different sizes. The gentleman suggested a few books on working with acrylics, but Eh-em told him he already worked with watercolors. Besides, nothing like learning by playing. Just to get started. Perhaps he would return for a book if he got stuck, which he doubted. He figured after the clerk's explanations that watercolors were harder to work with than acrylics and that his experience would contribute to getting his head and hands conversant with the new medium and any techniques required. As for oils–out of the question. Not brave enough for the feminist critique, he thought, although the young SF art crowd he hung out with seemed far, far away. As a kind of feminine expression, watercolors invited no controversy. Acrylics, that neuter-like, flash-in-the-pan-it's-done medium, was also suitably conservative and safe.

At the end of that week, Eh-em was sitting on his porch in one of his aluminum folding chairs drinking a beer and watching the field of dried wild oats across the road wave in the light evening breeze. There was the definite change of seasons in the air. He felt he had a home, and the cold beer and planned pasta dinner were pleasures money could not buy, except ironically, they were just that, cheap to buy. The feeling, however, was priceless, one of those moments you feel alive and thankful for.

A car came down the road from Baseline. As it approached he could see it was a faded blue Honda somewhat aged. He waved to Silla and her passenger as they drove past. Friends or? Eh-em did not know, but knew enough such that the distance between him and Silla would remain as it was until chance or coincidence brought them together again. His watercolor paintings stacked on edge in a corner in her studio lay in wait for exhibition space. Eh-em felt it senseless now to chase the elusive Silla or act on her suggestion about showing his work with hers.

August became September and revealed in early October that summer-like weather might last till almost Halloween. Fall slowly crept into the fields and valleys and woods surrounding Upton as the pace of life without tourists became more and more pronounced—slow. Eh-em enjoyed his days, but his evenings became restless wanderings into the woods and hills. He took pictures of landscapes he would paint, but these upon examination failed to inspire after developed film became studied snapshots that he soon discarded. Eh-em brooded after home cooked dinners about what he could do to support himself. He was slowly consuming his savings, and the hiatus between gainful vocations had to end soon. Eh-em had no need to return to Hardrey's Hardware; he was quite settled in a fully functional house. And the links he had had with Patta and family were, he realized now, temporary at best. Hank was in school. Silla, well, he did not know where she was or what she was doing. He saw her coming and going down his road, and had hoped that she might stop. But perhaps she was feeling a little distant herself since he stopped leaving notes at her studio. He sought out company by going to Ben's Bar and Dot's Diner. He checked out Maud's but found it was a sit-down restaurant for protracted dinners, perhaps for entertaining a friend or visitor to Upton. It held no interest for dining alone. It lacked the character of a deserted Chinese restaurant with the owner's children running about learning to wait tables. He missed the image of the table at the front or back of these places with their newspapers written in a language he could not read and an ashtray half full of crushed cigarette butts.

Ben's Bar featured several regulars, older men who either had escaped from their families or had no reason to spend their time, like Eh-em, at home alone. Eh-em began stopping by about twice a week to see who was who, converse lightly on safe topics, and have his maximum of two draught beers. Ben was the bar tender and Barbara his wife and cocktail waitress. She was always ready to inquire about what was new from each patron or stranger. By the time Eh-em realized Barb was Silla's friend, he knew that Upton was smaller than small. No one was without some relationship to someone else. Everyone knew one another's business whether fact or fictive. Aside from conjectures Eh-em was sure people had about him, they certainly knew where he lived and that he was from the Bay Area and an artist. No matter what gem of info Eh-em tried to spread about himself—for example, that he was not a real artist—the more the news spread that he was. Plus there were assumptions that became reality for those overly curious, yet curiously these snoops had never actually talked to the new resident.

On one occasion Eh-em asked Ben about the trophies on the shelf above the bar. Ben said that they were baseball trophies from before his time in the bar, fifteen years ago, a time when the town had Little League teams and the season winners went on to county and regional championships. Those were the days, and "we all played, or yelled at the umpires from wherever and complained about their favoritism as well as their eyesight."

"What happened?" asked Eh-em.

"Well, we grew up. And I guess you could say Upton's young population grew up or moved away. There weren't enough kids to field two teams, and so the field went to weeds and the fence fell down. Slowly the diamond disappeared."

"But now there seem to be enough kids. By the look at the school in the mornings and afternoons. The playground is filled with kids."

"I guess there aren't any coaches, or someone to organize the league again."

"What about you? You know how to play."

"I do. But I have to be here, you know. To pull beer and sell bags of beer nuts."

"Which night is busiest? I must be missing it."

"Well, right now the business just pays the bills, enough to stay open."

"Too bad. You got any kids?"

"One. But we are here holding things down. He is home, I hope doing his homework, or in bed by this time. He's a good boy. No trouble." It was nine thirty.

"Are there other dads with kids old enough to play baseball?"

"Yep, but as I said. No one is interested. Or they just don't want to take the initiative. We need someone to organize. . . . "

Barb quizzed Eh-em regularly, even though Eh-em repeated what he had reported on previous visits. Barb was particularly interested in Eh-em's love life, which Eh-em avoided talking about. This went on for some weeks, and then Barb brought up Silla.

"She told me about you. Seems like she took an interest."

"Very nice girl. I'm working on a portrait of her."

"Really? She'd be flattered."

"It's not very good. My first."

"I heard you were an artist. You have that quiet look you have. Kind of evaluating or getting the perspective right. Am I right?"

"Sort of. I have done some painting, and now I'm mostly writing a story actually."

"What's it about?"

"You."

"Me? Whatever for? What could you possibly write about me?"

"What I know and what I can imagine."

"I would like to know what you imagine. So would Silla."

"No you wouldn't. It's not interesting. I mean, you are interesting, but my story isn't. Not yet."

"Well, you need to spice it up. Add something about Silla, for example."

"I don't know enough to write very much."

"Well, get on it. Get to know her. She'd like to know you."

"I don't think so."

"Well, believe what you want, but you are overdue."

"Overdue on what? The only thing I'm overdue on is finding a way to make money around here."

"Her studio. She needs help with her studio, or gallery, or whatever you want to call it."

"I never see her around. Well, that's not exactly true. She goes back and forth from my neighbor sometimes. Drives by."

"Yes, Russ. Poor Russ."

At this Eh-em felt the subject was getting a little too, too . . . something. Personal? He didn't want to inquire.

"Can I get you another?"

"Sure, one more."

Barb left and drew Eh-em's last beer. She sauntered back to his table and put the glass down on a coaster. "You know about Russ, don't you?"

"Well, no. Not really. We met."

"Silla and Russ were a thing a few years ago."

"They are very close now."

"Russ is ill, you know. And has some other problems."

"I didn't. I am sorry to hear that. I was meaning to ask him something, but now I guess I shouldn't."

"Silla helps him out."

"She drives by, as I said."

"Well, how about them Seals?"

"What?"

"San Francisco Seals. Baseball team."

"Oh, I don't follow them. Do they even exist?"

"Nope. Just changin' the subject."

"I played as a kid, that was about it. Got interested in other things."

"You lived in SF, right?"

"Yes, four plus years. Great city. The City."

"Well, how could you live there and not follow baseball?"

"I had a shop, friends, you know. Life stuff. I was pretty busy with, you know, living, working, taking advantage of what the city has to offer."

"And what would that be?"

"Everything. You know, the people. . . . " Eh-em's unfinished sentence unfortunately led to more speculation. When it came right down to it, who was Barb? A curious customer-centric waitress or a gossip machine. Eh-em didn't know and didn't want to feed her more information if she was the latter. He left his beer unfinished and asked to pay. That changed all subjects, except as Eh-em exited the bar, Barb reminded him to contact Silla. She's waiting for "a gentleman caller."

Pretty girls create turmoil in the viscera, or at least they populate the fantasy lives of men. It is a pity they don't know this. Or for those that do, the manipulation that can grow from another's vulnerability can breed ill and abuse. Alternatively, knowing that one has a particular effect on another, that person switches on the best of human capacities, which is understanding and compassion.

As Eh-em contemplated contacting and perhaps reconnecting with Silla, he planned to protect himself. He didn't know if Silla's involvement with Russ was defined by compassion or romance. He suspected romance. Barb had said as much as well as the fact that Russ was ailing. Perhaps there was more to learn through Barb? No, best not expose oneself too much or know too much about people. San Francisco had its hard lessons in that department. Greater exposure could lead to unwanted situations; more knowledge than is your need complicates things. Life gets messy.

God, Eh-em missed the comings and goings of his customers on Union Square. Was this move to near isolation and absence of different faces and races really a good thing? Was Upton where he belonged? He thought not, at least not until he knew he could make it financially. Time to get those watercolors hung. Time to focus on Red Bluff or somewhere for work to get a little cash flow to slow the leak in the dike.

A day or two following Eh-em's briefing at Ben's Bar, Silla stopped by Eh-em's at Cougar Corner. Eh-em heard her car drive up, and then the engine stopped, or rather, it sounded like it died a slow death. Curiosity brought him to a front window, and he saw Silla just as she slipped through his gate. Eh-em's stomach felt like a hardball had dropped and hit bottom without bouncing. If he had to admit it, too much time had led him to re-shape this woman into someone who was best kept at a distance lest reality disappoint, in part because she was unavailable. There may be a bridge too far he was not able nor prepared to cross. Not yet. He had entertained some hopes, however.

"Hey, stranger."

"Stranger yourself. Where have you been?" answered Eh-em.

"Busy. I was in my studio the other day, and you know you have a bunch of pictures there."

"I've been meaning to . . . "

"How about you come by tomorrow or the next day, and we can hang them. Remember your project? to sell them?"

"Yes. I remember. But will you be there?"

"Of course. I'm always there."

"I see. I didn't think . . . "

"Ahem, er, Paul. I would be delighted to have your work on the display with mine. I have looked at your pictures, and I really like them. They go well, I mean they complement my work. And we will have some small sculptures. I'm trying to get Russ to do something large, but he says the small carvings are easier to work on."

"Russ?"

"Yes. You know. Your neighbor down that way."

"I didn't know he . . . "

"I know. He says he said to stop by, but you are a kind of recluse."

"Well, I wouldn't say that. I get out."

"I know. Barb told me. She tells me everything. Even things I don't want to know."

"Oh."

"She's a dear, but you shouldn't be telling her your life story."

"I knew that. I didn't think . . ."

"Sounds like you are doing too much thinking. Come tomorrow. Can you? And we can get to work. I also have another idea for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, so come, anytime. "

With that Silla left. She was wearing a long skirt again, different from the first time he saw her, and turquoise sweater over a white cotton blouse. She was quite magnetic, and Eh-em, well, his interest rose as did, probably, some raw hormones. Why did she have to affect him that way? It was hard to look and not dream of touching when you had eyefuls like that.

Eh-em went to his easel and approved of the final product he had there, a painting in black and white and various shades of gray in glossy acrylics. It was an impressionist-style self portrait.

He set this painting aside and retrieved another "stretched 'nd prepped" canvass from the rack along the wall which held various supplies and tools. He set this new canvass on the easel and went over to his desk and the box of photos he kept for future projects. He retrieved the photo of Silla by the pool and clipped it to the top strut of the easel frame centered above the canvass. He then surveyed his acrylics and found titanium white. He unscrewed the cap and squeezed a liberal amount onto the pallet, almost a work of art itself with dried white and black smears. He chose a clean flat-bellied brush and began working.

## Chapter 11: Drawing the curtains

"I saw Eh-em today. He's coming to my work tomorrow."

Patta looked up from the cash register. He was sorting the change into the different coin slots. "Yes? What has he been up to? I haven't seen him."

"I don't know. But we're going to put up his watercolors."

"Sounds good. But to sell anything, you need to be open."

"I know," said Silla in a tone that said she had heard this advice before.

"Well?"

"I just can't get into sitting around. I need to have something to do. In fact, I need something more to do."

"What about Russ?"

"He is doing fine right now. I nursed him through a tough time, but he says he's okay. Not to come so often. He needs his alone time, reading he says."

Patta looked up from what he was doing. "I was thinking and doing some figuring. I want to sell the garage side of the store. I don't need it. Don't plan to use it. I could expand business, but I think the store is big enough. Unless you want it. You could put your photos there. And I'd be next door. We could put a sign on the door and I'll open it, if you aren't there. Most people don't buy, you say. They just want to look. Does that sound . . . "

"I don't know. How much rent would I pay? I am paying rent now, you know."

"Silla. Silla. It's family. This will all be yours and Hank's."

"Now we heard enough of that after mom died." Her look of stop-that was stern and compassionate.

"No rent. I don't know why I didn't think of this before. If you sell something, well, that can go to expenses. Lights and property taxes. Stuff like that. But let's not worry about that. What do you think of the idea?"

"You really don't want it for storage or something?"

"No, no. I can rearrange the back room for the stuff that's in the garage now. You can get in there and make it look like a gallery. Do it the way you want."

"I'll think about it."

"Nothing to think about. This is not something about independence. It doesn't have to be."

"But you could use the money if you sold it."

"That's true. That's true. Forgot about that."

*******

As children are impatient for what an adult knows will come about in its time, older folks can sometimes itch to get on with things too. If the itch goes without scratching for too long, bursts of activity can erupt to relieve the pressure. So it was for Eh-em. He rose early and selected two or three watercolors—he did not care whether they sold or not. He also grabbed the one acrylic he had been working on. It was the echo of a photo and a product of navel gazing.

He appeared at Silla's studio at nine, and he raised his eyebrows perceptibly. She was there, lights on, a crisp morning, which showed signs winter had just arrived. Hank was there with her and ready for any diversion. He volunteered to help out "'cause he had nothing to do. No school today." And he thought there wouldn't be much work involved.

"Hey, Hens-a-Runnin'."

"Hey M and M."

"Oh, that's good. Sounds like a pitcher."

"What's that?"

"Moundsman. Pitcher. Baseball."

"I didn't know. My sister calls you Mystery Man. M and M, see?"

"Oh, that's what she calls me. Well, that fits, I guess. I like the baseball reference better. Playing any ball lately?"

"Naw."

"Want to?"

"Sure."

"Go get a ball. You have only one mitt?"

"Yes."

"How about a bat and whiffle ball. That way no windows get broken and we both can play."

Silla interrupted the boys. "Whoa. Whoa. We were gonna hang some pictures, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Right. In a little while, Hank."

So Eh-em and Silla lined up Eh-em's watercolors along one wall and considered each. They discussed what should go where, and what to move or take down that was already on the walls and display partitions. After a short survey of what was happening and that he had no role to play, Hank disappeared.

"Wait a minute. I have something else," Eh-em reminded himself. He went to his car and brought back the portrait in black and white as well as the additional watercolors. "I thought I might add this to the collection," referring to the acrylic.

Silla looked at it from a distance and weighed what she was seeing. "What's it called?"

"No title yet. Maybe something like, 'Writer at his Desk'."

"You?"

"I confess. Kind of fuzzy and ill defined. True self portrait."

"I wouldn't say ill defined. More like coming into focus. How's that sound? God, I'm clever."

"Clever. Oh, yes. Clearly clever."

He looked at Silla after her observation—for the slightest moment. He was searching for something uniquely her, an image he could commit to memory. He looked away and down immediately when he caught himself, and Silla had the briefest feeling that Eh-em was trying to connect more personally for the first time. But the moment, as moments do, was gone and half forgotten within a microsecond.

"This would be your only portrait. The others are all landscapes and various buildings and streets. It's different."

"If you don't think . . . "

"Oh, no. I like it," said Silla. "It adds to the mix, and with Russ's sculptures and carvings, we will have a proper gallery, which is more than I thought about when we first talked. No, let's find a spot for it."

They agreed on a prominent spot near a window where the painting could be seen from the sidewalk out front. They positioned a spotlight on it, which they planned to turn on in the evenings.

They went about hanging and re-hanging the paintings and photographs so that by noon their job was finished. Hank came back about then and complained that they would never finish. So much talking. Fed up and having given up on the promised game with bat and ball, he said he was going home to have lunch. He was hungry.

"Why don't we all go to lunch, at Dot's, on me?" suggested Eh-em.

Silla protested that she could pay for herself and Hank. And they began arguing about this until Hank said he was leaving for the diner and he didn't care who paid. At that Silla placed a note on the studio door, locked it, and they walked off in the direction of Dot's with Hank in the lead, attentive to what the two behind him talked about.

*******

Eh-em is homophobic. He would not use that word, but it is the correct one and fully descriptive. Problem is, he doesn't know it, or he half realizes it. Either he is indeed that, and as the great bard said, we see he protests too much. Quite the opposite is then true as the logic goes. Or he has closeted himself and his heterosexual self and is putting up a pretty good screen. Defenses some would call it.

Writers take liberties, but Eh-em is a novice; and such honesty or self-awareness on his part, well, he'll not show this, if indeed he has it.

Brian haunts him, that Brian of the queer type. His breakup with Jennifer didn't help. Both were affronts to his masculinity. For a year after the breakup and before the encounter he imagined he had with Brian, nightly masturbation ruled. He was desperate to regain something he lost, or to reassure himself about. Unfortunately, this too he did not realize and just went about private sexual experiences while fantasizing about women. That should have been his clue and salvation, but he missed it. By the time he experienced, or did he, the such stuff as his bad dreams and fears were made of, he was lost. But it was temporary, at least from a surface view. For with the affirmative steps of taking control of his future and renouncing the life and seeming temptations of a place specific, he found himself in new surroundings and the presence of a nurturing and attentive woman. She was open but he hardly noticed. He was only slowly opening up and could not perceive fully because of his skewed perspective and that dis-eased self he tolerated living with.

Thus the story is spoiled for all but the persistent to see how it actually meanders towards its final words. One can only experience these things. Writers experience and re-create in order that readers experience in approximately the same way, don't they?

*******

Dolly greeted three familiar faces cheerfully. "Eh-em, where did you pick up these strays?"

"I'm the stray. It was their idea, and I'm supposed to pick up the check."

"Sounds fair," said Dolly taking sides and starting the debate all over again. But as Hank's eyes rolled back in his head, he walked ahead to a booth by the window and grabbed a menu and the fencing stopped. Next all were looking at the menu and asking Dolly questions at the same time.

"Corned beef and cabbage today with minestrone soup, home made."

"I want a burger and a shake," said Hank.

"Flavor?"

"Chocolate."

"You guys?"

"I need to think a moment," said Eh-em. Silla nodded agreement.

"Back in a jiff." Dolly wandered off and prepared a new pot of coffee for the lunch crowd.

"Order anything you like," offered Eh-em.

"I will. Don't worry. Since you're paying." Silla playfully rubbed in.

"Yep. I'm paying," said Eh-em underlining his win in the faux argument. His eyes met Silla's as he said this, and each quickly looked away to deny, one her nakedness and the other a secret. Dolly's re-appearance also interrupted whatever it was that was happening, and in turn, Silla and Eh-em gave their orders.

"After lunch we can play ball, Hank."

"My stuff is at home. We can play in our backyard."

"Fine."

"Hey, you haven't finished yet. You need to put titles on your pictures." Silla's protest was not serious.

"I can do that later, can't I?"

"You're asking me for permission?"

"No. Er, could I do it later today or tomorrow?"

"Your choice."

"How will I get into your studio if you're not there."

"I'll be there."

"So tomorrow morning for sure, like today. Okay?" Eh-em had heard promises before to meet at her studio.

"Deal. Also, do you want to put prices on them?"

"I wouldn't know what to put."

"Well, we can talk about it when you come in. I have prices on mine, but mine are different. I can always print more of the same, so that affects pricing."

"Right. I guess I haven't thought about any of that."

"Then there's things like keeping track of the pictures, what they sell for. Use that for pricing. Stuff like that."

"I really haven't thought."

"Well, time enough. Winter is here and things slow down. You have time."

"And when you're supposed to be open and you need to be out taking pictures. We can talk about that, too."

Hank broke in. "Hey, how about them Wild Cats?"

"Wild Cats?" asked Eh-em.

"Yeah, the baseball team," said Hank smiling.

"What baseball team?"

"Finally, something else," Hank muttered.

Hank was right, they agreed. Too much business and not enough of the moment. Whereupon Hank's shake arrived followed by two daily specials and a burger. Eating shut everyone up to the relief of one. He had heard enough adult talk since early that morning.

*******

Hank stopped by Susan's house on the way to his, and she grabbed her mitt and softball and joined the boys in the Hardrey backyard. Hank and Susan took turns batting as Eh-em pitched. When the fielder caught a fly, she or he was at bat. Otherwise, the batter could bat until four strikes. After a half hour's pitching Eh-em said he had to sit down. The kids continued, one hitting short flies to the other until they switched. Eh-em called from the garden bench where he had landed for a break. "Say, you guys have a baseball team?"

"No."

"No, they don't let girls play anyway."

"What about teams? Are there teams you can play on?"

"No," they said in unison.

"Are kids interested in baseball?"

"Sure," affirmed Hank.

"Yeah, I guess," said Susan

"How many kids your age in school?"

Hank. "Thirty-six in my class."

Susan. "Twenty-nine in mine."

"Any of them interested?"

"I dunno," in unison. And that seemed to be the end of the discussion until Hank and Susan came over to the bench. Hank sat on the ground and Susan sat beside Eh-em. "So you think there are enough kids interested in baseball to have a team?"

"One team is not enough."

"How many do you need for a team?" asked Susan.

"Usually nine players on each," said Eh-em.

"I don't think girls want to play," Susan contributed.

Eh-em felt out of his depth. These two were keen, or could be if teams and a league were in place. But it was clear what Ben had said. Any baseball initiative for children or youth would require leadership, and that would come from some adult, one with baseball and organizational experience. Eh-em thought it would also mean that this person would have to research who the kids could play. Someone would have to represent Upton to other towns in the area.

*******

Russ stopped by Eh-em's late that afternoon, and though he said he was just passing by with the dog on his way shopping, he bore a special housewarming gift. He apologized that it was a bit late because he had something going on. A little hospitalization and long recovery. Eh-em said he knew about it from Mrs. J. Eh-em invited his neighbors in, and Killer proceeded to check the house for messages or bits of food that might have dropped under the kitchen table. Russ saw Eh-em's work space and complimented Eh-em on several of the pictures he had stacked in a rack. Eh-em brought out more to show him. Then Russ spied the unfinished acrylic on the easel and inquired. He saw the photo clipped to the top. Eh-em dismissed this as an unfinished project and just something he was playing with.

"I see you've got my girlfriend up there. She'll be flattered or angry that you're painting her. Never can tell sometimes with women. Or men."

"That's an interesting statement."

"Which?"

"Well, all of it. You never can tell what about men?" Eh-em was fishing. That strange feeling he had about Russ had a kind of substance to it, but he wasn't sure what his intuition was telling him. He had felt it before, sometimes with some of his customers. Eh-em was about to articulate it to himself when Russ said directly, "I'm gay, Eh-em. And I haven't had much luck finding people like me. You know, people you can share stuff with. Nothing against anybody. Not against you. I meant that guys can be as fickle and unpredictable as any woman."

"I . . . "

"I know. You had a store on Union Square. I know about it. I was even in it."

"I don't remember. I would have." Eh-em's antenna went into hyper-receptive mode trying to decode any signals coming his way.

"How did you know? about my shop, I mean."

"Word gets around."

"No one around here knows about . . . "

"Don't be surprised. It's a small world. My girlfriend, Silla . . . "

"Your girlfriend?" asked Eh-em.

"Figure of speech. We were together until I realized I preferred guys. That was some time ago."

"But you're friends now."

"Oh, yes. We're good friends. She has helped me a lot, especially in these last few months. I have been ill, and the accident. Stupid."

The coins began to drop. Eh-em was getting a partial but more reassuring picture. "But how do people know?"

"Best I can figure is that Silla has a friend in San Francisco. Melissa, I think. I don't know her. And she has some gay friends, and one of them, she goes shopping with him. He used to buy stuff at your store. Must be the same one. On Union Square. Sunny side directly across from the park, mid-block. Right?"

"Right. Denny's, upbeat fashions. I wonder who that friend was. But how does Silla know this Melissa or whoever?"

"Don't know. But they went shopping together a while back. Shopping for sexy stuff she said. I know nothing more. Honest. Except this Melissa must not have much to do going around shopping with everyone in San Francisco."

"This is incredible."

"Yep. Life is incredible."

Eh-em had a quizzical look. "Wait a minute. Silla said she had a friend named Brian. That she and Brian were together until something happened."

"That's right. I'm Brian. Brian Russel Johnson, Mrs. Johnson's bouncing baby boy, only boy was not the kind of boy I turned out to be, much to my mother's dismay. I didn't realize until late."

"Sounds like a story."

"It is. But let's change the subject. What is with this painting you're doing?"

Eh-em hemmed. "It's nothing. An experiment. I mostly spend my time trying to figure out my life, recently by writing. I'm writing a story. The painting is new. I mean acrylics. This is my second attempt. I don't know if it will come out. By the way, since you two are buddies, I would appreciate it if you didn't tell her about this."

"No problem. I do a little woodworking, small figures and sculpture. I also read a lot. Avid in fact."

"I didn't know that."

"You knew about the woodworking, right?"

"Yes, not the reading exactly."

"Oh, well word gets around as they say. Maybe you've been out of the loop." Russ thought a moment and offered his help. "If you need a reader for your story, I could help you out. Give you feedback from time to time. Editorial suggestions if you like."

"Thanks. I'll think about it," said Eh-em. "I get stuck in my own stuff now and then, and a reader might help. Maybe."

They both had disclosed enough for one spur-of-the-moment visit, and the silence between them grew. Russ provided a sense of an ending for now. "Well, don't be smoking that stuff when Silla is around. It's not that she doesn't approve or anything. But I think she doesn't like it."

"She's never here, so not to worry."

"Oh, I'd worry."

"What do you know that I don't." Eh-em's antenna was scanning for a signal again.

"Nothing. Nothing."

Russ called Killer who had settled in beside the wood stove. They left the way they had come, by truck. They drove off in the direction of the main road. All that time that Eh-em had seen Silla coming and going on their road she must have done Russ's shopping for him, or other errands. This was the first time he saw Russ drive by. It was not that Eh-em felt he was such a private person—Russ was. And Silla was the mystery woman.

The curtains that Eh-em had in part drawn closed for himself began to open. He was seeing the images of his new acquaintances in a brighter light.

## Chapter 12: As if for the first time

Eh-em showed up at nine. Silla was puttering in the darkroom and called she would be out in a few minutes. "Have a look around." Eh-em didn't answer and surveyed the exhibit they had worked on. He liked what he saw. Silla came out wiping her hands with a towel. She smiled when she saw Eh-em, or would it be Paul today?

"What can I call you? M sounds . . . doesn't sound right. Not very personal. Kind of a category or something, which has more to it than what you see or hear." She hesitated and frowned. "I am not sure what I mean, but I would prefer Paul."

"Paul it is, then. Especially since we'll be seeing more of each other. Here at the gallery." She had elevated the status of her enterprise with the mere change of the label she used.

"Well, there is no need for you to be here. I can cover for both of us. I only need to know what the prices you want for your paintings. If something sells, I can let you know and pay you."

"I have been thinking about that. Didn't I mention this? How about if I sit here for you some days or half days. You seem to have other things going. Plus, I think the gallery should be open on weekends. That's when tourists drive by."

"In fact, my dad was concerned about that." Silla brightened. "What days would you be willing to cover?"

"What days do you help your dad? I know he's not open on Sundays. I could do Sunday and some other days."

"Well, I usually help dad Friday afternoons, sometimes Saturdays, especially the mornings, and Mondays."

"How about Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday? When you are not helping your dad, you can be off taking pictures, roaming the territory, or doing whatever."

"That leaves Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I guess I could have the preferred schedule. It is not usually busy during the week, and so I could work in the darkroom. Stuff like that. When do we start? Oh, you need to put prices on your pictures."

"We can start this week. Today you are on; Friday I will be here at nine."

"Okay."

Eh-em seemed to be on his way out for some reason. He turned. "I will need a key to get in."

"I will make one today at the store and give it to you when I see you next."

"When will that be?"

"Friday, of course."

"How about earlier? get together, I mean, a kind of celebration of my new job."

"We already ate on your money the other day."

"Well, you could come to my place, and I can cook, or we could . . . "

"I know. Dad wanted to have you to dinner at our house. Tomorrow evening about seven. I'm cooking curry. Do you like spicy food?"

"Love it. Can you also make chapati, like flat bread?"

"Am I ethnic or what? Of course."

"On that, I accept. It will be nice to see your father again."

"I know he would like to see you, too."

"And Hank will be there."

"Of course, but he eats more plum chutney than any curry. You'll have to get your share before he digs in."

"Thanks for the warning."

"I hope the combination will not be too strong for you. When I cook and cure the plums and do my curry, some guests have been known never to return."

"If it is good, I'll be back. If you invite me. Unless you are trying to get rid of me by some death-by-food scheme." Eh-em looked into Silla's eyes as he said this, and she immediately sensed the attempt to discern depth. She couldn't know, could not even have asked herself the question, because the look was there then gone.

Eh-em continued, "I need a break from diner food and my own cooking. Tomorrow then. Seven. Thanks."

Awakenings are anytime and anyplace. Some pop into awareness and others creep up and we wonder how long it was there trying to get our attention. Some are passing motes and soon disappear, or are dismissed for other things to focus on. Some are no motes and hammer one into sensibility. With Silla, the awakening was sudden and medium big.

She realized she had been stepping back for a time, focusing her attention on Russ and his health problems, as well as his periodic paranoia. That was what she thought she should be doing, taking care of a dear friend who needed her. Russ was better now, and Silla's attentions were those of a long-term intimate with shared and not shared histories. And moving into the future, she felt that closeness would not change. Her personal interests and development would lead her to a different time-space, she hoped. His would likely continue on the course she and Russ could see, although to call it a course implied progress. Russ was not about progress. He was about living a quiet and solitary life each day, week, and month similar to those that came before. The company the two kept was rooted in a past as well as Silla's present of personal news and discoveries, which amounted to reports of changes and events in her life as she lived it. Russ could only listen to her trajectories; Silla could not share Russ's. Given Russ's return from the city and his choice to live in isolation—was it self-designed alienation?—did not warrant the name she knew him by, Brian. He would be this semi-recluse named Russ with the ruddy color from gardening and frequent bouts of coughing and smoking.

Paul the polite and gentle stranger intrigued Silla. Her growing sense of who he was gave her comfort and a desire for his company. He was an unknown, yet the small revelations and the attentions he gave her stirred an appetite. She was unsure, however. In truth she did not know who he was, not his past, not even his tastes in books or travel or friends or more intimate things. Having had one disturbing experience with relational ambiguity, she wanted her next—there would be a next—to be clear from the start. Paul was a soft soul, but how soft—feminine soft, unisex soft, sensitive masculine soft? She hoped for something like sensitive but thought she would prefer softly masculine and strong, stronger than she was.

Having Paul for dinner was not a risk. His "work" for her in the gallery was not a threat. What was threatening was the idea that she might be prey to his almost stealthy powers as evidenced by hints of mentation in writing and in deed, lately those ever so fleeting looks at or into her. Now he would have a key to her gallery and the images that she saw and chose to display, which were as windows into her soul. Would that his watercolors showed the same to her, but she could not find that key to his interior in landscapes in the medium of watercolor. Too much ill defined. No tangible details to hold her reality of him still. There were no captivating creatures or scenes or portraits, except one, and that was but a vague reference to himself in black and white and gray.

If a romantic interest were to appear, it was taking its sweet leisure. Astrologers are never spot on, at best suggestive of things that might come to pass, often in a not-so-recognizable form. The only slight possibility so far was Eh-em and his recent but shy assaults into Silla's self-space. She felt there were really no actual connections yet with her soul. She was not even sure these trespasses had occurred, or if they did, she did not know what they meant except polite eye contact when conversing. Eh-em was an acquaintance, an attractive man, someone she could come to know if her comfort with him continued as it had begun, someone the family could entertain over a home cooked meal. That for now was the edge of the beyond, and the beyond was just that, out there somewhere, somehow, somewhen.

*******

"So who is Silla Sheridan or Hardrey or whatever. I'm confused."

"Are you ready for a story?"

"Always," said Eh-em.

"I'll try to make it short because it's not that interesting. More like embarrassing." Silla looked at him for that brief moment to decide whether or not she had his trust and could continue.

"My mom died shortly after she and my father came here. She was a child of missionaries in India. My mom was a free spirit, I'm told. You with me?"

"Sort of."

"Well, I was born Silla Banerjee. My father is my father. They came here to have me, because my grandmother, father's mother, and mother thought it would be best to deliver in this country. Safer or something. I think it was all about something else, but that is their story. So my father and mother come here. I am born. Then my mother dies. Just after that and by the time I was a teenager, I was Hardrey, because my Indian name was too difficult for people in school, and my stepmother's was recognized and easy. But about fourteen I went through an awful stage. I didn't know where I belonged. By that time my father and stepmother had married, and like that. I had to become legally someone."

"Go on."

"Well, I wanted to have my own name, my own identity. You ever have that feeling? I'll bet you do. Anyway, I wanted to change my name. I landed on Ursilla Sheridan. Ursilla was a compromise because I was already Silla. Am I boring you?"

"Not a bit."

"Sheridan came from the guy who said, 'The only good Indian is a dead one', or something like that. I didn't understand it exactly because he was talking about American Indians, not me. But I thought I could get rid of my skin color, my Indianness and all of that and become with a name change, someone else, someone who I could become . . . there was a lot of mixed up religion and spirituality in my family, as you can imagine, 'cause my second mom and my dad met in Berkeley, and he was teaching oriental spirituality. Anyway, long story short, I went ahead and had my name changed. I am Ursilla, that is Silla, Sheridan. And I guess it's going to stay that way. Until I get married, if I ever do."

"You will."

"You can never be too sure about that, except in India. But we are not in India, and I am trying my best to move beyond reacting and rebelling to some person more accepting. Taking people and especially myself for who we are. For who I am. This is getting to be too much. Sorry. You asked."

"Yes, I did. You have helped clear things up, except tell me about how your dad took all of this."

"Another time. Your turn."

"It's getting late."

"Come on, I will tell you."

"So we can talk again."

"But I want to hear about you now."

"You sound plaintive."

"I am, just now. Not usually."

"Good. I like my women sometimes plaintive and other times . . . "

"My women. No one said . . . "

"I know. So it's late."

"You are good at avoiding things."

"Specialty. Survival."

"Okay, another time."

*******

"My name is Paul Eh-em. It is said with two syllables, but I like what it does to people when they question me—'Just like the letter M? only?'"

"So you like to create the enigma."

"Something like that. It is also about. . . . " Paul too hesitated telling something about himself, trust being the same issue. But it was more about whether or not to trust himself.

"About what?" asked Silla.

He surrendered. He would not fully expose his vulnerable underside, just a hint. "About not being sure of myself. I have had some disappointments these last few years, and they have caused me to doubt. And not take big risks."

"I'd say coming to Upton, renting a house and having no job is a big risk."

"Not as big as you might imagine. For example, I came here and started talking with your father about buying his business. So there was from the beginning the practical detail which would allow an easy move from where I was to here, right?"

She countered, "But you rented the house after you found out he wasn't going to sell. Isn't that the chronology?"

"That's because you encouraged me to stay in Upton and think of other options."

"That's not fair. That's not what I meant." She continued, reflecting on what he had revealed. "You know, you aren't the only one to be disappointed."

"I know. But I sense you have another story to tell."

"Not yet. You owe me more first."

"I just told you . . . something important."

"Not in any detail. The details, Eh-em. Details." She continued to say his last name as one syllable.

"I prefer Mystery Man, or Paul."

"I'll think about that. I am not sure we know enough about you to get all familiar. But you are lucky. Off the hook. Because I have to go. I have to get up early tomorrow. I've got some things to do."

What she said had so much about it that seemed substantial. She would think about _some_ thing. She didn't know enough of _some thing_ to warrant _some other thing_. A judgment, a clear _something_. _Someone_ was lucky. _Someone_ gained something. She had to go _somewhere_. For some reason she had to rise early. She had _some things_ to do.

_All so seemingly concrete and definite and finite. So different from me._

_I confess at this point that my story is not chronological in a precise way. As I live and as I experience things I want to talk about and preserve in some way, I lose the thread. Sometimes I even paint over because the thread is the wrong one or not quite the right one. It should be linear, but that is not how time, my internal experience of it, goes. So days and weeks and months, maybe even years, fuse and jumble around and fall into chinks and chunks, all related somehow, all revealing the landscape or the guise or the character . . . but you can't take the framework of minutes and hours, much less days, and lay that framework over things so that they make that kind of sense. The kind of sense I find is in the looser and partial views I recall—selected pictures—and then I write them down and let them make their own connections and expressions._

_Curious though. I seldom go back and read and edit in or edit out things. I do go back and look at my paintings, however. Why this story interests me and I keep at it . . . I suppose it is a transition time in my life and in its own way asks to be reified. Not for the world but for maybe only one other. Russ now has that role. Not forever. Perhaps it's for the children I may never have._

_So much uncertainty, and to cope with that disturbing reality, I want to have at least something to hold onto. I guess I envy her her certainties and purposes and her unfolding flower of self._

*******

The meeting over glasses of beer and several sodas and colas at Ben's took place on a Tuesday evening beginning at six. The topic was baseball for the kids who were too young for jobs but big enough to get into minor mischief during the summers in Upton. The elementary school principal, Bud Spenser, acted as a kind of chairperson, initiating and guiding the discussion. What was needed, he summarized from what someone had said to him before the meeting, was an organizer, someone who liked kids and knew something about baseball.

Mrs. Lovelace made the point that her son and daughter had no interest she knew of in baseball. Couldn't we send out a questionnaire asking parents to ask their children what kinds of organized activities they would be interested in? Patta said that he would sponsor a team in exchange for advertising space on the outfield fence. Old Mr. Dodge objected to any increase in his property taxes. How he figured that there might be some tax to support local sports or activities no one could figure. Mr. Franklyn said something like if there is the opportunity to play some sport or have a day camp, the kids would come just because other kids were doing it. Ms. Goodbuddy, a teacher at the school, said that the gym teacher might be interested in helping out after school before the summer started, for extra pay. Mr. Spenser politely ignored this comment and tried his best to corral the ideas as people showed signs their attention spans did not exceed the average kindergartner's. Ben called for more drink orders, and shortly after that the meeting broke up. In a final plea for closure, Mr. Spenser said he would write some minutes to the meeting and communicate via his de facto child message delivery service in a few days. He would include all children in the missive. He would also propose another meeting. Ms. Goodbuddy said the bar was not the proper place to be conducting business about the health and welfare of the children.

Eh-em and Patta shook their heads and walked out into the evening. It was dark. There was enough time, they consoled themselves, to sort out some alternatives for next summer. Hank was not present, of course. The meeting was held in a bar after all. But his father told him nothing had been decided. It was rather chaotic, he said. Hank left the room feeling neither encouraged nor discouraged. For his part Eh-em regretted starting all of this. He had not realized the complexities of just getting a couple of teams together—girls, boys, girls and boys mixed, he didn't care—and playing America's favorite pastime. It looked like nothing would come of the idea, which he could now claim was someone else's, and having no child, he would not be receiving a missive via the child message delivery service.

Time passed, and Eh-em kept his promise to cover the gallery when Silla was not there. Silla also kept her schedule and waited and watched as Eh-em came and went. With various excuses she showed up when Eh-em was writing or puttering around the gallery. She had nothing much to do except try to get his attention, or so Eh-em sensed. Often she would appear at closing and wait for an invite to Eh-em's just to visit or for dinner. Reciprocation she called it. Finally Eh-em became too embarrassed not to invite her. He asked if Russ might like to join them. Silla said she would ask.

Long hours in a gallery with no visitors create fantasies which sometimes approximate reality. And so on a Saturday evening, Silla and Russ would come in through the gate and mount the porch for an evening meal. Eh-em would meet them at his door and suggest they have appetizers on the porch first.

The whites of her eyes were what he noticed first. That and the fact that she was pretty. Her dark eyes and dark skin hit him next. And hit him they did, for his reaction was like that deer we imagine caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. He stopped, stared, didn't move until the awkwardness of the silent pose broke the stasis.

Silla was five feet eight or nine, just three or so inches shorter than Eh-em. Although he did not enter her measured space, he knew this to be true and imagined their being closer physically, breathing shared air, touching. Silla hid her figure under loose fitting long skirts and cropped halter-like tops. When Eh-em spied her flat tummy, he feared he could not contain himself, but he did. He had to. He dared nothing. She appeared thin—he had seen her in her bathing suit. She appeared straight and tall with gracious, gentle curves. Her skin had a hint of olive and her hair was dark brown or black depending on the light. She could style it in a number of ways, and often Eh-em discovered a new Silla whenever she changed jewelry or the simple textile accessories she wore. She sometimes carried a backpack. In it she had her camera and several lenses and extra film. She wore sandals, but often they were unseen. Her skirts were that long. Always clean and fresh, she smelled sometimes of flowers in full bloom, or that she had just washed with scented soap. She had fine features and full lips. She wore little jewelry, mostly gold, including, occasionally, dangly earrings with semi-precious stones. Her fingers were long and thin. She used her hands and her arms to gesture but never exuberantly. Always slowly and precisely. She was soft spoken. She seldom adjusted or touched her hair; whereas, she was often re-positioning her hands and arms. She usually sat leaning forward with crossed legs. She switched one to the top of the other and back again quietly as to relieve pressure while maintaining her attention on someone or something. She had no blemishes or birthmarks that could be seen, although she said she had a scar from a childhood injury. It was on her thigh. She did not consider herself a beauty, and so did not carry herself reflecting such an image. Rather she felt she was quite ordinary. She had no self consciousness of ethnicity and did not derive any advantage or disadvantage from the way she looked. Others, on the other hand, found her striking, and men and boys could be seen watching her. She paid no attention, but more than once she scolded people for not taking their eyes off her. She said they were "objectifiers," people who do not know that each spirit is an honest and unique shining light in the body that is its vessel in this life. So she waxed philosophical even though it is unclear how deeply these ideas went. She sounded like a guru without being one. She disliked religious pretense and pretense of all kinds. Her outlook was that she was not the same person long enough for people to stereotype—and wasn't everyone like that?

So although knowing someone, at least a little of their background, was interesting and maybe important, this is offset by ready acceptance. Silla perhaps got this from her father. He asked few questions and took people as they were. "What else can someone be but who they are?" one could hear each of them saying. Look at the present behavior and appearance and that is what you get. Tomorrow it might be the same or different, and at that time you will have to take the picture again: To see and hear who you are dealing with as if for the first time. We are what you see and hear we are today.

Eh-em came to his own conclusion in response to his discoveries of Silla. He liked to take customers he did not know as his example. They come in one day and they are on a hunt and worried. The next day they are who they are that day, and it could be amused or cranky or whatever.

Whether these philosophies were in any way the same, or one philosopher could learn from the other, it would be up to each. Breathe in and out slowly and realize: We have a certain number of breaths or heartbeats before business closes and we are other than we were, or gone. Today's agenda means we're off and on to other adventures.

*******

"Hi. Dinner ready? Russ couldn't make it."

## Chapter 13: Into the unknown

"Said he wanted to stay home. You know how Russ is, not much interested in socializing. But I brought one all the way from San Francisco. Eh-em, I would like you to meet Melissa. Melissa, Eh-em. Stands for Mystery Man. But if you are nice, you can call him Paul."

Eh-em held out his hand and Melissa took it softly as Silla held out a bottle of California red, Louis Martini, vintage recent. Melissa tried her eye contact trick on Eh-em but it didn't get a reaction.

"It's cheap which means you can down it without guilt."

"We can down it," Melissa chimed in.

"I'll have one glass. I don't think the rest will get either of you drunk. Perhaps we should have picked up another bottle?" Silla looked at Melissa."

"That's okay," said Eh-em. "I usually start with beer. In fact I already have. I drink when I cook and when I anticipate special guests."

"Hear that? We are special."

"Maybe he only means one, Russ, since he didn't know you would be coming with me." Silla threw a mischievous smirk at Melissa as she cast out her line.

"Maybe he meant Russ and you," the _you_ getting the heavy beat.

Silla addressed Eh-em. "Maybe. So which is it, Paul?"

"You guys like meatloaf, potatoes and peas? Since you asked about the menu for this evening."

"Clever, as seems to be your way," said Silla shaking her head recognizing the pattern once more.

Paul was heading for the kitchen after he announced the evening's fare. He called over his shoulder, "Got to check on the potatoes."

"He's sweet. You like him?" asked Melissa.

"I haven't thought about it," shrugged Silla.

"Well, do you now?"

"Yes. But I don't know him. Well, almost not at all."

"I can help you with that. But I might like to keep him for myself."

"Be my guest." Another shrug.

"That's no way to. . . . "

The young women quickly composed themselves. Eh-em was back with a beer mug in his hand. He invited the women to sit down, and he could serve the wine, or was anyone up for a beer? Perhaps something else? Silla didn't want anything. Just wine with dinner. Melissa said she'd get started on the wine.

"Could we have a tour first?"

"There's not much to see. Well, just a minute." Paul disappeared for a moment and returned. He said it was a self-guided tour. He would get Melissa's wine, and he had things to do in the kitchen. "Please don't disturb the painting on the easel. It's not dry, not finished yet."

"We won't."

The women walked from the living room into the sun room which functioned as Paul's studio. There was a small table with paint tubes and brushes on it, also a pallet smeared with dried paint. There were racks against the back wall with canvasses and frames in it perpendicular to the wall. There was also a v-shaped rack with unmounted, unframed watercolor paintings of various sizes. Toward the windows in the center was an easel turned so that it caught the light from the windows. There was a white cloth covering the whole thing so that it looked like a pin-headed ghost staring out the window.

Melissa whispered, "Shall we take a peek?"

"He said not to."

"Just a peek." Melissa lifted the sheet from the bottom and held it up to see about three quarters of the painting. It was a portrait of a girl with dark skin in a white swimming suit. She lifted it a bit higher and saw an unfinished face and a sketch of a head with what appeared to be a flower on the subject's right side. "I wonder who it is," said Melissa.

"Secret lover, probably," offered Silla.

"Imaginary secret lover I bet."

Eh-em called from the living room. "I have appetizers here when you're ready."

Melissa dropped the cloth and the two skittered out the door and into the hall leading to the one bedroom and bath and back porch. The bed was neatly made, the bathroom clean and bright, and the back porch held a washing machine and cleaning supplies. Mop, broom, that sort of thing. There was also a new bicycle in the corner. It looked like it had never been used.

"What's upstairs?" Silla called as they re-entered the house from the back porch.

"Couple of rooms. I'm not using them right now. I only need a little space since it's just me. But I plan to. . . . " His words were lost as the women whispered something to each other.

"Why are we whispering?" asked Silla.

"I don't know. You started it."

"We're not spies."

"No, but it is fun to snoop around other people's houses."

The women returned to the living room.

"The kitchen is in here. There is a dining room off it towards the side yard. I thought we would eat in the kitchen, but since we have a special guest, we can eat in the dining room."

"See, still at it," said Melissa.

Silla asked, "Which one of us is the special guest?"

"You both are. Special guests. And I'm your loyal host."

Melissa commented, "Loyalty. I like that in a man, although I cannot boast I am."

"You're saying you are not? The opposite being promiscuous," Silla provoked.

"No, not exactly. You could say I'm promiscuous with my emotions, though."

"All women are," Eh-em almost whispered. But the women didn't skip a beat.

So began verbal play and a discussion that off and on carried them through dinner. The meatloaf was divine per Melissa, who repeated saying this along with her eye-contact trick several times. Silla began with two quick glasses of wine, which made for a fair share for each of the women. Paul continued with beer leaving the wine to his guests, and animated conversation continued for almost two hours after dinner before the women said they should be going. Eh-em didn't pick up on the hint and introduced a new topic.

Would working in Red Bluff or Redding be an option for him to consider. He had to get back to making money, he confessed. Melissa was silent through the conversation that followed, but after about ten minutes she asked Eh-em why he had sold his business in San Francisco. Eh-em, as if now a car caught in an animal's penetrating gaze, said it was a good decision and he had to move on.

"Move on from the business or living in the city or what?" asked Silla.

"Well, all of it really. I just found that the business no longer interested me much. The clientele changed from when I started with my partner."

"Who was your partner?" inquired Melissa.

"Lance Bundell. He's still there, at Denny's. He bought me out. I think he borrowed some of the money from one or two of his friends. Do you know the store?"

"Yes, on Union Square."

"It's mostly for men, but nowadays the customers are mostly, um, mostly gay. Not that I'm against that. But it became . . . I don't know how to describe it."

"Paul, are you gay? I wouldn't have guessed," ventured Silla.

"I would have," said Melissa as she laughed to take away any tension Silla's directness might have caused.

"Would it make a difference if I were?" said Eh-em.

"Don't do that. We want a straight answer. And Silla here wants a straight guy." Melissa was feeling a bit of the wine, and she seemed comfortable in conversation games of risk and chance.

"Silla wants?" said Eh-em.

"Don't listen to her. It doesn't matter whether you are gay or from Mars. It was a lovely dinner, lively conversation . . . and now it's getting too, er, lively. Let's go," mollified Silla.

"Wait a minute. I haven't finished yet." Melissa was back.

"Did you drink more than we saw?" Silla asked Melissa, increasingly uncomfortable with what she had started. That didn't stop her. "No. Now, Paul. Are you?"

"Am I what? Oh, you mean . . ."

"Well?" Melissa waited for an answer; she wouldn't let it go.

"I am not gay. The real reason I left San Francisco and all of that was I wanted a different life."

"Well, you moved to the right neighborhood, only Russ isn't much into you. Not yet." Silla felt she had lost any control she might have had and joined in. The evening was on a downward slide.

"I hope he won't be, if I understand you correctly," said Eh-em seriously.

"You understand. He's epicene." Melissa was feeling loquacious.

Eh-em couldn't let the slide go further. "I see. But let me be clearer for you. You asked and it is only right to be clear, if that matters. I don't think it does. But that doesn't matter. But you're obviously interested. I am not gay. In fact, I could adore women. I could adore a woman."

"As Lady Bracknell said, 'That is no assurance of respectability'." Melissa tried to keep the game going.

"I think she was talking about something else," Silla added.

"What else was Oscar Wilde?" continued Melissa.

"Gay, I guess," said Silla.

"Right," said Melissa.

Eh-em tried to end it with, "Well, I'm not. In fact, I have my eye on a young woman right now."

"Really. Who?" asked Melissa.

"Yes, who? Do I know her?" asked Silla.

"Well, I need to do the dishes before going to bed. Time for you two snoops to drive on down the road or your car will turn into a pumpkin." Eh-em was finished, but the women could not tell if he was irritated or not. Silla hoped not.

"Oh, I wish. Should I leave a shoe behind on the front steps?" Melissa suggested.

"Well, then you will have lost a shoe, I'm afraid. Better keep 'em—you're wearing sandals—strapped on. Both of you. I see no glass slippers and there is no prince anywhere around here as far as I can tell." Eh-em frankly didn't know how to end it. He was pulling at strings, hoping for closure in what had become decidedly awkward.

Silla soberly suggested, "Come on. It's getting late. Besides, Paul is pretty stubborn about his privacy," Silla looked toward the door. "We should be thankful he even invited us to his house and dinner."

"Silla, you seem to have missed the point. Paul invited you, didn't you Paul?"

"It was great having you both here. When you are in town again, Melissa, I can buy the fixings for Silla's curry and we can cook it here. That is if you want to." Eh-em said, this with a sincere smile on his face and clear anticipation that he could entertain another dose of reality. A good sport, he held no hard feelings and gave each woman a generous hug before they left.

The "you" in next time was ambiguous, but it clearly included Silla. It was her curry he was talking about. This Melissa pointed out in the car on the way back to Upton. As they fell into the twin beds in Silla's room in their cotton intimates, each fell asleep contented that the evening had gone not well exactly, but . . . gone. One dreamed about how fun it was to snoop into other people's lives. The other thought about how intriguing some people were and that pursuing was a delightful game of skill and anticipation and would occupy some of her energies in the coming days. But without alcohol.

*******

Eh-em saw a film. Not a great film but a good one. It had flaws, but the themes and tropes were the same or similar. The lead characters had bad dreams, and they wished to hide or run from different things. They discovered themselves through discovering each other. There was a small town with limited economic opportunities, and one had to have a day job to pursue art. Family and history and reconciling the past before living in the present—these too were prominent. Evasion and questions one dare not ask, looks that arrested or penetrated to the core, failing or succeeding, first impressions not being correct as events and experience revealed truths about people . . . all of these at play in the film.

Are romantic stories about this dance, always about the dance and getting the right rhythms and steps before two can flow together seamlessly? Is seamless the object? always? Will something less suffice? And for how long will the music play which motivates and gives tone and significance to this play-acting on a stage?

Eh-em was definitely acting on a stage. He didn't have to. Silla played herself in the quiet drama of her life. She had to. There was no other way. Melissa played knowing what she was doing was playing. She enjoyed herself and had no intentions of hurting anyone.

*******

Silla jumped into Melissa's bed in the morning and reviewed everything that happened the evening before. Melissa said Paul was a catch, if Silla could loosen him up. Silla asked Melissa if Eh-em was her type. Melissa wanted to know more about Paul's painting, and didn't Silla say he was writing a story? Silla confessed she didn't know much about either except for what Paul had hung in her gallery. Melissa said that if she were Silla she would snoop around some more. But how could she? The Indian curry delivery service could show up with his order for two unannounced, and stay to help him realize his . . .

"Now that's stretching it," said Silla.

"Well, you'll think of something," said Melissa. I have to get going. "I have another dinner date in the City, and it's a long drive." After they dressed and said good-bye, they kissed each other one cheek then the other and promised to get together soon. "Give my love to Paul," commanded Melissa as she started her car and put it in gear.

"I will," said Silla, and she meant it, as an opportunity at least to see him again.

Later that day, when Hank came home from school, Silla asked him if he would like to go sometime and bring dinner to Paul. He was a bachelor after all and needed a home-cooked meal from time to time. Hank asked if he could bring a friend.

*******

Eh-em walked up the concrete path to the front steps of the Hardrey home. With a bottle of white wine in his hand and a thank-you card for Silla in a yellow envelope, he rang the bell. Hank opened the door immediately. He said he was hungry and couldn't wait any longer for dinner. His big sister would not let him get into the chutney before Eh-em arrived. Now that he was here he could, but his sister, wiping her hands on a white tea towel with yellow stains said he would have to wait till they all sat down at the table. A disappointed Hank asked when dinner would be ready and was told in about half an hour. He slinked off towards another part of the house without further word.

"Here is some wine. It's already chilled."

"Wonderful. I like a glass of white wine. My father doesn't drink, so you'll have enough for yourself. I think it goes good with curry."

"What kind of curry are you cooking," asked Paul as they walked down the hall from the front entry to the kitchen at the back.

"Lamb. You like lamb?"

"Of course. Not too keen on seafood, but lamb is great."

"Good. We don't get good seafood up here. You have to go to the city or the coast for that."

"Did you say you made chutney?"

"Yes, I do," she said as Patta came into the kitchen.

"Hello there stranger. Haven't seen you for a while. Welcome to our home."

"Thank you. It is nice of you to invite me. I was just asking about Silla's chutney."

"Oh, yes," said Patta. "She makes it herself. Can't keep her brother away from it. He'd rather eat the chutney than the curry. For him it's chutney with curry not the other way round."

"I'm like that with some foods."

There was a silence for half a minute and then Paul asked, "Can I help with something?"

Silla said everything was ready except for the rice. Did he like rice? Paul said he did. They exchanged these pleasantries for a few minutes, and then Patta asked Paul about Silla's studio.

"Are there many people coming in to look?"

"No, not many. Silla, does business pick up around holidays?" asked Eh-em.

"A little. We need more things to sell. Russ was going to give me some carvings to display, but he hasn't yet. I will have to ask him."

Patta's face showed he had something to say. "Do you think the location of the gallery is good, for traffic that is?"

"It's okay, I think," said Eh-em. "It's right across from Mrs. Johnson's and sometimes people stop and park in front. Art is not a big draw in a rural town, though."

Patta laid his card on the table. "I don't think it is, but I don't want to discourage Silla. She has loved her photography for years, and I think she is very talented. Maybe you both need to do something to promote your work."

Eh-em quickly added that his watercolors had never been shown much less put on sale before.

"That's not my point," said Patta. "I think you both need better exposure. Silla shows in Sacramento and other places sometimes. I don't think that is enough either."

"Dad, I can think about it. There must be something more I can do. I am showing at a retreat center in Lake County. Did I tell you?"

"No, where is that?"

"Near Middletown. People who go on these retreats can see my work when they eat in their dining room."

"How did you arrange that?"

"Oh, it's a long story. Dinner's ready."

A formal table had been set, and Eh-em poured the wine for Silla and himself. He set the bottle between them. Hank enthusiastically dug into the chutney as his main course. Silla said she had brought out extra from the pantry because Hank liked it so much. His plate was a lot of rice, a little curry, and a ton of chutney.

"Let Eh-em have some." She took the chutney from Hank and offered it to her father first and then Eh-em. She spooned just a little on the side of her dish. She said it was supposed to enhance the flavors of the curry and lamb and she didn't need much. Eh-em ate with enthusiasm.

"Beats Dot's," he said.

"Almost anything beats Dot's," said Patta.

"I like Dot's," said Hank.

"I don't," repeated his father.

"I like Dot's also but this is better," Eh-em said.

"I sure hope so," said Silla.

Patta was finishing his small portion and popped the question, introducing it with a kind of rationale. "You know, exposure and traffic are two things necessary for a shop to sell. Also being in the sun in winter. Silla's place, well, not hers exactly. She pays rent, you know. It's in the shade most of the year. Better to be where people come and go. Like the hardware store."

"Yes, you have a good location. Center of town. Sun. That all works for you. Plus, the only hardware store," said Eh-em.

"There is the lumberyard south of town, but they carry things I don't, or better to say, I have things they don't."

"That's right. How is business going?" Eh-em wasn't getting the drift.

"Good. Good. But I have an idea. Silla and I started talking about it, and I have come up with something. Silla do you remember what we talked about?"

"What was that?"

"About moving your studio to the garage."

"Yes, but I thought you had to work some figures or something."

"Well, I have worked it all out, and since Eh-em is here I think we can all talk about it again."

Patta looked at Eh-em as if he were expecting an answer also. "I'm in the dark. Don't ask me."

"Well, maybe you don't remember but I offered to sell you the garage."

"I sort of remember. I haven't thought about it much . . . "

"I can understand. So here's my proposal."

"I like proposals," said Silla. Hank was silent, licking a spoon with traces of plum chutney on it.

"I could sell you a half interest in the garage, and you and Silla can move your art there. Silla doesn't have to pay rent. I give her half; the other half is yours. You both will own it, and of course not pay any rent. A small but good investment. If you two have a falling out or you want to move away from Upton, Silla can buy your half back, at market price, of course."

"Sounds interesting. What is in it for Silla?"

"Well, she and Hank are all I have, and they will get the business and property. That's clear. And you will have a half interest in a prime piece of commercial real estate you can get out of any time you want, at, I think, a profit. There's your investment in business, and in the family."

"But Dad, Paul is not. . . . I wish you would stop assuming . . . "

"I'm assuming nothing. He is a nice person and we all are fond of him, even you Silla, if you admit it."

"I admit it, but he hasn't sold any of his artwork yet."

"Have you, lately?" asked her father.

"No, but that's different."

"Look at it this way. You stop paying rent on that space down the street. You save money there. Fix up the garage into a proper attraction, on the sunny side of the street. The people who come into the hardware store can stop by your, and Paul's, gallery. Better chance of sales. We can even open up a door between the two, so if they are already in my store, you get the idea."

"Yes. Yes, seems good. Paul?"

"We'd be official business partners," noted Eh-em.

"And we can take other works into the gallery. Russ wouldn't object. And I could partition off the back into an office and studio. We could put in some windows in the back for light. Sounds good to me."

"What about expenses?"

"Well, as an owner, you'd have to take care of those. But it's pretty straightforward. Heat, light, property taxes, garbage removal. That's about it. Oh, remodel costs but you can do a lot of that yourselves. You're artists."

"I think only one of us is a real artist," Eh-em observed.

Patta added, "Any investment has its expenses."

"I'll think about it. And we," Eh-em looked at Silla, "can talk about it."

"Yes, we can talk about it. Summer will be here again. That would be about a year since you. . . . " There was a pause, and all found it pregnant with something they could not put a word to.

"Good. That's the proposal," concluded Patta. He was quite content with himself. He knew he was no matchmaker, but he was reasonably successful at business, and so far this was a business proposal to please those he loved and a welcome but no longer stranger.

Eh-em felt he was about to step into the unknown, but it didn't feel too risky, that is if Silla was willing.

## Chapter 14: You open?

Eh-em submitted a few chapters of his story to a writer friend in San Francisco. He read them and forwarded suggestions and encouragement. He knew two small presses that might be interested in publishing. Based on this but with no intent on actually publishing, Eh-em felt encouraged to continue writing, and painting. Portraits, he thought, would be his new emphasis.

_***_

_I have not described myself, although I have revealed parts of myself through what I have done and said. Into the void, at least to dissuade speculation, or to take stock of things._

_I, Paul Eh-em, grew up in Illinois, and after college there, I made my way to San Francisco. When my parents died and I had tried my hand at several jobs I thought would lead me somewhere, I invested in a men's clothing business on Union Square with my small inheritance. I got involved at that time with Jennifer, who I thought was almost the love of my life. But she, knowing she wasn't, or having found someone who was more of that person for her, left me when I said naively I needed to breathe more freely._

_I was three years into the clothing business, and it looked promising. Bunny, my partner, was very talented at choosing soon-to-be-fashionable fashions, so much so that his tastes eventually dictated the store's inventory. Because of his colorful and gay, shall we say, proclivities the clientele became more and more the underground and out-there gender hyper-conscious. I felt a little uncomfortable about the narrow focus, but I was good at selling and other aspects of running a retail business. Success suppressed any reservations that I had about the fashion clothes business, but Bunny's friends, who sometimes came into the store just to flirt with Bunny, started their jugglery on me._

_Parenthetical: I'm not sure who I'm writing this for . . . maybe just for me. Others can listen to what I see and see what I do and make their conclusions. One has to have a sense of self and where we come from . . . and who one thinks one is in order to stand and care, for without doing both, we are not of this world. We are nowhere and no one. I realize now, though, this whole business of identity drives the people around me. And it raises the question for me: why don't I take more of a stand vis a vis my own?_

_It looked like it didn't bother me, the straight guy. I took any kidding about my own coming out good naturedly until one day Brian showed up. Brian was a handsome bisexual and flaunted his person and body such that all within a mile knew something was up with him, not just sensually but sexually._

_By the time I was twenty-eight or nine, my body and soul had left boyishness for a masculinity that both men and women found attractive. I guess I can say it this way. Admit it here. Brian came on to me in spite of Bunny's admonitions to leave me alone. He was a good business partner, the best, and I had clearly indicated my attraction to women. Bunny knew that._

_I am five feet eleven and have dark hair. I wear big, black-framed glasses for reading and working at the books, you know, bookkeeping books, but otherwise I don't need them. I am more Brooks Brothers than Abercrombie and Fitch. Occasionally I don't shave, and the day or two shadow suits my hint of Moroccan heritage. I am not thin, certainly not stocky or heavier, probably about one hundred and eighty pounds and well proportioned. Muscular yet not defined like a body builder or someone who works out. (I don't think any of this matters . . . )_

_I exercised at the Olympic Club. I did not hang around the club but preferred the company of a few male friends, my girlfriend, and an assortment of women artists, mostly younger than me. I had several older friends, artist-teachers from the San Francisco Art Institute where I took classes from time to time, mostly drawing and watercolors. I drink beer in moderation; smoked pot occasionally with friends. I came into contact with the rich diversity that San Francisco offered—not that long ago—and I liked that. The contrast between where I grew up and where I found myself—I preferred the latter. I even attended poetry readings in North Beach when I had time, and when there was someone to go with._

_People said of me, or so I heard, that I am friendly but quiet and private. Business-like, not overly social. I did not socialize with customers or Bunny. Except twice. Once was because I felt I had to. It was Bunny's birthday, and he said I "must come." The other occasion was a downer. I agreed to meet Bunny and Brian and some others at Brian's apartment to drink beer and smoke dope. Peer pressure and a feeling I should be friendly—I have a flaw, being nice—these things more than anything else pushed me there._

_Too many beers and some particularly strong weed put me into a stupor which did not wear off for hours, in fact until the next morning where I found myself naked on the couch with a sheet covering just my privates._

_This gives the whole story away: I had an experience where I thought I saw Brian, standing behind Bunny, who was protesting without effect, approach me in the dark or early morning hours and he touched me. Or was it my imagination? an effect of the debilitating cocktail I'd had? The sheet that partially covered me felt seedy, pardon the word, and that persuaded me that something did. Did happen. By eleven that morning, I had left Brian's apartment ashamed and feeling violated. When the subject of what happened came up later, Bunny pleaded ignorance about anything that may have. Brian returned as usual to the store to purchase stuff and josh with Bunny. They gave each other knowing looks, or so I perceived, and that was when I decided to leave the life and work I had in San Francisco. I was no artist, not in any true sense, just a student and aspiring aficionado. I was not involved with anyone. I was bruised from the breakup with Jennifer. I felt shame about my alleged, is that the word? violation and wondered about any consequences. I felt betrayed by my business partner and one who should have known better. I felt worthy but soiled._

_I got a good price for my share in the business. I was, no, I am still young and not too far committed to what San Francisco was for me then. Another life could be created, and I didn't know what that was, but it was not with these people and not in San Francisco. The place ~~was~~ is too intimately connected with two upsetting events, or non-events. Best to move on, because I could._

_I began then searching for something I could do and in a place very different from what I knew as an adult. Memories and nightmares could be gotten rid of or better managed if left physically behind and with some psychological distance. I had not yet fully realized that wherever you are, there you are, and you have you to keep you company, still. I guess I am right there now, realizing._

_Nothing is behind unless dead and gone, or something new takes its place. That is Upton, at least it appears so. I hope so. There is a Brian nearby, who reminds me to come to terms with what happened and what did not, if I ever want to confront that. I am not sure I want to. There is, however, a very feminine beauty to distract me, if only I could let myself risk intimacy again. But who knows if she could be the one?_

_Why was the phantom encounter with Brian so upsetting and the seeming cause of nightmares and daytime poisonous images that come unbidden? Because I doubted my masculinity. I loved the company of women, but was I bisexual? Something in me did not want to know, and so I was hesitant at every turn where the subject came up. And as much as one represses, that will come up or burst out eventually. I thought I knew this was true from some psych course I took in college. I knew and feared knowing the truth about myself. I was passive in this way, waiting for an answer as much as avoiding situations which would clarify stupid stuff to myself. It is so hard to explain._

_Why was the breakup with Jennifer so painful, after two plus years was it? Because of the same reason. Wasn't I male enough for her? Was my reticent, passive, nice-guy nature a sign of a strong feminine side? and therefore uncertain gender identity or sexual orientation? I had a business that catered to gay men. I worked out at an all-male athletic club. I associated with women of different ages as friends, friends only. I was attracted to art and artists and played at being one. I even liked poetry, where the full spectrum of what gender is plays itself out in the music of words. I felt and still feel I have evidence for my uncertainties._

_I also have evidence to clarify things—my growing attraction to Silla._

*******

Eh-em arrived at the studio early that Friday morning. He unlocked the door and turned the lights on. He surveyed the gallery and poked his head into Silla's work room. Everything was as it should be. The photos and paintings hung silently on the walls and display partitions. Everything was undisturbed yet enough so, disturbed, to reveal that Silla had worked there only the day before. Cuttings of negatives and glossy photos lay on the floor and work table. Eh-em put his sack lunch behind the table they used as a sales counter and went back outside. In his car he pulled out a painting of the girl with a flower in her hair and uncovered it on the sales counter. He looked at it again critically and was pleased. He decided to set it on an old easel from the back storage room. He dusted the easel and placed it just so in front of one of the two windows facing the street. He took the painting and placed it on the easel and directed the spotlight in the soffit toward the painting and turned it on. He went outside and looked in the window. He was pleased with what he saw. He went back to the sales counter and prepared a small handwritten label. He placed the label at the bottom of the painting on the easel. "Girl in Swimsuit." He looked at what he had done and then out the window. Silla was standing there evaluating the new addition. Head cocked slightly to the right, she had a knowing smile on her lips and then looked up at Eh-em. She raised her left hand, made a fist, and held her thumb up. She mouthed "okay" and smiled broadly. The other display window also had an easel, this with a black and white photo of hers.

*******

The phone rang and Eh-em answered. It was a Sunday afternoon at the gallery. There had been no sales and no visitors. Silla asked if Eh-em would like to visit Russ in the evening with Hank. They could look at Russ's carvings and encourage him to let them have a few to display in the gallery. Eh-em agreed. Could they go soon? "This place is dead."

"In about two hours. We've just finished Sunday supper and we're cleaning up." Hank and she would stop by Eh-em's place and pick him up on their way to Russ's.

Russ's place was a mess. It wasn't Killer's doing. As the visitors entered, Russ began collecting old newspapers and magazines from the couch and tossed them into a large wicker basket by the fireplace. He bent down to pick up a dirty mug and two dishes by his nesting chair. They appeared clean, probably courtesy of Killer's interest in what had been on them how long ago? More books here and there on the floor.

"'Scuse the mess. The help quit on me. Tough to get good help these days. You have to pay them as well as provide incentives to do your bidding. Oh, sorry Hank. Forget . . ."

"Brian. You pig. You promised to take better care of yourself. Now what is all this?" Silla was pointing to empty junk food bags she found behind the chair.

"I'm trying. I'm getting to it. I'm better."

"Doesn't look like it," she said as she emptied two ashtrays into one of the empty cellophane bags that had probably contained potato chips some days ago.

"Hi, Russ."

"Hey, Eh-em. Nice to see you."

"Me too."

"Hank could you take Killer out? He hasn't been out in a while and he probably needs to do something. You know what I mean."

"Sure. Come on, Killer." Hank and Killer went out the back and the screen door slammed after them.

"Now, what brings you all the way out here, guys?"

"Well, we guys thought you might have something ready to put in my, er, our gallery."

"I have a few things. But I'm not very happy with them."

"Show us."

"I guess, but don't expect much."

Russ led them out the back door and into a kind of shed where he had set up a woodworking shop. There were a few power tools and lots of wood chips and chisels on a scarred wooden bench. Above and at the back of the bench, there were two shelves with about twelve small carved figures. On the bench was a large block of wood that looked like an animal head was emerging from it.

"These are great," said Silla as she picked up and examined one by one the carvings on the shelves. "Are these finished? They look like it."

"Yep, those are. The ones below I'm still working on, or I haven't decided. I think a couple are for the fire to heat this place. Gets wet and cold in here."

"What are you working on here?" asked Eh-em.

"Think it will be the head of a cat. Mostly head by the shape of the wood."

"Figures," muttered Eh-em.

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Looks like it'll be good. When do you think it will be finished?"

"I dunno. Soon probably."

"Type of cat?"

"I dunno."

Silla nestled up close to Eh-em and showed him what was in her hand. Their arms touched, and Eh-em felt electricity shoot from the connection. It traveled to a primitive part of his brain. Without so much as a hint as to what he was experiencing, he let his arm continue in contact with Silla's. The carving was a boy in batting stance, a baseball player, about ten inches high standing on a round platform about five inches in diameter. Notches and edges on the stand suggested grass.

"Isn't this neat? the details. Look, you can even see his concentration waiting for a pitch," observed Silla.

"Self portrait," said Russ. "When I played as a kid. I did it from what I imagine I looked like. I wasn't good at baseball, didn't even like it. Probably struck out that time at bat."

"It's really good. Is it ready to put in the gallery?" asked Silla.

"I guess so."

Hank and Killer came into the workshop, and Silla showed the figure to Hank. Hank took it in his hands and felt the cuts and grooves with his fingers. "Neat."

Russ said, "That's going to stay with the unfinished look. Some others will get some stain or a sealer. But that's okay as it is."

"Anything else ready to go?" asked Silla.

"Yes, you can take those three pieces." He pointed to the same shelf, and Silla said she would need something to protect them till they found their spot in the gallery. Russ said just to wrap them in some old rags. He had a pile in the corner on top of an old night stand that needed refinishing. "Those old sheets should do."

Silla wrapped each piece and handed the lot to Eh-em. "Russ, would you like to come to the gallery when we have them displayed? You can give them titles and prices and such."

"Naw, you do that. I just make them. Therapy for the soul. I don't have much interest in the arty commercial part."

"We won't know what to sell them for."

"Time, talent, tools, materials, plus some for the gallery space and some extra for me. You can work it out."

"I know nothing . . . " protested Silla.

Eh-em stepped in. "We can talk about it and let you know before we sell anything. How's that sound?"

"Sounds fine. You two will treat me fair, I'm sure."

"We'll do our best," said Eh-em looking at Silla saying with his eyes, "please agree" and "won't we?"

She nodded and added. "I will be interested to see this one finished." She put her hand on top of the head of the emerging cat.

"I will be interested too. In fact, I think your work will add a lot to the gallery. And it gives me another idea," said Eh-em.

"What is that?" asked Silla.

"Oh, I have to think. We can talk about it. I think we should also talk with your dad again about the garage space. I think we can have a real business."

"Okay. Talk later."

"Sounds like you two are getting along just fine," said Russ.

"Yes. Well, sort of. Maybe," Silla said head bowed. This idea for the two was new and not yet accepted fully as such.

"No business of mine. Except I got some stuff you can sell under the counter."

"No, we're not having any of that."

Hank, half listening while poking around the workshop, "What's that?"

Silla played mother. "Nothing. Nothing, is it Russ? Eh-em?"

"No, nothing. Just some small cheap stuff for kids to buy, like homemade candies," Eh-em lamely contributed.

The ride back to Eh-em's became animated, and Eh-em asked Silla and Hank in for something to drink. They agreed that would be perfect. They talked again in admiration of the figures that Russ had contributed to the gallery. Well, Eh-em and Silla did. After eating some ice cream, Hank asked if he could explore the house. He had never been in it before and wanted his own self-guided tour. Eh-em encouraged him, no warnings or restrictions. Eh-em and Silla were alone in the kitchen, and with glasses empty and the enthusiasm winding down about how the gallery would take on a new character, Silla asked what Eh-em's idea was.

Eh-em began. He and Silla were not really partners, business partners. He was just a guest artist in Silla's studio-gallery, and now she had another guest artist, Russ. The works would complement one another, and Eh-em's idea was to open the gallery and expand the collection. In doing so, he wanted to invest and become more of a real partner. After all he had sold a couple of his paintings, and he or Silla sold one of her photos now and then.

How would it be if he, Eh-em, bought into her garage next to the hardware store; they could fix it up to show their own works and those of others, in addition to Russ's. Perhaps it would become a point of interest for Upton. Artists from the area could show and sell. If there was room, they could open a coffee shop and specialty bookstore, one featuring local writers, if there were any, and regional literature. Not a full service bookshop, but just a selection of what might be of local interest. Music on Friday evenings. Readings on Sunday afternoons. Openings for new exhibits. Mrs. J.'s cheesecake. A notice board for the community. The art and photos would create a special atmosphere. The place could even have a name and a theme. Not that the present name of Silla's studio couldn't be used, but maybe a new one that had more of something people could remember.

"You have been a busy boy. Where did all this come from? asked Silla.

"Well, I need to think future. This has been my worry since I got here. It has held me back from getting involved in baseball, from working on my watercolors, from other things. I want to stay in Upton, be a part of something. I'm not saying that helping you out with the studio is not important or that I don't care about you and your work. Er, I mean . . . I don't know what I mean."

He was quiet a moment, and then continued. "I do know that being in business with you would be better than what I did before. It would be different. Clothing—Upton doesn't need a clothing store. It needs a place to gather, to air new ideas, see creative and beautiful things. And I would be able to help you make that happen. Or let me put it this way. We could work together to make that happen. Our art becomes an adjunct and enhancement to a new and bigger idea. Well, your art and my handicraft."

He took a breath and tried to conclude. "This is the most I have said to you since we met. I'm sorry. I'm getting carried away here. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I think all this is great. It would be great fun, but I wouldn't reject the clothing just yet. I have been thinking of a place where women could buy one-hundred percent cotton things. Or maybe that would not go with what you are talking about. Plus, I have been thinking. My photos. I'm thinking of doing more people pictures. But I'm not ready just yet, but this might give me inspiration to expand my photography. It needs something. People like what they see, but not a lot is selling. Not really. Not enough to have a real gallery. I need to start thinking about doing something different without starting all over."

Hank came into the kitchen after his explorations and caught the end of the discussion. When it had tapered off, he gave the question that kids in competition with adults forever talking usually have, "I'm bored. When can we go?"

Silla and Eh-em said they could continue tomorrow. Eh-em offered something more to drink, something to prolong the cathartic moment, but it was gone. Silla and Hank thanked Eh-em for the refreshments and for coming with them to see Russ. Silla stepped closer to Eh-em as they were leaving and leaned forward and hugged Eh-em—as a closer acquaintance but not quite family. And then the two were out the door and gate and into the blue Honda. Eh-em stood in his front doorway encouraged about practical prospects and a little sad he was alone for the rest of the evening. He liked seeing Russ and Hank and having company. Silla's company.

The next morning Silla was at work in her studio when Eh-em arrived at a little before nine to open the studio. Eh-em got to work right away writing in his notebook for later transcription onto typing paper. Silla came out from her studio and asked what he was doing, and he said he was making notes.

"About yesterday evening and what we talked about?"

"Well, that and the story I'm writing."

"You are still writing a story? The same one?"

"Yes."

"Could I read it again . . . to see what has happened?"

"Later," Eh-em said, as a well dressed woman opened the studio door and asked as she was half way through, "You open?"

## Chapter 15: A curve

"Please come in," added Eh-em. He looked around and made sure all the lighting was on and that the place was presentable.

The woman did not hesitate. She looked at Eh-em and asked if she could see the painting displayed in the window. "Could you turn it round so that I can see it in artificial light?"

"Of course." Eh-em moved the easel so that the painting faced the interior of the gallery. Silla stood by the counter shifting her eyes between Eh-em and his notebook on the counter. He had closed it before he went over to help the visitor.

After looking at the painting from different angles, the woman asked, "I don't see a price. Is it for sale?"

Eh-em said it was, but he hadn't put a price on it yet. He also might put it into a competition, perhaps the county fair.

"I wonder if you would let it go." Eh-em knew she was asking again for a price. He was silent, and it looked like he was thinking.

"It's not for sale," Silla said.

Eh-em turned and looked at her as if she were from Mars.

"No. That's why I haven't put a price on it." Silla was taking charge.

"But . . ." began Eh-em.

"But nothing. You know we've talked about it. I'm the model and I've never had anyone paint me. It's a milestone, and your first portrait with a model. We'll keep it."

Eh-em looked sheepish as he shrugged. "I guess that's the answer. It's not for sale."

The woman looked disappointed. However, she was as gracious as she appeared in her tailored country clothes, Ralph Lauren, Eh-em guessed, and said politely, "If you decide to sell it, I hope you will contact me." She offered her card. Ms. Natalie Zapulco, Grand Erie Equestrian Center, Bed and Board for Horses and their Guests. The contact details were below that. She was on Moon Valley Road with a post office box in Upton. The card was stiff cloth stock.

"Yes, we will, Mrs. Zapulco. "

"Natalie, please."

"Natalie. I am Paul Eh-em and this is Silla Sheridan."

"Very pleased to meet you both. Now don't forget, I love that painting. Who is the artist by the way? I now know the model. Lovely." She looked approvingly at Silla.

"It is my work," said Eh-em.

"Oh, yes. Silla is it? You said so. Not paying attention. Well, I'll check back again."

"We might be moving soon. Just to the center of town next to the hardware store. Look for us there if we're not here."

"I will. Thanks."

"Thank you," they both said. And Natalie was gone like a genie from a lamp. Her interest in the painting was a wish both proprietors had been hoping for, as evidence that their business idea had merit.

"The painting is not for sale?"

"No. If we're partners, and I mean partners, we both have to agree on some things. I think that is your best work. I'm not saying that because it is supposed to be me. You can't even see it's me, only you and I know that."

"I never told you."

"But I know. You had my picture above it on the easel when you were painting it."

"You weren't supposed to see that."

"Well, some things we are supposed to see that we're not supposed to see. And some things we have to see that we don't want to see. In any case, I am flattered. And I like it. It is a first in our collection of . . . what do you call them? The permanent collection, or the not-for-sale series? It's how we met, sort of, and I'm sentimental. Can we keep it? for our new gallery or art center or whatever it is you said we could have?"

"Yes. See how easy it will be to have a business together?"

"I don't think it will always be this easy."

Silla and Eh-em talked more about their joint venture. Several times they returned to Natalie. If people were settling in the Upton area, people with more means, and there were more and more reasons to visit Upton, then that might mean that a new business would do well. The number of children filling the elementary school was also a good sign, although art was probably not on the list of purchases their families would make. But there may be some artists and crafts-people among the growing number of people and families settling in and around Upton. Silla and Eh-em infected each other with their enthusiasm about a new and expanded as yet but imagined business. They each planned to work on the idea and details to see where all the talk might lead.

"Before we put Russ's carvings in the gallery, we should get your father to name a price for the garage space. Was that a car repair garage at some point?"

"I don't know, but probably. It is big enough, and there are patches of some kind of oil or something on the floor. Auto body shop, maybe."

"We have to figure out what to do with it to make it into something."

"Right. We have to figure out what to do with the space."

"And a name . . . "

"I agree."

"See. Easy. So far."

The elementary school principal did not distribute any notes about after-school and summer activities or sports. Not that he should have, although he said he would. When Barb asked him about it in the Penny Market, he said he just didn't have time nor would he be able to be involved except to give his blessing. This, according to Barb, meant nothing. One of the parents should take up the idea. By the time Eh-em got word that there was no progress on what he had talked about and supported, he was left again with something he saw Upton needed, but the timing was not right for him personally to take a leadership role. He was sorry for Hank, and so decided to explore other options, if he could, but just for Hank. How could Hank spend his free time—more fun, more interesting than hanging about? Although Eh-em had no children, he knew what he was like at the same age, and he had eyes to see. The growing presence of kids fooling around doing nothing was apparent. Dot's was becoming an after-school hangout for the junior high and high school kids. They'd show up, order one coke or shake for two or three, and sit taking table space for an hour or more before deciding to leave and find another diversion. And Hank was growing fast into this same age.

That evening Silla asked her father about his proposal for the garage. She said that she and Eh-em had talked and were enthusiastic about proceeding. They had big ideas and were going to work out more specifics. They'd like to move in soon. Could her father work out a purchase agreement for Eh-em? Patta was very pleased and said he had drafted something already. He needed to check it with a lawyer, and he knew one in Red Bluff he would contact.

The following week Eh-em decided to start a new painting. He had a picture of Susan throwing a baseball. He stayed home to work and called the gallery to tell Silla he'd be in the following day to continue their talks about their venture.

By the end of the day, Silla was restless and wanted company, Eh-em's. She prepared chicken curry and held out a portion for her father. The rest she packed into plastic containers, put them in a paper shopping bag, and asked Hank if he wanted to go with her to surprise Eh-em with dinner. He did and they both got in the car, with extra chutney, and drove toward Cougar Corner.

Eh-em had finished sketching Susan from the photo he had of her, but the photo lacked details he thought he needed to continue. He planned to take another picture and would ask Hank next time he saw him to ask Susan to pose. Feeling fulfilled at practicing with pencil and some preliminary brush work, Eh-em lit a fire in the wood stove and settled in to a beer and a one-pot meal, which had been simmering on the stove in the kitchen. He turned in early after eating, thinking of what the new gallery-cafe would look like when he and Silla completed re-doing the garage.

Eh-em drove in the following morning to meet with Silla. On his way he noticed two sheriff's cars and skid marks on the highway coming out of Upton. A car had swerved off the road and perhaps had lost control on the shoulder.

Finding the gallery closed, Eh-em went to Dot's for coffee. Silla was supposed to cover the gallery that day, and he would wait for her to arrive. As he entered the diner, he found two at the counter having breakfast. There was a thick silence. Dolly came to his table not smiling as usual, serious.

"You heard?"

"Heard what?"

"You haven't."

Silence.

"There was an accident last night. Hank is in the clinic."

"Silla is . . . "

Dolly couldn't say the words as she brought her hands to her face and tears filled her eyes. She said she was sorry and walked away and into the back to the kitchen. Eh-em got up from the table and rushed over to Clarence, who was standing speechless behind the counter, coffee pot in hand.

"Tell me."

"It was sudden. They say she didn't suffer."

Eh-em could not stand there any longer. He rushed out the door and ran down the street. Then he stopped, turned, and returned to his car. He got in, backed out, and accelerated down the street toward the clinic. He was at Hank's side in minutes. Hank was awake and crying. He could not talk. Patta was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. J. came in as Eh-em stood there and said she would stay with Hank. Eh-em would find Patta at the county hospital in Red Bluff.

"Is Silla?"

"I'm sorry, dear. She's gone."

*******

Recounting the incident and the following days . . . shock and grief-filled times they were. The whole town went into mourning. The hardware store closed and everyone knew it would not open again soon. Those peripheral to the family slowly became aware that there had been a freak accident.

Silla was leaving town toward Cougar Corner and another car was approaching in the opposite direction. A deer had run out of the brush and between the approaching cars. Silla swerved to avoid the deer and the oncoming car. She got off onto the shoulder and the car lost control. It slammed into a tree on the driver's side. The passenger side, where Hank was sitting, had minor damage.

Although Eh-em wanted to go to Red Bluff, he knew Silla was not there. Was she or her spirit somewhere here in Upton? or where the accident had happened? For two or three days he walked around Upton hoping to see her. He went to her studio and looked in the windows. He went to the hardware store and gazed at it from the street. He walked by the Hardrey house several times and then around the block. He went to Ed's gas station to see the wrecked car. He looked in through the broken windshield. He saw blood on the front seat and smelled curry. He turned and walked away and didn't look back.

Eh-em was in shock for days, and next he holed himself up in his house, a house he now had little feeling for. He barely survived the funeral service and could only give both Patta and Hank a sad look of sympathy. They had no words to exchange. Eh-em covered his easel and unfinished canvas with a sheet, and his paint brushes stiffened and became unusable.

Russ attended the funeral and he was unable to speak, the sobs emanating from deep within. He was otherwise awake and alert. He stood by his mother at the service and talked with no one. He left silently when no one was looking.

Barb and her husband Ben were there, and they closed the bar for a week as a symbol of solidarity with Patta and his business. Some complained about this, saying they needed a friendly place to go and be with others and talk during this time, but when the bar opened again, no one said anything about the closure.

Dolly and Doug were at the service. Dolly made a point of giving hugs to Patta, Hank, and Eh-em. She hugged Eh-em longer than would have been comfortable for him under other circumstances. No one said anything about an inexplicable affection they seemed to share. Perhaps they didn't notice. Doug seemed to understand fully the ways of these two, mere strangers not a year ago.

A few weeks after the funeral, the phone rang at the Hardrey's. A Melissa called for Silla. Hank gave the phone to his father, and he had to say aloud again that his loving daughter had been killed in an accident. Melissa was speechless, but managed to say, "My condolences to you and your family." Patta hung up, but he felt there was not much of a family left to receive condolences. The Hardrey home was a house, like Eh-em's. It was not as it was, not as it should be.

_I have to admit it is hard to write my story these days. The shock of Silla's death has hit me, and I have tried to continue as a story should; but this is personal. And I in first person have to accept and find peace just as others have to in Upton. I am not family and I reside outside, in fact and by choice. But it still has shaken me. We hardly knew each other._

_This experiment, for that is all it was ever meant to be, this writing has been about the me who would distance himself from his self. I know that now. Safer has been my unconscious as well as calculated way: I would keep my distance in Upton until, until . . . I don't know when._

_Which is the point. I don't know where it is all going or why I am doing this. And because this is not a good time for me as I sort out what to do and how to react to this loss, I will suppress what I know and not speculate about what for sure I don't know. Some psychologist would have more to say, but I am not that person. I am no psychologist. I am just me and trying to cope and find my way._

After the funeral Russ was seen in Upton more often. He and his mother visited each other at least once a week for coffee or a meal. Mrs. J. was determined to see that her son was healthy, taking good care of himself, and eating properly. Russ continued with his clandestine agricultural hobby, but he consumed less inventory. He predicted that one day weed would be legal and he would be a prophet. He'd be proud of having cultivated the crop and known how to use it judiciously. His health improved slightly. Smoking anything was part of his coughing problem.

Two months after the accident Eh-em went to Silla's studio. He intended to open it for business but quickly realized that there were practical matters that no one had talked about. There were bills on the floor that had been poked through the letter drop in the door. The lights were off. The electric bill had not been paid. Mrs. Corday had left a handwritten note to Eh-em or Patta. Could they please contact her about the lease. Silla's work table and studio were as she left it, as if in use but not for a while. The place was hollow, foreign, cold.

Eh-em went to visit Patta. Patta opened his front door. He looked as if he had aged ten years. Eh-em apologized for disturbing him, but could he clear out the studio and store Silla's and his things in the garage. Patta said that would be fine and quietly closed the door after saying thanks.

Natalie drove up to the hardware store as Eh-em was carrying things into the garage. She recognized him and asked, "Why is the store closed? Hasn't been open every time I've been in town lately."

Eh-em briefly explained the situation, and Natalie was shocked. "Such a pretty girl. And assertive. I liked her immediately."

Eh-em added, "Yes, we all miss her. We miss her spirit."

"You liked her a lot, didn't you?"

"We were just getting to know each other."

"I am truly sorry. If there is anything I can do . . . "

"Nothing just now, thanks."

"Bye."

"Good-bye."

*******

Russ was at home and cheerfully greeted Eh-em.

"Just stopped by to see how you're doing."

"Thanks. I'm good. Pretty good. You?"

"Still not doing well."

"Want some house blend?"

"No. No thanks. Won't help." Eh-em looked as if he were already in a stupor. "Not really. Doing any carving, er, sculpting lately?"

"Almost finished one piece and started a few others. But my heart's not much into it. Ever since, you know."

They continued the small talk a bit longer, and then Eh-em said he'd be getting back home.

"Don't spend too much time alone. Not good for your head."

"I suppose not. Come for dinner one of these evenings."

"Okay. I will. Name a time."

Eh-em cleared his throat. "Today. Today would be fine. I have some things I could fix. You particular about any foods?"

"Not anymore. If I ever was. Can I bring something?"

"Just yourself. Killer of course. About six? I eat early these days."

Russ and Eh-em both felt more comfortable with each other. Russ was in an altered state, one more alert and less restless. He attributed it to a change in his ways. Eh-em had placed any apprehension he had about what he sensed about Russ at first and about what his relationship with Silla was. Not that he didn't care but he just accepted who Russ was, whoever he was. He was like that in San Francisco. He had to be, unless placed in some uncomfortable situation. But he felt he knew Russ to be a sincere loner and alternative entrepreneur. Russ's ailment, whatever it was, seemed to be under control. Perhaps he was taking his medications and not self-medicating as much. It didn't matter to Eh-em.

At Eh-em's later that day, Eh-em inquired. "That cat bust. Did you ever finish it?"

"I worked on it but it is still like birthing. Doesn't look bad the way it is, but it was not meant to be like it is. I don't have much energy or something to fix it. Silla and her gallery idea kind of motivated me. But now not so much."

"Are you saying it is almost finished, or if someone didn't know, they might think it is supposed to be like that?"

"Yeah, sort of. Come by and take a look if you like."

"Maybe I will. What kind of cat did it end up?"

"Mountain lion. Color of the wood fits. I don't know what it would look like if I really finished it off and stained it or sealed it. It's just sitting there right now. Staring at anyone who comes into the workshop. Not that anyone does except Killer, and he ignores it."

"Where is Killer now?"

"At home. Guarding the house. I left him inside to bark if anyone comes round."

"Maybe I should get a dog."

"Great for company, if you get a good one. You should have some kind of companion here. Nice place. You've fixed it up. I like the wine colored wall."

"I don't have any feeling for the place anymore."

"No? It's nice. I should do something with my place, but I'm lazy. My mom is on my case about it."

"I really like your mom."

"My sister has the best of my mom. I have maybe the worst, not of her but my dad."

"Your sister?"

"Yes, I have a sister. In Iowa. A writer. Does a lot of volunteer work."

"Really?"

"Silla said you wrote. Did you tell me that?"

"Some. Nothing serious. Kind of stalled right now."

"My sister's into gender stuff. I'm the black sheep. She's the black ewe. We both are . . . different in the same way."

"Oh."

Russ went home early and thanked Eh-em for dinner. He enjoyed the company, but best not to stay too long. "Got to check on the staff and see if they're doing their job." Eh-em was left with the seed of an idea in his mind, but it would take some months to germinate with some loving care and help.

## **Part Two**

_A woman can take a great lesson from the Cougar—she can watch a man and assess his true intentions by his actions, which is his true strength and superiority of character—words are vaporous, it is only the actions that can be trusted._ Presley Love

_To let be_ — _that is, to let beings be as the beings which they are—means to engage oneself with the open region and its openness into which every being comes to stand, bringing that openness, as it were, along with itself._ Martin Heidegger

_You look at where you're going and where you are and it never makes sense, but then you look back at where you've been and a pattern seems to emerge._ Robert M. Pirsig

## Chapter 16: Loose ends

Hank recovered from his minor injuries from the car accident. He was back at school. His father insisted. And he and his friends, Susan among them, spent quiet times together sitting in the park and sometimes playing lackluster catch, or otherwise messing about.

Eh-em invited Hank for a soda at Dot's and asked how he was doing. He reluctantly talked about everything other than his sister and the accident. Eh-em guessed he was dealing with the onset of puberty combined with losing his sister. Eh-em asked about Susan and school and his father. Patta was at home doing nothing. That was all that Hank answered.

Dolly gave them both smiles by kidding Hank and flirting with Eh-em. They looked down in the mouth. She said you both have got to find something or someone to play with. Both Eh-em and Hank remained sedate at the suggestion. Dolly felt there was nothing more she could do to help.

_Writing also thus became empty for me. I went through the motions, but I had no assurance that I was getting the story as it was, as it was being lived and experienced by my character and character-others. Such reservations block making installments (and inventions). Alternatively, my own grief and the lingering question about what to do in Upton kept me from re-engaging life with enthusiasm._

_No gallery. No plan for that or a cafe. No work in Upton. Not painting. Not a real artist. Writing for nothing and no one. Savings slowly dwindling. Time passing._

_It is funny how threats tend to help one focus, especially threats like keeping a roof over one's head and eating._

*******

"Patta, can we talk for a bit?"

"Yes, Paul. Come in."

After checking how Patta was doing, and with that as a reminder, Eh-em reported how he was coping. He then turned the conversation to the hardware store. "You just can't let it sit there. Isn't it time to re-open? It has been closed almost three months. There must be things to take care of. It'd be good to get your mind occupied again."

"I'm sure that's true. I can't seem to find a good enough reason. I just don't have the heart."

"But there's Henry. There is the community. I am sure people miss their hardware store. What were the hottest selling things, for example?"

"Well, there's the. . . ." Patta's voice trailed off and he just looked down. "I know you are right. I need to re-open, but I just don't have any energy."

"Let me help you. I don't do Silla's studio-gallery anymore, and we settled with Mrs. Corday all of that. Silla's work and pictures are safely being stored. When I've finished, they're not going anywhere. I, me, I need to be doing something. If I help you, you can help me. I can work in the store and you can take off whenever you're not feeling up to it. What do you think?"

"If you could help me . . ."

"Sure, and we can get Doug back. He needs the work. I'm sure he is driving Dolly crazy playing with electronics stuff all day."

"I'm sure of that too. And Hank. He needs something."

"Yes. I think he does. I thought it would be . . ."

Patta interrupted. "I must talk with Mrs. Johnson."

"Okay." Eh-em felt some traction. "We can work out the details, but let's get started."

"Tomorrow."

"Okay, tomorrow for sure. What time should I be here, I mean at the store?"

"Eight. I hope I can get myself out of bed."

"If not, I will come bang on your door."

"Oh, I don't want that. Hank will make sure I'm up."

The next morning at ten Hardrey's was open again for business. It took a few days for word to get out, but people started coming back for the odds and ends they didn't want to drive farther to find. Hank had his weekly chores again. Doug returned to a royal mess of unopened mail, overdue invoices, bank statements that needed reconciling with his bookkeeping system. How could a store like this survive a day without managing all these things?

Fortunately, there were few perishables that had to be collected off shelves and thrown away. And then there was the leak in the attic. The bucket was overflowing and had to be emptied. Water was now coming through the ceiling of the store itself. By some circuitous route it dropped in heavy, intermittent drops onto a display in the camping section. There was minimal damage, just some mopping up. Hank helped after school that first day and mopped up the last of the drips coming from above.

Eh-em had his hands full. He had to learn where everything was, how and what to communicate to Doug, comfort Patta now and then when he saw him look into space, or become inattentive at the counter. Familiar and new faces Eh-em had to learn. Endless the job of getting to know and perform in his new role. At the end of the first week, when Eh-em had amply shown how helpful he could be to Patta and Doug and the business, Patta put him on an hourly wage and asked if he could stay on indefinitely. He was "indispensable."

*******

Among Silla's files and boxes of old negatives and prints, Eh-em found a folder, quite a heavy one, with black and white portraits she had done when she had started taking photos. He flipped through them quickly and found at least ten that were in some way striking. These—were there more?—could be tastefully mounted and displayed. Who were these people? Current or past residents of Upton? Customers who had picked up their prints or enlargements after having their portraits done for some record or family history? Some even looked as if Silla had traveled around the nearby countryside, maybe beyond, and stopped and asked people if she could take their picture.

Eh-em was sure these were treasures, and he thought there might be more. But he was packing and moving everything out of the Ursilla Sheridan studio. There was no time now to linger.

*******

Two months after the hardware store re-opened, Patta confided his heart was still not in his business. He wanted time alone at home more and more. Eh-em had a handle on the duties of sales clerk and assistant manager. Doug came out from facing the tiny screen of his Osborne computer and busied himself with other tasks like stocking shelves and straightening things that customers had mixed up. Eh-em noticed that there was not enough to keep Doug busy, and so he began to discuss with him his interests, how Dolly was doing, whether he would like to finish school—he was attending GED classes in the evening.

Doug it turned out knew a lot more about the hardware business than Eh-em suspected. He wasn't the best meeter and greeter, but he made customers feel they were the real experts as he rang up sales, and often he would say something to encourage people to return if they needed anything, or if what they had bought did not work out. "Eh-em or Mr. Hardrey will make it right," he said, consciously taking a role in how the store experience felt to the customer.

Hank was in junior high school, and his store duties were mostly on weekends. He was young, but if he was going to follow in his father's business, he would eventually have to show more interest. Eh-em reflected on what he was like at the same age, and excused and rationalized Hank's lack of interest on youth. But this was not the problem. Not that Hank didn't lack enthusiasm for what his father had built and was now letting go of thread by thread, it was something else. Mrs. J. put her finger on it, for Hank sought her out now almost every day, not to help out as was the reason given, but just to be with her. His sister was no longer there; Mrs. J. was his other mother figure. And in her kitchen Hank sometimes answered questions, moped in the non-judgmental atmosphere, and often ate what Mrs. J. was cooking that day. Hank was as much her step- as her own natural son. And Hank chose Mrs. J. as his step-mom without saying as much.

"Patta, he is drifting, and his port seems to be here with me at the B and B." Mrs. J. was concerned.

"I know. I don't know what to do."

"Maybe nothing right now. He's over every day, and I can see that's comforting. I enjoy his company, but we mustn't let him molder."

Patta gave a quizzical look.

"Like go too far. Grief is good to acknowledge but not to nest in. Indefinitely." Mrs. J. was sending a message not so subtly to Patta.

"True, I'm sure."

"Well, it is just fine with me that he feels comfortable at my place. I try to keep him busy, but often he just keeps me company and listens to me talk. That's all okay with you, right?"

"Yes. I am very thankful. I wish I had someone to go to, to escape this sadness."

"Well, you are always welcome."

"No, that's not what I meant. I meant that. . . ." Patta's sentence just disappeared into a whisper and then silence.

"It doesn't just go away one day. Silla's death was so sudden. So shocking. It will take time. Time. Maybe someday you'll look back . . ."

"I don't have time. I'm just so overwhelmed and I hate having to . . . do things. I don't want responsibility. I hate it. I want to be left alone."

"I am here if you need me. But I won't impose. Meantime, I'll keep you posted about Hank. We need . . . he's too young to be left alone, no one watching him. Sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything."

"I know. No offense. Thank you."

Eh-em didn't see much of Hank during this period. Their occasional times together formed around store duties, which Patta insisted must be done "to keep body and soul together," he claimed. No one turned the advice to Hank back onto Patta, staring at the wall at home and absently meandering around the store. Eh-em and others left Patta alone as he seemed to prefer, yet they checked regularly if everything was okay. Could they do something? The quiet answer was always, "No, but thanks."

One day Patta imploded. He broke down in tears and had to leave the store. He went home but returned the next day without a word about the incident. He stayed from about eleven until two and disappeared again into his house.

*******

Eh-em took Silla's death something like he took her in life, without open display of emotion. However, inside Eh-em felt the void. He had in truth, when he looked back on it, settled in Upton because of her. It was her nurturing and positive outlook that gave him the then unspoken rationale. If nice people like this live here and value art and family and friendship, well, this was the curative to messiness and complexity, at least in Eh-em's experience. A kind of refuge or shelter from other worlds less gentle and more complicated. Silla's being who she was influenced Eh-em still. He dismissed the obvious and pattern-proven answer for his own solution to recovery, to leave Upton as he had San Francisco.

Looking back on it, Eh-em thought the funeral service was moving, especially in the words people spoke in recounting stories about Silla. He thought at the time that he might rise and say something, but his better judgment said that he really didn't know her all that well. They might have developed a closer relationship—they were on the cusp, weren't' they?—but that would never be. It would be inane to talk about that on such a solemn occasion. There were others who had known Silla all her life. He could hardly be described at the time of the funeral as an Upton resident or a close family friend or notable in Silla's life.

Eh-em sat by himself at the back of the Unitarian Church, a silent witness to something he wished he were more a part of. Mrs. J. noticed. Russ didn't. Patta and Hank did not. They were too distraught, too trapped in the moment, too close to an abyss that Eh-em knew from his own life. But that was different. They were his parents. He closed that chapter after realizing he was the only one left in his family and had to carry on.

That abyss takes on many forms. Sometimes it is but the response to a bad dream that stays with you most of the day and then escalates into a catatonic state when someone reminds you of something or someone lost. Sometimes it is born of the shame and regret and guilt for what has happened, or what you have said or done. Sometimes it is an actual death, sometimes figurative. Moving from the familiar to the unfamiliar and finding there that nothing has changed that you thought would, these sometimes characterize that now-here place. Losing an important someone, a loved one . . . of course, the absence becomes a void, and that sometimes becomes an abyss you cannot get out of by yourself.

*******

Ben's Bar and Dot's Diner became Eh-em's hangouts. Although both places had their ordinary and changeable moods, the bad ones did not last long. A second beer with complimentary beer nuts or chips and a friendly word could take Eh-em from somber and silent to smiles and chit chat. A spell spent at Ben's helped the time pass, and not unpleasantly. Dolly's and Clarence's banter came and went, mostly came and stayed through Eh-em's dinner in the evenings after he closed the store. He could not face the empty fridge and idle stove in his out-of-the-way corner of Benton Valley. It was easier to walk the few blocks from work to dinner than to trudge through the grocery store on a break during the work day and lug that stuff back home at the end of the day and fix a meal for one.

Eh-em's kitchen like his studio area waited for his return to some simple pleasures he had enjoyed for the few months between settling in and Silla's death. He didn't know anyone well enough to invite over, except Patta, but he was distant and unavailable. Then there was Russ. Russ, the original loner—having had a meal with him in the early days of mourning was, well, pleasant, but to repeat that? He was really more Silla's friend than this neighbor's. Besides, Russ was spending more and more time with his mother. Perhaps he was helping her with Hank. Hank was mostly absent after school. Eh-em hoped he was safe and coping. Patta was no doubt huddled in his house in survival mode, licking a wound that would not heal.

Father Tim was the Lutheran pastor in Upton. As with many small towns, the different denominations vied for a greater share of the flock, but Father Tim was not competitive or zealous, a good and quiet man from all appearances. He graciously attended Silla's funeral service, which took place in the Unitarian Church. This was not only correct but also a sincere ecumenical gesture on his part. Eh-em met with him once to seek consolation, but their meeting brought no peace to Eh-em. Eh-em concluded that time and work were meant to numb and normalize him. No counselor or church would suffice.

Father Tim mentioned that Silla had attended several retreats at Three Springs, so when the center called the Hardrey house, Patta did not know what to make of the request to have a price on all her photos on exhibit there. An enthusiastic collector from Reno wanted all the landscape and wildlife photos Silla had on exhibit, and could he come to visit to see her work. Patta told the caller that someone would get back to him and took the Nevada phone number.

When Patta asked Eh-em to call the collector back and mentioned Three Springs, Eh-em recalled what Father Tim had said about Three Springs—he sometimes led retreats there. He realized that he had not contacted the places where Silla had her work on display. In fact, he did not know where she had her work. He assumed a new duty, a detail to be cleaned up that no one else seemed to be in a position to perform.

"Doug, I need to take a few days off. Not all in a row. There are some of Silla's photos on exhibit in Lake County and maybe in Sacramento or San Francisco. I'm not exactly sure at the moment. Would you be able to manage the store while I'm gone?"

"Whatever you and Mr. Hardrey want, I'm ready."

"Do you think you could manage alone?"

"I don't see a problem. I know what to do."

Eh-em felt reassured with the quick and clipped responses. Why shouldn't he be able to manage? Doug had been a part of the business before Eh-em came on the scene. He knew more than enough, and he was not bad at sales. Young. But he was eager if sometimes awkward approaching people.

"Should I ask Dolly to come in and help, too?" asked Eh-em.

"You can. She's off on Tuesdays. She can also ask for time off. Clarence can run the diner for a few hours without her. But he can't do without her totally. She's great with customers."

Freeing up time this way reminded Eh-em of life other than covering for others, or serving their interests before his own. For Silla it was in part his choosing for his watercolors and two acrylics to be on display in her studio. For Patta it was because of a connection, however loose, with the Hardreys and the recently deceased. If anything Eh-em was well-intentioned and generous. The only personal time he carved out was for his story, and where that was going he was clueless and mostly stuck. Given the uncertainty of this in-between time and his daily routine, there was not much to report, if that is what he was doing. He didn't have a sense of ends, only means. The daily turns a story naturally take now lacked redeeming value; therefore, they were justifiably not worth writing down.

_I am unsure of why I started this whole story business to begin with. I know that if you narrate your life, it takes on that image you make of yourself in this kind of self-talk. Whether or not I am doing that does not matter. I do not care. I just want to keep going, once I find momentum again._

Stalled with no action on the horizon, Eh-em began proofreading and trying to shape the story into something, but he soon gave up. He needed a disinterested reader to give him some reactions. He had no illusions about sharing it with a wider audience, or publishing it for that matter. These were far from his mind, and if anything, there was the general intent not to let anyone read what he had written. Silla was an early exception. He wanted to be closer to her. But now she was not there. And the ulterior motive, well, that was dead, too.

_Was I writing a journal? I knew I wasn't but what was I doing with this, this activity? I need someone who can tell me._

In preparation for his phone call to the Reno collector, Eh-em went into the garage and went through Silla's files and papers to find the negatives and prints and records for what she had done, what she had left for display, where it was displayed or on loan. He was after leads. Eh-em came across what looked like a daily diary, her calendar. He felt this a private and personal space, but he needed to see if Silla had recorded where her photographs were if not in her studio. He thumbed through the diary and focused on the to-do lists for the various dates during the past two years, of which there weren't many. The notes to herself about her thoughts and what she felt, these he skipped. They were not for his eyes he was sure.

Eh-em found that Silla had left photos on exhibit at Three Springs and an art gallery in Old Sacramento. There was no mention of San Francisco, but Melissa's name appeared as a lunch date. There was no mention of anything closer to home. The detective work appeared simple.

He came upon the portraits again and read several notes in the folder with the negatives. The notes were about the subjects, who they were, how old, where they lived, if they had given permission for her to keep a copy for her portfolio that she would show to future customers or to galleries or museums. There was the name of one museum with contact information in Eurika. Had she given something to a museum? The detective work took a turn in the direction of more time needed to sort out this small estate. He sighed. Then there were no doubt clues in Silla's bedroom or in the Hardrey house. He dismissed this complication, feeling that he was not ready or close enough to the family, Patta actually, to ask much less to look around in the Hardrey home. He would figure out another way to see if there were other loose ends hidden somewhere.

Eh-em missed an astrologer's letter dated sometime last year tucked in the pocket of the back cover of the diary.

_Wait. Wait right there. A beautiful woman shows you she is available and interested in you, wants to help you, even makes curry for you twice—okay, the second time you didn't know about it . . . but you figured it out, for you or me, right? You narrated what happened. And now this. You kill her off. What is the matter with you, can't work up the words to bed this woman? Sounded like a love story in the making from some G-rated TV show, and now you've gone and taken away the most interesting character. You have not described yourself—not really, not honestly—you are not the one we are reading this story for. We want to have you, a kind of unfeeling observer, get it on with an almost equally nondescript other lead character. Or that was what we were left with before this. It just doesn't work. It's not all together, and now with the speed of your narrative, it will never amount to anything other than Eh-em's—what a silly ruse that pronunciation game is, but that is another story—eventual departure from Upton, or his staying and having an uneventful life. All events for him take place in the past or the future. What has this important turn . . . I speak for other readers and myself. . . . Why are we reading this if not just out of mild curiosity and living in an invented world to pass time we could fill with something more, something more . . ._

_I would have reader Russ say this, but I have not asked him yet to give me reader reactions. More importantly, my story is in process, and I make installments post what happens. Russ can't assume I know where all of this is going. Nor can I._

_I'm talking to myself again._ _Story-telling stalled._

## Chapter 17: Cause or chance

Ron Zapulco lived on a cattle ranch. As the crow flies from Upton to the Nevada border and then south to Reno, the ranch was just over the state line in Nevada, not far. Getting there by car would take five hours. When Eh-em contacted Ron, he weighed collecting Silla's exhibit from Three Springs and traveling from there and then into northern Nevada, which was the easiest route. He tentatively committed to this course but had second thoughts after he hung up the phone. He didn't have that much time to spend on his day off from work. He didn't think he could get everything done, including concluding a possible sale of Silla's photos, one or all.

When he realized he would have this difficulty, he called Ron back and said it would be best to meet him at Three Springs. Eh-em could sell the photos or collect them for safekeeping in Upton. Or he could work with Three Springs to keep the exhibit there if that seemed like a good idea. Ron said his daughter lived near Upton and went to Three Springs from time to time. She was one of their benefactors. There was no hurry. They could arrange a meeting at a later date when his daughter would be there, or Eh-em could even come to the ranch and stay for a day or two when he had more time. Ron had plenty of room for guests.

The pressure off, Eh-em focused on the Old Sacramento gallery and anything else he found suggesting where Silla's photos might be. It also gave him time to approach Patta. That, he felt, was not urgent but should be done at the right time.

*******

The Humboldt Arts Center in Eureka was about three hours from Upton. Eh-em, thinking a change of routine would do him good again, decided to inquire in Eureka about any photos that Silla might have left. The drive to and from would be easy. He could be there by late-morning, check out the Center, and return in time to fix dinner, or have dinner on the road.

Eh-em found in Eureka that Silla had loaned the Arts Center three mounted, large format photographs, two nature scenes, and a copy of the puma cub in the tree. The curator did not know if Silla had left any works in any of the local galleries but he doubted it. Eh-em recounted what had happened to Silla and that he was a close friend trying to collect her works for safe storage until the family could decide what to do with them. The curator asked Eh-em to sign a statement saying who he was and that he had taken the photographs on this date and so forth. Eh-em had no objections and completed the hastily drawn up release. He placed the photographs carefully in the car and drove home. He was at Cougar Corner early that evening and cooked dinner. He would store the photographs the next day in the garage.

Art has an effect on people. It has to do with a sense of respect for and homage to a higher part of ourselves such that when it hits you, you know you are in the presence of the extraordinary. You feel specially blessed and unique in the world. You have the capacity for, or you actually feel love. The sensation may only last a short while, but for some it figures in a lifelong pilgrimage to places of art to experience and re-experience these moments and make them last. Others pick up a chisel or brush or pen or even a chainsaw and let whatever that is come out in order to find in the process and product the relief and warmth that comes from knowing others will share something of what it was like, or what it is.

Or is this just ethereal schmooze? Eh-em felt so. Art is not like that at all. The Center in Eureka did not touch Eh-em in any special way. Admittedly, he was on business. But entering the Hardrey garage had the smell and feel of that something, and he wished to know its origins. What was it about this place and these things in here, some of which had no connection to what we would call art—they effected or represented or effused something somehow? Eh-em found the portraits Silla did and collected them to study more closely. He thought that there was something in the histories represented and Silla's history that comforted him and made him something to himself. He lingered over old wizened faces, figures in full fields of grain, a face and hand with bunch of grapes, Russ on his wooden front steps looking like a sharecropper with junk yard dog . . . _there is something here and something that it does for me._ He recalled his days in San Francisco wandering North Beach art galleries and taking classes at the Art Institute. Poetry readings in coffee houses. Sentiment and nostalgia were certainly ingredients in the savory mix that is art.

Patta walked in the back of the garage and found Eh-em holding the photos and slowly considering them one by one. "Saw you come in. Thought I'd have a look."

"I was just looking at these. Do you know when Silla took them?"

"That one of Brian was not too long ago. But the others, I think she went through a phase. Found people she thought were interesting, mostly older people. People from around here, but not all. This one is not from around here. They're . . . some of them may be from when she started taking pictures. Then she went on to outdoor stuff. A few of animals she saw. The one in the store up on the wall, you know."

"These are really intriguing. I would like to borrow them. Could I take them to my place?"

"Sure. I know you will take care of them." Patta added, "Oh, could you and Doug look into horse gear? We don't have much and people keep asking. Not locals but people on their way somewhere or just looking, I guess."

"Sure, we can do that. Are there horse farms around here?"

"Don't know. Just can you look into it? Then we can talk."

Eh-em did not know much about horses and what to stock in a hardware store for their care or for riding. It seemed like such a broad and complicated world of specialized products that he quickly became lost once suppliers' catalogs began arriving in the mail. Maybe he should be looking at inventory in the store that was not selling very well, and slowly replacing that with some safe bets that would sell, horse-related or not.

Dolly stopped Eh-em one Thursday evening. She had left work early. No customers. She said she and Doug had fun minding the store when he was in Eureka, was it? and when could they do it again. It was a nice change from the diner, and she and Doug got to spend time doing something together. It was new for them to work together.

Although he did not visibly raise his eyebrows, his reaction inside was just that. People were full of surprises, weren't they? He filed this information away and said he was sure there would be another occasion soon where she could help. Maybe next week. Dolly was happy for the answer and walked over to Doug. He was just locking the store door. They joined hands and walked in the direction of the house they shared, Doug's grandmother's house. She had passed several years previously and Doug and Dolly moved in. Eh-em smiled and thought the image of the two romantic and optimistic.

Which of course got him thinking about Patta and his daughter. It had been months since Silla's death. Patta had not resurrected his old self. The event had definitely marked a change in his life. Whether he could rise above the sadness and grief and lead his life with fond memories and care for them, Eh-em was not sure. In fact Patta had lost several women in his life, each very close. But Silla was his only daughter.

Eh-em didn't know much about what people went through when they lost someone close. He dismissed any knowledge he might have about these things. Hank was coping quietly with Mrs. J. as guardian angel. _I hope that situation continues on its recovery course._ He had many years ahead, or so Eh-em assumed. Russ and Barb and others, well, they held their feelings to themselves nowadays and were getting on with life, as they say. In fact, Russ was getting along better. Silla's death brought him closer to his mother. Russ found some peace through all his times with Silla and his own family and his trials as a man different from other men. Here too, Eh-em felt he was in some ways ignorant as regards others and what they went through.

That evening he took Silla's portraits home to have a closer look. Doing this seemed to presage the seed of an idea, but Eh-em didn't know what it was exactly. He realized again that although he was not painting, his love of things artistic continued. He was making installments on his story, and that was introducing new dimensions to consider, or so he rationalized. He knew viscerally that he had the capacity to fulfill his destinies, and he was at a way station helping out at Patta's hardware store. In the end helping out would not fulfill him. He would turn slowly towards what he wanted.

The portraits brought this notion to the surface. He liked the black and white medium Silla had chosen to print. He liked the idea of a gallery. He knew his fulfillment lay in things of beauty rather than utility. Utility was the hardware store and a day job; beauty is that which liberates to aspire and helps us inspire.

By this point, Eh-em found the outside world, that world beyond the Upton area and Benton Valley, had no draw. He had been here long enough to know that the lure of more sophistication, competition, population, politics, and all the rest did not matter as much as individual fulfillment and human relationships. With this he put his finger on his need. He had no close friends in Upton. He cultivated none from his past. He had no family. He was alone. And his need fed his want.

*******

Natalie came into the hardware store and found Eh-em stocking shelves and straightening things into some kind of order. The labels must all face forward in buy-me position.

"Hello, there. I know you," Natalie began.

"Excuse me? Oh. Oh. We met some time ago. At the studio."

"Not so long ago, but yes. I notice the gallery isn't there anymore and that it hasn't reopened as your . . . your friend said it would."

At this Eh-em explained what had happened again, and again Natalie expressed her condolences.

"I came in because I wonder if you stock fly repellent for livestock and stables. Comes in five gallon buckets."

"No, I'm afraid we don't, but we need to. Which reminds me. I wonder if you can help me."

And so Natalie and Eh-em stood at the checkout counter while Natalie listed products she used at her center that would be more convenient to pick up in Upton rather than stores farther away. Eh-em was greatly appreciative and explained what his project—research—was all about. In the course of their conversation, Natalie told Eh-em that the Upton area was becoming more and more popular with people buying small spreads for one or two horses. "Gentleman's ranches" she called them. She had her equestrian center, and her boarders, the owners, came from elsewhere. They visited on weekends and holidays to care for and ride their horses. It was a growing trend, and she felt she had landed in Upton at just the right time. As she was about to leave, she asked Eh-em whether the gallery would reopen. She said she had liked what she saw. She was sorry again to hear about Silla.

"The studio and inventory—it's not my decision," Eh-em said.

After Natalie had gone Eh-em reflected on what had transpired. Regardless, Patta would be pleased and perhaps might find some diversion in Natalie's suggestions of which products to stock for horse people.

Things sometimes come in series. We think that they are connected somehow if they come in threes and fours. Some people take these things as signs. Others dismiss any connections as superstition. Some people think causality. Others say chance. No matter, here is the essence: coincidences gain their meaning from the people who have them, or they don't. In Eh-em's case he made no connections between external-world events and similar or prescient interior—just random?—thoughts. Perhaps it was his ignorance again, or that he just wasn't particularly attuned to what some felt strongly as extraordinary. Ironic, in view of his recent piecing together of the void he felt in his being and what might help complete him.

Patta asked about the guy who was interested in Silla's photographs. Eh-em gave him a brief report and told him he would have Dolly and Doug cover for him the next time he felt he could take a day off. It had worked out the last time, he thought. "They were happy to be together. Did they work?" asked Eh-em.

"Oh, yes, they were fine together. Dolly went up to customers and asked to help almost as they entered the door, even though she didn't know where stuff was. The customers seemed happy to have a smiling face. I don't think they particularly want to see me."

"And Doug?" asked Eh-em, ignoring the last part of what Patta said.

"As usual. He knows quite a bit and is good at collecting and tracking the money. I couldn't do without him."

"So, I will ask them again when I want a day off. That's okay with you?" Eh-em left it as a question; Patta was silent. He was already walking toward the back door on his way home down Upton's alleys and not via Main Street. Eh-em did not take it personally. He was getting used to not knowing why some things happened or didn't.

*******

As the days turned into months, Eh-em realized he once knew someone not very well, a person he had wanted to get to know better. But she was gone. She left some of her things—sort of in his care but not. He needed to check to see what he should do and what he could do to conclude or better manage unfinished business before the past slipped into mere memories and forgotten details. The day before Eh-em left for the day for Three Springs Retreat Center to sell Silla's exhibit or pieces from it, Patta declared in answer to the question of how much Eh-em should ask for the photographs if they were not priced, "It's up to you." Eh-em was her partner in the business. He might as well take charge and do what he thought best. Eh-em felt the weight of the past still but also the goodness of the trust he had been given. This was a gift.

His meeting with Ron at Three Springs could have been enriched with the realization that something extraordinary must needs be embraced. His openness was missing its usual perimeter barrier in view of the trust he had been given, yet he was unable to discern who or what to welcome. His feeling of expansiveness had no object or subject.

Ron came to Three Springs for the day to meet with Eh-em about Silla's photographs. He wanted all of them for his ranch, and one would be a present for his daughter, Natalie, who would join him for dinner before she started a three-day retreat. Ron was only there for these reasons, to buy the lot and give a present to his daughter.

Their business conducted based on the asking prices on the backs of each mounted photograph, Eh-em left pleased and amazed. He did not see Ron's daughter, but hoped she liked the picture of the sharecropper sitting on the wooden steps with the junkyard dog. Eh-em planned to give all the money from the sale to Patta in the morning and to recommend that they stock some basic equine supplies for a growing number of horse owners in the Upton area, plus for those weekend "hobby horse" riders.

*******

Mrs. J. asked Eh-em for dinner on Wednesday evening. She said it would be good for Hank to have another adult to talk with. Russ would be there, if that would be all right. Eh-em said there was no problem having Russ there. He was her son, right?

"Could I bring something?"

"Yes, you could, now that I think about it. You know Ben's?" She didn't stop for an affirmative. "Well, Russ doesn't like to go in there, but he likes the draught beer they have. I'll give you a pitcher. And you can have them fill it to go. It is just down the street."

"Not a problem. I love beer. We might need two pitchers."

"I'll fix you up when you get here. About six?"

"Six thirty. I have to close the store."

"Six thirty then. I have two pitchers, and you guys—I don't mean Hank—can have a beer fest."

"What can I bring for you and Hank?"

"Well, I've been known to have a glass of beer now and then, so I'll join you. As for Hank, I'll take care of that. I know what he likes."

"How is Hank doing?"

"Well . . . he needs to be with people, adults I mean. This will help. I will be interested in what you think when you see him."

"I'm no expert on young people."

"You were one once, so that counts. Besides, I think you have a way with people. They are comfortable around you."

"Well, I wouldn't know. But thanks. I like Hank."

"And he likes you."

"This will be nice then. And Russ and I know each other."

"I know," she said.

"Wednesday then."

Eh-em found this invitation welcome. The summer evening barbecues had not started yet. The weather wasn't cooperating. It was late spring and it was wet. No one since the Hardrey's that evening—curry and chutney—had invited him for anything. Truth be told, he had only asked one person to his home since Silla passed, choosing rather to spend his time alone to write, sort out how to proceed with life in Upton, and enjoy rather than struggle with his own company.

*******

Natalie came into the hardware store after her retreat. She was on a mission. "I understand you met my father."

"Ron. He's your father. Yes, I did meet him. I sold him some photographs."

"I know, and he gave me one. I love it. I had not seen it before. I remembered most of them, including that puma up there." She pointed to the back wall of the store.

"Yes, that one gets around."

"Now, I don't know if I should ask, but you remember that painting I liked? I think it was one of yours. The girl in the swimming suit?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Where is that?"

"In storage. I'm not sure what to do with it, or with Silla's work."

"Her work?"

"Yes, the things she had in her studio. It's all stored next door. We haven't gotten round to doing anything with all that."

"Any more like the one my father gave me?"

"Yes, I think so."

"I wonder if I can see them sometime."

"I have some at my house right now. I am sort of looking at them more carefully, to see if we can sell them." In fact they had been there at least a month by this time. He had not really looked at them after he had removed them from the garage.

"Well, sometime then, or if you open another gallery."

"Deal. I will give it some thought."

With that, Natalie was gone. Eh-em found the visit curious. Had she wished to highlight the coincidence that her father and he had met? or ask about the gallery or portraits, or what? Russ had said it, although not original with him, "People, who can figure them out?" Maybe she wanted Eh-em to ask her to see the photos at his house. And she didn't press about the painting. Why'd she bring that up? For that matter, why had Eh-em not taken the initiative to invite her to his place?

## Chapter 18: Not alone

_This view affords the distances I would have._

_Distance from the past. I live and let life be._

_Distance from the observed. I see all that I can, wait, watch._

_Distance from the unknown. I focus, if I must, on knowns._

_Distance from thought and imagination. I am not bound._

_Distance from needs and wants. I am sufficient._

_Distance from self. I just am._

_Until called upon. Until asked. Until situations suggest. Until conditions demand. Until I need, want, think, imagine, know. Until I am ready. Until I choose to act._

_I will not dispel the enigma. I don't care about enigmas._

_I must make an excuse. I forgot about that situation. Sometimes life just pushes you around and . . ._

Eh-em called Doug and asked if he could talk with Dolly and have her work the store with him that Wednesday. He then called Mrs. J. and canceled dinner. Eh-em would be home a few days. It felt like flu.

By the weekend Eh-em was feeling better. He'd be able to work come Monday. On Sunday the store was closed; there had been no change in its schedule since it re-opened—just the staffing. Sunday afternoon brought Russ and Hank to Eh-em's door. Russ had brought another present this time. He said it was a get-well present, a glass gallon jug with screw top loosely fitted full of beer fresh from Ben's tap.

"Open, pour, drink. Doctor says get plenty of liquids."

"Share it with me?"

"Of course. And for Hank here, we have creme soda in a can. Two of 'em."

Hank and Russ came into the house as if family checking on family. Eh-em was thankful for company. He had been in bed and in the house for four days. He was getting tired as the only person to talk to about nothing. Killer entered following the guests and checked the house for food and crumbs and settled into his place next to the wood stove.

"We missed you the other night."

"I missed me too. This has not been fun."

"Well, we figured you're not contagious now. And you'd be happy to learn the news."

"What news?"

"I've decided to finish off that bust that's been in my workshop forever. And you are going to put it in your gallery next to the hardware store. We're going to help you set it up."

"What brings this on?"

"We've talked with Hank's dad and we all thought that life must go on and that you should take up where you left off."

"But I'm working in the store," objected Eh-em.

"That's fine. We'll consider it a plan in progress. And I want to do more wood sculptures and have a place to show them. Which brings up another thing. Are you doing any painting these days?"

"Can't say I do. Been too busy."

"Busy, hell. You stopped and didn't get started again. I know how this goes."

"You do?"

"Sure. I have my business and I have the things that make me happy. I am happy when I create. And the only things I am good at are carving and gardening. Gardening is taken care of, it's a job and a pleasure. It's the woodworking I was missing. So I started again."

"What about your health and er, your . . . "

"Don't worry about me. We, you and me, need to move on."

"I have moved on. I mean I left SF and came here and I'm nicely settled. Except for getting sick . . . this is really only the first time . . . "

"We're not talking about . . . let's just say you had some plans and they got derailed, a gallery and cafe. You want to put the train back on the track?"

"I hadn't thought much about it, at least not that way."

"Well, Patta is happy some of Silla's photos have sold. When you guys had the gallery, you sold some stuff, didn't you?"

"Yes, but . . . "

Russ interrupted. "I didn't but I'm sure I can. But that's not the point for me. I just need to clear out my shop to make way for bigger pieces. Need a place to put 'em. Gallery sounds about right, like you guys talked about."

"This is the most I have heard you talk since I met you. What's gotten into you?" Eh-em seemed to have heard himself repeat something that someone else had said, or did he say it? Perhaps some kind of human echo chamber. . . .

"Well, a little brew and a little light went on. Plus I hear I'm sought after. Someone bought that hillbilly picture of me. We can print more, if you think it's a good idea. Patta does. I mean he gives you his blessing. Right, Hank?" Hank assented and kept his soda can held up to his mouth with both hands taking sips now and then as Russ and Eh-em talked.

"Well, you guys still haven't figured out how I'm going to do a gallery and work at the store." Eh-em was at the old patter and hesitating before committing.

"No, you're right. But that's a detail. We can work at this in stages."

"Seems to me somebody else said something like that. Your mom?"

"Naw, don't think so. But I could see her saying it," said Russ. Hank nodded assent again, but Eh-em suspected Hank was not thinking of Mrs. J. He couldn't be sure.

"More beer?" asked Eh-em.

"Nope. The rest is yours. You're home already. We've got to go to my place and then back to town. My mom wants a few small pieces for sale at the B and B. Has a corner picked out near the check-in desk." Russ looked directly into Eh-em's eyes. "Feeling better, right?"

"Yes, but how will I feel later? This is strong stuff."

"Better, I'm sure. Now, what do we need to do first?"

"I think I'd better talk with Hank's dad, and think about this, of course."

"What's to think about?"

"Well, how all this is gonna work. And money. I don't have the money I had when I first got here."

"Patta or someone might want to kick in some money or help out at first. Who knows? As I say, stages. For me, I'm here to bring the news and encourage you. Of course, if you want to do what you are doing now or something else, that is your business. Only you can decide. But we think . . . we think this is a good idea. Besides, I think Silla would agree. She used to say, 'If something is blocking you, either fight it straight on or hop on over it. As a last resort, go around'."

"She said that?"

"Something like that, only better, the words you know."

"I don't know. Maybe she did."

*******

A new face showed up at Mrs. J.'s. She introduced herself to everyone who didn't know her already. Megan Johnson. MJ for short, but she reserved this name for just a few people. She preferred just Megan. Mrs. J. introduced her daughter to Eh-em the day he came in to see how Hank was doing. He had felt he had been remiss in not checking. He had missed the dinner he'd been invited to. And his work at the store took up all his time. By the end of the workday, Eh-em sought refuge at home or at Dot's, still two or three times a week. He felt guilty he had not tried to connect with Hank, and so decided to stop by where he was pretty sure Hank would be before returning home for the evening.

Mrs. J.'s kitchen was always an inviting place, and now that spring was here, sitting out in the late afternoon sun was possible before it went down behind the tawny hills. The green of January and February had turned yellow and brown by early May in spite of the late rains. On the excuse of just stopping by, Eh-em chatted with the three of them. He discovered they were all preparing dinner. Patta would be by in a little while and Russ, too. Mrs. J. invited Eh-em to stay and eat with them, but he begged off. Although he wanted to be a part of something, this seemed like a family with a history, but he felt warm toward all of them, even the new addition he hadn't known about. He also did not want to intrude in his employer's life. A respectful distance, he felt, was still best, because of his role and Patta's loss. It was a closed circle in Eh-em's mind, although no one in the circle felt that way. Eh-em had been Silla's partner in business—they had perceived and accepted—and had helped the family out when they needed to get going again. He had only shown kindness and respect for them, if he was a little standoffish, which they felt was his way, a kind of private space he kept about him. They wished to respect this as much as he wished to respect the family unit.

Megan's plans were to stay in Upton. Mrs. J. could use the help. Where she had to hire part-time help, Megan could fill in as the family part in the family business. Russ had little interest in the B and B, but he had become more a part of his mother's life, visiting and such. Where Russ was a kind of recluse, Megan was outgoing. She liked working a "day job" to support her evenings writing. Russ was her proofreader and literary critic. She had published some stories in small presses and was a student and fan of the literature of the Beats in San Francisco and New York. She even corresponded with some women artists. Eh-em was keenly interested in her references to those she knew in San Francisco and inquired as to what they had done and where one could see their work. It appeared that Eh-em was a nearby planet circling this nexus of relations who would welcome him if he wanted to come closer and share some of his interests, which were their interests. They all had accepted him from their first meetings, and sensing this made Eh-em feel good.

Hank seemed to be in good company, and the needed supportive relationships were in place to care for those hurting and building their lives again, necessarily building from a different set of awarenesses and appreciation. Eh-em could proceed along his path knowing that others had theirs. Russ had said it. It was for Eh-em to decide what he wanted to do, perhaps to start the venture that was the dream he had visualized with Silla.

*******

Natalie reappeared the next week in the hardware store. Eh-em expected this but not quite so soon. He felt like a player ready to field whatever came his way. The last hit was a slow grounder that he just caught but didn't know what to do with. And then Natalie left him with mixed feelings and impressions. This time . . .

"My father said he really liked the photos he bought from you. He has placed them in his guest cottages and bunk house on the ranch."

"I'm glad. I like them a lot myself."

"You said there are more. Would you be willing to show me? Or better yet, will you be opening that gallery you talked about?"

"Well, everyone seems to be talking about that except me, but I have very little money left to invest in a gallery. Besides, my work didn't sell well. I don't know if it would be enough to show what we have. We would need more to offer. I don't know."

"You have someone else who would open the gallery with you?"

"Not exactly. There is this guy, a wood sculptor. He would contribute some of his pieces."

"You remember that painting? I mentioned it before."

"Sure. That's still here, in storage."

"That could be your first sale." She looked him in the eye, her own with a twinkle and a mischievous look. Then it was gone. "The fly repellent I asked about. Is that in yet?"

The quick change of subject jarred Eh-em. "Yes, er, just over here."

"I'll take two buckets of this," said Natalie as she grabbed them from the bottom shelf. "What would it take to open a gallery?"

"I haven't figured that out exactly. The project hasn't even been on a back burner. We talked about . . . "

"Were you two a couple?"

"No. It was her gallery, studio that is. I was there to help out. I put some of my work in there to see if it would sell. We were friends. I think we could have become better friends, until the accident happened."

"Things happen. I won't say for a reason. I would never say that. But life leads me down different paths from what I think I'm on . . . riding and horses in my case, I guess."

"I suppose so," said Eh-em without knowing specifically what she was talking about.

"I'll take these. That's about it today."

Again Eh-em had caught the ball several times, but in the end stood there holding it. He wondered what the melange of subjects was about besides the purchase she made. It didn't matter much, though. He had only heard he should get into the business of a gallery. How or indeed what that gallery would be like were unknowns. He thought he should go over his notes on the idea that he had made months ago. There seemed to be some constellation of suggestions or support for at least reconsideration.

Maud's was busy that Saturday evening. If Eh-em thought he was going to have a quiet sit-down dinner to treat himself at the end of a busy work week, he was mistaken. He nodded to those he knew, mostly regular customers at the store. He sat at a table for two by the window. He had brought his notebook and planned that while dining he would review his notes for his story—and, he owed it to himself, the proposed gallery project. He had kept up with entries to his story, which were not terribly interesting. It was still not a daily journal nor was it a kind of fiction. It was somehow a record of fantasies blended with places and persons he encountered. There was also this theme here and that theme there, each half hanging.

_Going nowhere. But this is life._

Eh-em was no Edward Abbey in a wilderness, just a guy writing some stuff and taking notes about the dilemmas and directions of a life, mostly his own. He could put the story down or pick it up. Why he did either was not a matter of serious intent, more a diversion and routine . . . as if some or any of it was important.

_Probably not_.

Eh-em came across two pages devoted to a gallery and cafe with specialty books for sale as well as coffee and cakes.

The gallery would exhibit works from local artists. They would be there on consignment for a limited time. If they did not sell, new works would replace those there. The cafe would not compete with Dot's but be a meeting place for locals and visitors. Sandwiches? Alcohol? Coffee. Maybe there would be story hour for children. Maybe there would be meet-the-author evenings, authors of books of local or regional interest. Literature—avant-garde writing? Music in the background. Not too loud so that people could talk. Maybe some musician would play from time to time. Someone like Dolly could serve. Need a really fun and friendly face. Eh-em would hold down the cash register and organize events and exhibits, order things, make coffee, keep the books. Silla would fill in, contribute photographs, publish a book of her work. One day a week they would serve a home cooked specialty celebrating something. Restaurant license?

Other notes on the gallery covered interior design ideas, colors and textures, community table, bulletin board for local events and businesses. Connecting door to hardware store?

What was missing was a synthesis of all of this, at least to remodel and outfit the space and open the door. Plus a budget. With the thought of this last practical detail, Eh-em was stumped, and he looked up and saw Doug and Dolly across the dining room trying to catch his eye. He waved and considered whether or not to have dessert. Maud's had lemon meringue pie, and that decided it.

"Comin' right up," said his waiter.

Eh-em didn't know where to start. To budget or not to budget. What about a floor-plan and interior design or artists or books? When he finished his dessert and coffee and paid for his meal, he walked over to Doug and Dolly's table to say hello. Just as he didn't reflect when seeing the she-cub in the tree, he blurted something out. He didn't know where it came from and surprised himself as much as his young friends.

"Would you like to work in a new cafe, one with an art gallery, music and books as the center attraction?" Dolly and Doug didn't have time to react or answer, because Eh-em proceeded to outline his idea for a new business. When he finally came up for air, Dolly asked, "What's the name of your new place?"

"Oh, you got me there. I'm not even sure I can get it off the ground. I was just wondering . . ."

"I think it is a great idea," offered Dolly.

"Me too," said Doug.

"What about your job at the diner?"

"We'd have to see. Maybe I could work part-time at both places. You never know."

"Yes, never know," echoed Doug.

"Tell us more," Dolly said eagerly leaning forward showing her interest.

"There's not much more to tell. But I can let you know. I need to find some money to start first."

"Megan knows someone who has money. Maybe she could help."

"Really? Who?"

"Someone with horses. She's looking to ride there, but I don't know if she has worked that out. Megan has always been interested in riding and stuff. I can ask."

"Yes. Could you?" said Eh-em.

Eh-em was thinking he knew who she was referring to but didn't quite know how he could raise money especially from someone he barely knew. He didn't even know how much money he needed.

_Phases. Stages. Silla. Russ. Second chances. Beginning to look like a pattern. Stranger things._

Eh-em left Maud's feeling like there was a fast moving weather front he was caught up in, but was it good or bad weather? He resolved to take the following day to work out more details. Who could he talk with to see if this was a viable business idea? to test the waters, business feasibility? Someone who had business experience and who would have some interest in the venture?

*******

Patta's sadness now came in medium-sized waves. Most days he could put in a half day before his interest waned, or the weight of the world overcame him and he left work. When not at work he was at home alone. He looked forward to Hank's return from school, or from Mrs. J.'s in the late afternoon or early evening. Sometimes Hank hung out with friends. Only once or twice in the last six months did Susan or another friend come to the house to see if Hank was there. Hank's friends knew of his sister's accident, but other than maintaining a respectful distance, they treated Hank no differently. They were his friends and that was that. Patta noticed this quiet isolation and asked Hank about his friends and how he was getting along. Patta comforted himself that Hank seemed to be adjusting to his sister's tragic death better than he was. Any conclusion to this effect was really the father's doing; Hank gave little testimony to support his "adjusting."

What Patta did while he was alone was to sit quietly in his easy chair. Sometimes he would turn on the TV, but there was nothing he was interested in. It was just noise and movement to take the emptiness from the room. Patta usually had something prepared in the kitchen for himself and Hank should he come home hungry. They ate in the kitchen when Hank had not eaten at Mrs. J.'s, Patta serving Hank and saying he had already eaten while preparing whatever he was serving his son. A pall lay over the house, and it did not look like that would change soon. In contrast to his father's day, Hank was with people at school and afterward. Silla's ghost, if she was there, was silent, watching. Patta didn't talk to her. He didn't even talk much with Hank if you were to count up the minutes each week. He didn't talk to himself. He just endured. In silence. They say that one of the best ways to help someone in sadness, grief, depression from loss is to just be with them. Patta neither knew of the comfort that this could give nor sought any help to assuage the pain and emptiness he felt. He was getting older, slower, ponderous.

Megan knew something of what could be done to help people in the state that Patta seemed to be in. In Iowa she had been part of a hospice program. These were people who volunteered to be with people as they coped with loss or the inevitable because of illness. Mrs. J. made the move first and visited Patta one afternoon before Hank was out of school. She knocked on the Hardrey's door.

Mrs. J. initiated by talking about Hank and what he did while he visited her almost every day. Then there was small talk about her business. What about his store? Patta explained briefly that everything was going fine. The store was in good hands with Eh-em and Doug. Sometimes Dolly helped, and she brought sunshine into the store whenever she was there. He was grateful for all the help. Mrs. J. said that her daughter had returned home to stay and help with the B and B. She was also looking for volunteer work similar to what she had done in Iowa. By the end of their visit, Patta had the information he needed should he wish to talk or just be with someone with intimate knowledge of the things he was going through. He said thanks, but for now he was fine. He only wanted his own company.

## Chapter 19: Getting set up

In early summer Patta fell into the abyss again and neither Hank nor Eh-em nor Mrs. J. could help him. Megan showed up at the store and offered to be with Patta should he wish. Eh-em said he'd give Patta the message. Did she know Patta? She did from when she was in high school. She and Dolly were friends. And Barb and Silla were volunteers in a Big Sisters program. Dolly dropped out and Megan continued to pal around with Silla during her last year in high school. So Patta recognized a familiar face when Megan knocked on his door and asked if she could come in for a visit.

Megan began by expressing her condolences and how she admired Silla. Silla had a strength that Megan softly coveted, she said. Silla also taught her how to go after her art and lifestyle no matter what other people said or thought. She was greatly appreciative of Silla's friendship.

"You miss her a lot," said Megan.

"Very much," nodded Patta.

With the ice broken, Megan sat with Patta that afternoon for about an hour and a half until it was time for Patta to begin preparing dinner, a responsibility he took seriously yet without much creativity. Megan took the hint and suggested that today she could help him. Thus began a closer relationship between a father and someone who knew and loved his daughter. They talked when they felt like it. They were silent when silent. And they worked in the Hardrey home together to keep Patta's body and soul together. Slowly Megan got Patta to come for coffee or a meal with her mother. When Patta hosted dinner at his house and the Johnson's came in full force, Patta seemed to have turned a corner. No one suggested or offered to make curry or to dig into the pantry for a jar of Silla's chutney, that is until Hank said he wanted some. With this acknowledgment of the invisible pachyderm, Patta and Hank and everyone in this small circle felt heavy weights lifting and held in place long enough and out of the way so that no one was threatened or alone in that unique and acute way time can hold after losing a loved one.

In passing, Megan told Eh-em that it was time to talk with Patta about the gallery. Not that Megan was preparing Patta for Eh-em to approach. She wasn't. But as a small circle of friends and acquaintances in a small town knows, everyone's business and advice for each are discussed and sometimes acted upon.

_She-Bear Gallery and Cafe, a good name for the business. It should always have a Silla photo displayed so that everyone can see it. This will honor her and her devotion to photography and images simple, striking, beautiful._

_I must let that sit and see if it fits. Maybe there are other names. I have to let these things simmer before serving._

_It is not the art and artifacts that we create that are the subjects. They themselves tell the tale of us. We are the subjects of our output. By examining my things, you can know me. So it is with this story. So it is with Silla's portraits and other photographs. So it is with my portrait of Silla._

_Natalie knows this apparently. Her father did. Other people who buy art know this. Art's value is expression. Expression is our fulfillment. We must witness and preserve. We must cherish who it is that art reveals, including parts of ourselves._

Eh-em was churning out this epiphanic slag and realized that he was motivated to take up where he had left off, ironically where Silla was leading him. A return to painting along with writing and sharing, or showing—the best of what he produced would be the sum and substance of his fit in the world he wanted; and he knew creating a world—his world—that was what he was doing. He had second chances. He had just gotten a little sidetracked because of a pesky anxiety about security. Or was it kindness? Plus if Silla's passing had any lesson, it was to do what she was doing when she left—creating her world as she prepared and offered gifts for others.

Do what you love and the money will follow was the tritest solipsism Eh-em could recollect, yet he was on the path to proving or disproving it when Silla died. He could make room in his life for what fed his soul, what would feed his soul. The gallery-cafe was just what the cosmos had ordered to enhance what had become a transition in the process of reclaiming and re-developing a self. The hiatus was perhaps necessary as the lesson sunk in, but now no longer.

Eh-em picked up his paint brush again. After one week back at his easel after work in his studio, he was convinced the decision to bud and bloom in his own small ways was the right way, so he was ready to make his proposal to Patta.

With Patta's emergence from the dark regions of emotional pain, he appeared easier to approach. He and Eh-em and Doug saw each other every day. Patta collected himself enough during this time to open the store and stay longer than his half day. All Eh-em had to do was ask when he thought Patta ready for the idea of converting the garage into a gallery-cafe. Nothing had been done with it since Patta first suggested he and Silla use it, and nothing from the hardware store had been added to what was already stored there. The same job, moving things, remodeling, and the rest, was as it was when first conceived.

Patta consented quickly, as Russ had foretold. Eh-em could do what he liked with the space. It would be most welcome to feature, Patta added, Silla's work. In that no real property would change hands, all Eh-em had to do was to pay for conversion and begin paying rent three months after opening, "To give the business time to generate cash flow." They would talk about Silla's small estate and how to handle details like what to do with income generated. Patta was not worried about working out those matters later. The bottom line was, "have at it." It would honor her memory, and the people of Upton would welcome an informal place to meet and talk in addition to Dot's and Ben's Bar. Eh-em could buy the premises when or if he wanted at a reasonable price.

The only questions Patta had were whether Eh-em would have help running the business, and would he want to continue working at the hardware store at least to begin with. Eh-em said he had planned on having help, and he wanted to keep his job at the store to make sure the rent and other expenses could be paid. He was unsure he would have sufficient cash flow in three months when the time came to pay rent. With a smile, Patta commented. "Wait and see. I have a good feeling."

After their talk Eh-em felt he had not explored all the details he had wished to with Patta. He recalled his first meetings with him when Eh-em wanted to buy the hardware store. But on further consideration, this situation was different. Eh-em was not ready with all questions for he had no experience with a business like the one he wanted to build. Visualization is one thing, practical experience another. What he didn't know he'd discover as he went.

One issue rose formidably. Eh-em did not have enough money to convert the garage into the dream. He promised himself to keep an amount of money in reserve should he have some health or other unforeseen financial burden. That reserve would remain untouched unless something warranted tapping into it. The balance of his savings was not enough to start his business.

      Money to start:

      + A bank. No assets to secure a loan.
      However, I can manage a business and its
      assets. Not much cash left beyond the
      reserve.

      + Set up She-Bear as a cooperative? Only
      three artists around here and no one has
      money or a proven commodity.

      + Personal loan. Recluse, although I am
      acquainted with many people. No one to
      approach. Why would anyone loan me money? I'm
      a store clerk, for crissakes, on an hourly
      wage.

      + Partner. I had one and lost her,
      intentionally ditched the other. Same answers
      as above.

      + Another business owner with cash to invest.
      Ben and Barb? They can't be making much money
      on that bar. It is never full, just a few
      regulars and people who stop in now and then
      and order two glasses of beer. No profit
      there.

Eh-em reached the end of the alternatives he could think of. He would have to come up with something.

*******

Megan joined Eh-em at his table by the window at Dot's. Dolly came right over and gave her a hug. "I am glad you came back. We missed you."

"I guess my mom did too. I'm glad to be back."

"What are you doing these days?"

"I'm looking into working with the clinic. They can refer people to me who might need some company while they're going through a hard time."

"You've done this before?"

"Yes, while I was in Iowa. It is, if I'm honest, good for me, maybe better for me than for the people hurting."

"Is there a name for this or something?"

"Yes, hospice care, but I'm not officially professional. I'm working on a certificate. I like to keep a low profile. Last time I had a high profile, well you know what that led to. People can be wonderful and they can be devils. I want to avoid the devils this time, 'cause I'm here to stay. Helping mom out with the business, too."

Dolly looked over to Eh-em. "Oh, I forgot. Paul, you want something?"

"No problem. I'd like the chicken fried steak with whatever comes with it."

"Soup or salad?"

"Soup, thanks."

"To drink?"

"Iced tea."

"You Megan?"

"Give me a minute."

Dolly went off to the kitchen, and Eh-em picked up the inquiry. "What's this about referrals and such. I know what you are doing for Patta. Working wonders, I think."

"Same kind of thing, but Mr. Hardrey and I are buds now. Turned into a good thing for us. I'm not a surrogate daughter for him or anything, but he is like a coach for me, about being me and being proud of who I am. A wonderfully accepting person."

"Supportive, and that's important."

"It is, isn't it?"

"I have had a little experience . . . never mind," Eh-em said, thinking he had something to share, which he quickly dismissed.

"Tell me."

"No, not important. What is important is how you're getting along. How long were you gone?"

"Almost three years."

"Your brother two and you three years. Both back again."

"Upton has a way of reeling you back in, affirming in my case and pointing out what's important maybe."

"You've thought about this. Or experience has taught you."

"Both. Say, would you like an adventure on Sunday?"

"I suppose, what?"

"I found this place and no one knows about it. I'm going to check it out on Sunday. Hank's coming. Maybe you could er. . . ." Megan waited for his answer and then realized, "Oh, I didn't really say, did I?"

"Not really."

"There's this equestrian center. This woman or family owns it and they have therapy, or something like that, for people with long-term illnesses. People come and get to ride these real gentle horses. Puts them in touch with animals and nature. Does them worlds of good. I want to check it out."

"What's the family's name?"

"It's a funny name. Can't remember it. But the place is called Grand Erie."

"Natalie. I know her."

"You know her?"

"Sort of. Comes into the store. Wanted to buy one of my paintings. In fact her father, Ron Zapulco, bought a bunch of photographs, from Silla actually."

The paths we take sometimes appear when we're not looking. Some seek life and opportunity and advantage and happiness and and. But it is life that seeks us out and beckons us until we hear the call unambiguously and we answer not fully knowing why or where or what. Only after we have turned our attention fully and commit or receive do we see and appreciate life's gifts. It is an illusion that we make of life anything that we want. It's the other way round.

*******

The She-Bear Gallery-Cafe appeared through a hazy cloud. Eh-em entered its doors in a blazing light and saw that the decor welcomed in warm pine and birch tones accented with burgundy cushions and a gray wall filled with pictures and paintings from different artists. The old car repair garage had oodles of space to use in countless ways. Five small tables could each seat four. A community table for eight came into focus. It was round oak placed in the center. Daily newspapers lay there to pick up and read. The chalkboard by the cash register gave the daily special in yellow. The wall behind featured a short menu of drinks and sweets. An apple pie on the counter sat under glass and tempted. A bust of a puma watched over selected books on riding and horsemanship. A photo on the back wall surveyed everything under its domain. A painting of a girl in swimsuit stood out on the wall above the tables. It had a sign you could read if you walked up to it. Not-for-sale. There were no customers, no staff, no proprietor. In all other ways empty.

*******

The equestrian center had both stables for horses as well as short-term accommodations for their owners while visiting. The animals were powerful and magnificent. The buildings and grounds well kept. Natalie's house the envy of anyone who dreamed of having a country home. There was an expansive covered riding arena and ring and combination observation room and refreshments lounge perched above the level of the ring, just enough to see the riders and their mounts and trainers through huge plate glass windows. Here family and friends could sit and relax in comfort away from dust and flies while watching the riders.

Megan enthused about what could be offered here for horse lovers and those who could gain pleasure and renewal outside long-term care "homes." She couldn't help but feel that human disabilities were prisons that needed the light of day and fresh experiences. These freedoms were essential for everyone but especially for those whose maladies or limitations prevented them from having more of that quality of life she treasured. Other than this prejudice, Megan was sympathetic and watched herself carefully not to project onto others what she thought life should be for them. She was a compassionate and sensitive soul and an animator.

Megan waxed philosophical with Eh-em as they walked about and waited for Natalie to break free to have a word. After what amounted to a self-guided tour of about an hour accompanied by Hank and Susan, pestering Megan and Eh-em to ask if they could ride, Natalie met the four of them in the observation lounge of the arena. She was dressed in a spotless white blouse and skin tight jodhpurs with newly polished black English riding boots. She said she had just changed to meet with them and some other guests, dignitaries she called them. She was sorry for making them wait.

"I know you," she said as she shook Eh-em's hand.

"Yes, we've seen each other before. I work at . . ."

"I know. And Megan. It is so very nice to meet you in person. Your reputation precedes you."

"I hope not."

"Only good things, good stuff. And who are these eager beavers?"

Megan introduced Hank and Susan. They nudged Megan, and it was so obvious that she had to say something. "These two are keen to ride. Is there a way to manage that sometime?"

"Right now if they like," offered Natalie.

"I am sure they would be . . . "

"Let me get my stable manager."

Natalie disappeared into an office or storeroom at the back of the observation area counter where it appeared they could entertain guests and serve refreshments. In fact, the observation lounge seemed to be a multi-function room with a counter or bar. One could view the indoor arena while savoring delectables at an evening soiree. She came back with Johnnie, a young, serious super model of a woman about Megan's age. Johnnie walked across the room in a manner neither self conscious nor self assured. She assessed her surroundings in furtive looks as she approached the others. She had a slim and taught bearing as if ready to respond to any sudden movement within a defined perimeter.

Natalie introduced Johnnie to the foursome, and Johnnie warmed immediately to Hank and Susan. They took her offered hands and the three turned toward the observation lounge entry door and the stable nearby. "I'll get you set up. Have you ever ridden before?" To their answer Johnnie said decisively to the two youths, "Western it is then."

## Chapter 20: Snarls 'nd muddles

"I'm envious. I wish I could ride again," pined Megan.

"You can. There is always a horse around that needs exercising. We could work something out. This may all look like it runs with a staff of hundreds, but in fact there's just me and two other people, plus some volunteers. Young girls, you know. We are crazy about horses, and some of us make a living all our lives around horses." Natalie was both accommodating and open to her guests.

Eh-em felt he had to say something. "I know nothing about them," he offered. The women ignored his contribution.

Natalie invited Megan to sit and tell her about why she had contacted her. Eh-em listened. He learned that Natalie had opened her facility to the regional center for developmental disabilities and the families of its residents. With assistance from staff at the regional center and sometimes family, individuals could come to the equestrian center and have riding and communications development experiences with specially selected and trained horses. The contact with animals had positive benefits for these people, and many returned as part of planned hippotherapy programs. Only a few days a month was this community service available; it cost nothing for those who participated. Natalie was very proud of the program and needed volunteers whenever the children and young adults came: for every rider there were two attendants, one to lead the horse and one specially qualified to work with and steady the rider.

Megan immediately volunteered. She knew someone in Iowa who might be moving to Upton. She would also be interested, although Megan didn't know if her friend knew much about horses. They had worked together in hospice. Megan had a long history with horses going back to childhood when the family lived at what was now informally referred to as Cougar Corner.

After the women had all but exhausted subjects like other interests, education, upcoming volunteer opportunities, and so on, Natalie turned to Eh-em. "And what brings you here?"

"I'm along for the ride, but I have an idea." It was not well formed but Eh-em just started talking anyway. Perhaps it would become clearer as he went. He took the chance. "Some time ago, you expressed interest in a painting I did. It was a girl in a swimsuit. White suit, flower in her hair. Kind of an impressionist piece, colorful."

"I remember. You have decided to sell it."

"Sort of. I want to open a gallery-cafe. I have the space and rent and all of that worked out, although I am open to new ideas. But I don't have the money to convert the space into this gallery and cafe." He briefly explained his ideas about Patta's garage, how it would be utilized, when it would open, and all the rest until Natalie said, "And what has this got to do with the painting?"

"Well, I would like to sell the painting with the understanding that it would hang in the She-Bear Gallery-Cafe, that's the working name for the business. It would hang there for a year and then the buyer, maybe you, could take it, and it would be yours with no other conditions. It would be the property of whoever buys it. Hang it wherever."

"I'll do you one better. I will buy the painting, depending upon price, of course, and I will host a do here during one of our busy weekends, and you can bring other works to raise the money you need. You can put whatever conditions you like on what you sell. All of that is up to you. You can think of it as a She-Bear, is that it? A She-Bear—wherever did you get that name?"

Eh-em didn't have time to answer. Natalie continued. "It doesn't matter. This is my proposal. A She-Bear exhibition and sale, prior to opening your business. We can announce the event. I might combine it with something else. I will have to think about that. Sound good?" Natalie looked Eh-em straight into his eyes. He took this as a kind of final offer by a keen negotiator, who was also a savvy socialite and creative fundraiser. The look and his return without looking away in modesty or embarrassment sealed the deal as if with a firm handshake between hard-nosed executives.

"Wonderful," exclaimed Megan, who had been listening to all of this.

"When I'm in town next we can work out some details. I have to get back to work. Stick around as long as you both like. I'm sorry. Excuse." Natalie was gone. Eh-em looked at Megan, and they smiled at each other.

"Don't be flirtin' with that one," kidded Megan. "Never mix pleasure with business."

"Don't be flirting yourself. I saw how you looked at Johnnie."

"I didn't."

"You did. You just want to get in her jodhpurs. I've seen it before."

"I never. What have you seen before?"

"It's time to rustle up some kids and move 'em out. It's getting late."

On their way back to Upton after their visit with Natalie and an hour-long ride in the outdoor ring with Johnnie managing two horses ridden by two delighted kids, Megan smiled. She didn't mind getting caught looking. But it was not Johnnie she was thinking about. She was thinking Iowa.

*******

Russ stopped by Eh-em's on his way home. He said he wanted to show Eh-em something. So Eh-em jumped in Russ's pickup and they drove down the road to Russ's place. They went around the house to the back where the woodworking shop was. Russ unlocked the door and Eh-em noted the change. Previously it had been unlocked. Perhaps Russ wanted to secure his tools. He didn't ask.

"Here she is. She finally emerged from where she was hiding in that hunk of wood."

Eh-em saw before him on a waist-high pedestal the bust of a life-sized cougar's head. It was magnificent. Absolutely regal, and the eyes pierced just as Eh-em had seen live in the shelter and in Silla's photo. He was impressed and complimented Russ on a very fine work. The head and neck were visible and the neck disappeared into the remaining portion of the block of wood. The cougar was not open mouthed and threatening with fangs to kill but impassive, silent, entering as if from an anteroom.

"Is it finished?"

"Carving's done. I might stain it, maybe even paint parts, like McGary, the southwest sculptor. I don't think he did wildlife, though."

"I'm not familiar . . . "

"Well, we'll see," said Russ. "Now, about that business you wanted to open."

Eh-em reported to Russ what had happened recently. Russ already had an idea from his sister. He inquired whether he could show his cougar head at "the exhibition-auction." Eh-em said he would be honored to have it there. But would he want to sell it?

"No. Not yet. I think I will keep this one for when you open the She-Bear."

And that is how they left it, except Russ promised to contribute some pieces to raise money for the gallery-cafe. Before Eh-em walked home he asked Russ if he would do some reading for him. Russ said that would be fine. He would be happy to give him any help he could. He mentioned he did a little reading for his sister.

Eh-em breathed in the evening air deeply. He felt all was well with the world. On the way home, although a dusty and unremarkable country road, he felt he was becoming a part of the people and place he had chosen. As he approached his house, he had a surprise sitting on his porch. It was an emaciated cur, lost or abandoned. She was wagging her tail as Eh-em approached. The dog followed Eh-em into the house and said wordlessly but clearly as dogs do, "Now I'm hungry and thirsty. Whadayagot?"

Cats have been known to adopt humans, not so much with dogs. But this one was destined, that is to say determined, to stay. Eh-em found the companionship rewarding as he tried his best to find the owner. No one knew the dog. Hunting wild animals with baying dogs was prohibited. This breed (Blackmouth) was uncommon in California. Mystery Man now had mystery dog that began to protect the house the day it arrived. She snarled at cars and unknown sounds outside, and when Killer saw her the first time when Russ returned a manuscript to Eh-em with his comments, she snarled and then wagged her tail. The two inspected each other and settled in without ceremony. Although the spot by the wood stove was Killer's when he visited, it became Snarl's the rest of the time. Russ suggested the name, and Eh-em thought it in keeping with the dog and an unwritten norm for the neighborhood. So Snarl was Snarl. She stayed, unless someone should ever claim her, which didn't appear likely after Eh-em's efforts to find her owner.

*******

Doug and Dolly got wind of the fundraiser for the She-Bear and wanted to go as much to see the equestrian center as to hobnob with dignitaries. Upton was anything but up town, and so the opportunity to meet society people could not be missed. Megan arranged it with Natalie that Dolly could be a hostess and serve drinks and appetizers while Doug poured drinks—red and white wine, juice, and Calistoga mineral water. They looked forward to being a part of something other than their day jobs or watching TV on their days and evenings off together.

The benefit exhibition was scheduled to be on the anniversary of Silla's passing. No one would make a big point of this, but those who were involved would know. Patta would be invited as would the school principal and several Upton business people. Other locals were on the list also, mostly people Natalie knew, people in the trades and some neighbors in the surrounding area. Natalie was in charge of the guest list. Russ was also invited but cautioned he might "escape" early.

*******

_Leaving a story for a few days presents a dilemma, or several. One certainly loses the rhythm of the lives lived and the trajectories of various story lines. Another is that the characters have time to morph into newer versions of themselves, contradicting or amplifying who they were when last we visited them._

_I have been remiss, I admit, in one or more of these areas, and although authorial transgressions can be forgiven, changes too far removed from what we have understood so far can chase the most devoted readers into other pursuits never to be seen consuming the narrative again. Risking all of this, I continue with humility and nerve. This story tells me it wants telling. I shall proceed._

_It needs telling, for without writing I am left looking at a painter's studio with unremarkable and unfinished canvasses and a house and business stalled in a lonely valley, or washed up on a sandbar from which I cannot extricate myself. I have slowed the pace of my painting, especially the portraits. Very difficult to pull off I've found. Suffice to say, the ghosts and demons of the past have also caught up with me again. The emptiness. The nightmare._

_My only friends are still not friends, not of the close, intimate variety. I can't just drop by or call and say let's have a drink and talk about our hopes and dreams as well as our defeats and despair. No, that is not where I am just now. I do not mourn the loss of the people in my past, for the past I intentionally left, sometimes wondering why, oh why. But just as things around here were getting interesting, becoming promising—Bam. Things changed. At first I picked up the pieces of myself, not that there were many to pick up, and I got going again. Things looked good. But I miss what was happening, where a "we" were going, how far we had come in careful, cautious steps. That we had not moved so slowly, I moved too slowly. But all would have ended in greater pain, I know, as things turned out. And now I am alone on a similar path without company, without a compatriot, without the essence of meaning in what I am doing and where I live._

_So I take paper again and feed it into the platen, for successive carriage returns will bring me to new destinations with sights along the way. So I hope. Yet with a dream unfinished, realized._

_One consolation, and she is a sweet one. Snarl. Aptly named for the attitude I have in my hours here without . . ._

The benefit needed guiding, Eh-em thought, and so the next time Natalie came into the hardware store, he asked if they could talk over what each was doing in preparation. He wanted to be sure he was in sync with her idea of the event. It was a bright sunny day, and they stepped outside the store to chat in the sun.

"Would you like coffee or something? We could go over to the diner and . . ."

"No. No thanks. I have errands to run. It is all really quite straightforward. Give me names of people you think we should invite, and I will invite the guests who are booked that weekend and some other friends I know who like to support a good cause."

"So the date. It will be the anniversary of Silla Sheridan's accident."

"Is that so? I am not sure we should mention that in our welcoming remarks."

"I didn't think it would be that formal."

"Dear, it is always formal where these people are concerned. They may look like horse people and working stiffs, but believe me their outfits and boots will never have seen a day's work in the dust. At least my guests will be that sort. They are the ones that buy and they have enough shekels."

"I'm afraid I may be out of my element."

"No, there is no element. People I know don't care a whit. Just about themselves. Or if they do, we can be amused. I can signal you with a detectable wink if you need to know who's who and what to watch out for."

"That's almost comforting. No, it doesn't matter. If I know what's up, I can manage most situations."

"The only question I have is silent or open, auction that is. You might want to set reserve prices for some of the pieces."

"Ah, so it will be an auction. I guess that is better than a bunch of stuff with for-sale tags on them. My problem is not so much that, though. I'm afraid we don't have enough pieces to auction. I need to find more who will donate. Some of the artists are asking what they get out of it, and I tell them exposure. I am not sure that is enough."

"That is a problem. It may just be a matter of numbers. I haven't a clue about any artists in this area. Perhaps you could contact the Museum of Northern California Art and get a list of living artists. Show me the list, by the way. I might know someone on it. And you go from there. I won't announce or plan anything until we have some priceless pieces to auction. You give me the signal. We can leave the type of auction till later, but I prefer the open. You know, people get caught up in the moment and prices go up. Silent auctions, too secretive; people get away bidding ridiculous prices for really wonderful stuff."

"Okay, I have homework to do. I will let you know."

"You can contact me anytime. Please remember my painting. I want it in the show, but we will put a sign on it saying sold."

"It is very nice of you. "

"Think nothing of it. This will be fun. And think of the goal. Upton will have a new attraction, maybe a diversion, thanks to you. And Silla of course."

"Yes, thank you."

"Bye for now. And if you need me, I am available anytime. You know where I live and you have my number."

"Yes, I will. Bye."

Natalie was wearing those tight jodhpurs again. And the view from the rear as she left—Eh-em caught himself admiring. All was not numb below the waist.

Increasing the number of works for the benefit auction proved to be very time-consuming. It was also one step back to take any forward. Eh-em had to prepare a kind of prospectus for what he was trying to do, including a justification and mini market analysis. Why did Upton need anything like an art gallery? an art gallery combined with cafe? Would the cafe infringe on other businesses? And so it went until he had a two-page executive summary with an artist's (his own) rendering of the front and inside of the new business. This Eh-em used in making his presentations to secure donations. Some only wanted to put their works in the gallery-cafe when it opened, and so Eh-em found himself confronted with note taking and record keeping and thank-you letters to write and a mailing list and an artist's directory. The scale of what it would take to raise money for and eventually open his business became overwhelming even though the project was modest.

You know the next problem. Should he take on help or offer a partnership to someone, or just what? He found himself temporarily adrift again, and finally resorted, after conferring with his key advisers, Megan, Russ, Mrs. J., Patta, and Dolly, to contacting Natalie. He thought to involve Barb and Ben, but they had their hands full with their own business. In fact they were a bit standoffish. They were worried that Eh-em's business would be competition for theirs until Eh-em clarified his proposed hours of operation and that he would not be serving alcohol.

Natalie seemed undaunted by large projects. Her equestrian center was an example, and taking a smidge of her time would not be too much to ask. Besides, she had said she was available any time. Now was any time. There was no definite date for the event now because of the slow pace of organization. Summer had asserted itself in full in town and the surrounding countryside, and the weather had baked the hills and valleys light brown.

"Could I invite you for a business lunch at Maud's one day this week?"

"You could but I wouldn't come."

A stone plopped into a pool of something at the bottom of Eh-em's stomach. "Well, could I. . . ." Natalie seemed to have a way of taking the wind out of Eh-em's sails with and without the slightest word. She could also, he found, fill them with just a few utterances.

"What I mean is I need to be here whenever we have hippotherapy riders, and this week is booked with two groups. Come out one day and I'll make us some sandwiches and iced tea for lunch and we can talk."

"Tuesday then?"

"Tuesday it is. I will be looking forward to seeing you."

After he hung up, that sentence stuck like a barbed hook in his craw, or wherever it is hooks get stuck. What did she mean that she would be looking forward? Is that like looking forward, or does she have to wait for a time before looking forward? Eh-em got himself all muddled in Natalie's words until at last he fully confused himself about his interest in this assertive woman.

_This is ridiculous. I don't know her. At best she is a client or donor or friend. I just happen to be a speck of interest among her causes, between a piece of art she wants to collect and her do-a-good-deed-for-the-needy-guy bit. And all of this for Silla who is dead and my life which is minding a store for someone else, feeding a stray dog, and wandering about a place I hardly have a connection with._

_Only sometimes do I feel I have a connection. And Snarl, she needs me. It's nice when someone needs you._

## Chapter 21: I don't bite

Through all the self-talk and halfhearted starts, Eh-em caught himself from sliding further away from a life he would lead. He realized he was trying to do what he talked about doing because of his own interest in painting and art in general, an interest that was alive and strong. He wanted to have that business which was for him that interest manifest. He would create a nurturing space with interesting and beautiful things. People would have a cup of coffee and a piece of cheesecake and spend treasured moments in animated or intimate talk with friends. He knew he was no artist, not a real one, and not an informed collector but a medium through which a tiny portion of art for artists' sakes could slip into the hands of a few who appreciated, even loved.

His visualization of what it would be like had him and Natalie at a table enjoying inspirational creations and sweet treats, enjoying each other's friendship. On their converging temporal and psychological paths of relational stability, increment-by-increment, they would. . . .

He lingered over the thought then cast it out of reach before he would allow himself the luxury of something he may never have. Eh-em was hem and haw, closed and selfish to the max in his own way by holding back because of what, fear? and fear of what? Ghosts and gossamer things of no substance whatsoever.

Natalie had different dreams and plans. Hers centered on turning over the day-to-day equestrian center operations to Johnnie and a small crew while she made babies with Jakes, Jakes Ochoa, a somebody who halfheartedly knew she existed. When the time came, she would personally invite him as a weekend guest for the benefit auction. He would be coming from Elko and his vast sheep ranch and stable of quarter horses. He was Nevada's most eligible divorced man. In his early forties, he had rich ties to northern Nevada Basques as well as strong qualifications as a mate if not a match. He was handsome and an even stronger individual than Natalie.

The Reno rodeo and livestock show on a mild Saturday evening in the fall the previous year saw Natalie strolling through the pavilion of Western paintings and sculptures where "Indian artists" showed their best works. Either Native American heritage or choice of subject qualified for inclusion in the "Wild West Art" competition. There she met Jakes again, the owner of the Elko ranch her father Ron had considered buying before deciding on his place north of Reno. Ron was not a native, bringing family money from Texas to settle and run a cattle operation. His daughter and younger stepsister came with him, but the young women decided Nevada too desolate and dry for thoroughbreds and the older daughter's vision for a riding center.<\p>

Although Natalie had picked up Jakes' eligibility on her radar, she wandered off to view artwork as Jakes exchanged pleasantries with some people at the pavilion entrance. Natalie was never much for raising beef or sheep, but she could become accustomed to quarter horses if the manly Jakes showed serious interest and was legally single. At the time he was going through a divorce and the two, Jakes and Natalie, hit it off—even spent the night together and promised to stay in contact. That was more than six months ago during the rodeo and stock show. A reunion was overdue. Long distance phone calls and intermittent post cards from Upton no longer sufficed to cultivate the relationship that Natalie sought.

What did it for Jakes in Reno was her reading at the cowboy poetry jamboree, a copycat version of the national event in Elko. It wasn't her poetry that stirred his ambition but her cowgirl outfit. Simple, clean, contemporary. And as with other trousers she wore, the jeans and the image of her on stage showed Jakes just what he desired, for this confident young girl had become a woman in the time since a prospective buyer and daughters came to look when Jakes' ranch was on the market.

"Do you ride?"

"English. I'm in costume for this."

"No matter. Remember me?"

"I do, very well. Jakes it is?"

"Natalie."

"You had to look at the program."

"I did."

"And?"

"Well, you here with someone?"

"My dad."

"I'm hungry. Want to sample some good Basque food? Where's your dad, er . . ."

"Ron?"

"Yeah, Ron."

"He's in love with machinery. He'll be occupied over in the dealers' tent looking at stuff he doesn't need. We can go. I'll find him later."

"After you."

Ron didn't find his independent daughter when he began looking. They had wandered off separately, and he figured she was occupied with some poetry-types, or had gone off to see English saddles and tack. However, they met up as his daughter and Jakes stood talking at the gate to the fair grounds. Ron recognized the body language but said nothing except he'd see Natalie at home. She said not to wait up. Ron continued in the direction of where his truck was parked. For Jakes and Natalie one thing led to the next.

"Technically I'm still married. Does that bother you?"

"Not exactly. You're separated or getting a divorce."

"Yes. I'll be a free man once again. Soon."

"Sounds promising. Are you promising?"

"I should hope so. Prenup was the best thing I ever signed. My ranch and assets acquired during our short hitch are mine to keep. So I don't have to sell the ranch. Don't want to. Took it off the market."

"Off the market, and I guess you are too, technically."

"Let's not let that come between us."

"I suppose not."

*******

Megan disappeared for a week. No one noticed. Mrs. J. knew where. Megan came back with a friend that she called her partner, Janie, also a writer. They moved into an apartment together behind Ed's gas station and garage. Megan's mother was quiet and accepted the situation. Others in town followed suit. The sexual orientations of her children were common knowledge. Both caused no problems, and in their own ways, Russ quietly and Megan more personally and directly, they helped their mother and townspeople respectfully. Upton had benefited from the best that San Francisco and other cities had to teach them by way of progressive mores. Plus, everyone knew the Johnsons. The family had a history in Upton. Those who were established, like the Johnsons, garnered unasked for respect. Busybodies, if any, were left to gossip among themselves. There were fewer these days it seemed.

What the young women wrote and whether they ever published was unknown and no one inquired. What went on behind closed doors no one also knew for certain. There were girlish displays of affection in public. In the case of the new arrival, Janie sensed she was not altogether "tolerated," as she later put it. She found this offensive. Tolerance is not personal, she instructed. Perhaps it was only Janie who sensed this nuance. For most she immediately belonged because of her relationship to the Johnsons. There was a growing closeness and fondness for this newcomer within the family circle, and because of that, beyond.

For his part, if Russ had overnight guests at Cougar Corner, he revealed nothing, not even to his mother or Megan or Janie. Other than appearing more and more in town and at the B and B, Russ kept to himself. Some things don't change about a person even though because of other changes we can see, we suspect they have. Eh-em might have known something of comings and goings where Russ and friends or customers were concerned, but he wasn't saying.

Eh-em had learned his lessons about other people's business in another life, and he wanted others to exercise the same discretion about him. He behaved as he wanted others to behave. His move to Upton as well as the events of the past year had given him a kind of mature bearing that some interpreted as quiet leadership, or at least it was a case of admiration for they knew not what. His respect for others might have had something to do with this assessment. He was well liked, although he was not conscious of it. So from time to time, he worked at it through considerate deeds, efforts unnecessary in that he had already been embraced.

Such was Natalie's feeling about Eh-em. When he arrived in his older model station wagon, he parked it next to a newer model Jeep-type vehicle, obviously expensive, the upper half spotless, the bottom mud spattered. Natalie was on the porch of the her house fifty yards from the parking area. She was beckoning him to come over. Lunch was ready. He was early and expected.

Eh-em had dressed for this occasion, and he had a spiel memorized to increase his chances of getting help or money. He wanted to impress and looked elegantly presentable. Not far in the back of his mind was Natalie the woman, the one he found to be the charismatic type, calm, assertive, competent, confident. Great in anything she wore. He was not disappointed today.

Natalie was dressed in a shabby lace cowgirl dress, if there is such a thing. Sleeveless denim top, white cotton skirt with lace at mid-calf, all in one piece with a brown leather belt and small brown leather buckle. The skirt itself was a light pink. It might have been a summer outfit made to look like days of yore, but no one yore ever wore something like this, and so nicely revealing. There were slits left and right to mid-thigh. The total look almost made Eh-em lose his balance, and from that point he forgot his prepared remarks and anything he had imagined they would say or try to accomplish during their business lunch. If a guy can look like a deer caught in the headlights about to stumble with mouth wide open speechless, that was Eh-em. Natalie noticed and revealed a thin smile as she stood aside the open screen door and ushered him into her home with a wave of her arm. Their hands brushed as he passed by her, although he tried to edge past without touching. His face and neck became redder than red.

"Welcome."

Silence, and then, "Wow."

"That's all you've got to say?"

Eh-em was trying to recover. "You have a lot of artwork in here. A beautiful home." And that is how it went for minutes, inane comments of awe and appreciation from Eh-em and gracious demure and dutiful thanks from Natalie.

When they finished eating, Natalie turned to the task. "You suggested we have a business lunch. I did the lunch. Now it's your turn."

With this Eh-em talked in generalities for a few minutes and then began to narrow the focus. He was recalling points if not the wording of what he wanted to say.

Natalie interrupted. "What you're telling me is that you need help getting this thing off the ground. It's more than you had thought was involved when we last talked. And you want me to?"

She left the question hanging, and Eh-em again started to analyze her words to discern what she really meant. Finally, he re-entered the moment and admitted, "Exactly. I am quite overwhelmed. Could you, could you . . . "

"Paul. Relax. Take a deep breath. Did you enjoy your lunch?" The lioness was taking command as the juvenile showed his need for distraction. Paul said that the lunch was divine, or some such rot and Natalie continued. "People are good at different things. And no one can do it all. No matter what we are talking about. Hardware is not your calling, is it, Paul?"

"No, it's not."

"What are you good at?"

It seems Eh-em had heard this question before, but he dismissed recalling exactly when. What was happening right now engaged and distracted him at the same time. There was no time for reflection. And given no guard at the gate, what comes out spontaneously comes out. "I am good at escaping."

"Really? What are you escaping from? this time?"

"Parts of myself, I guess."

"Yes, we would all like to do that. But we know all that already."

"We?"

"People, Upton."

"How's that?"

"Well, you and I are not part of Upton. I came here and stay clear of Upton except to do some shopping and occasionally have a bite to eat. But you came and connected with a few people, and word is you are called Mystery Man. No one knows you or where you come from. Same for me. You must know people talk. That about right?"

"Yes, about right."

"Well?"

"Well not much. I prefer to take people for who they are, not clutter my mind with what they say about themselves or what people say. Start from now and proceed."

"But people don't usually do that. They want to know roots and proclivities and details. They also like to invent things," said Natalie with an inquiring look.

"I'm open. Ask me. Whenever people ask, I answer."

"Are you gay, for example?"

"What gave you that idea?"

"You have people close to you here who are, or at least it is said they are. You came from Baghdad by the Bay, had a business there with a homosexual, have I got that right? And you have not connected with the opposite sex since you got here, unless my sources aren't good enough snoops. You have females all around you. And you are too thoughtful, too, what should I call it, mild and pleasant."

He nodded affirmatively.

"Who are you, Paul? Who are you?"

This truth of the litany plus direct question threw Eh-em off balance. He had to collect himself, and as he did, who he was came to the fore regardless of consequences. "If I smoked after sex, I would smoke the biggest cigar ever after you and I had exhausted ourselves."

Natalie nodded her head. "I guess I have an answer. Unusual answer given the question."

Slight irritation invaded Eh-em's soul after he let the devil out. "And what is all this talk? Who is it that is gossiping about me or anyone else in Upton? I thought the place peaceful and everyone minded their own business."

"They do, but there is always talk, wherever you go, however you try to give the slip to . . . yourself for example."

Embarrassment's blush returned to Eh-em's cheeks and neck. He began sweating, having been caught being himself, revealing what he had hoped was buried deep within a trove of things best left unacknowledged and especially unsaid. His recovery was weak but effective. "Got any cigars, or dessert?"

At least he had a sense of humor, Natalie thought as she got up from the table and cleared the dishes. "Stay right there." She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with ice cream sundaes, two mounds of ice cream for each covered in chocolate with cherries atop each mound.

"There, how's that?"

"This is the most sensual-looking ice cream sundae I have seen since I went to Herbert's Sherbet Shoppe as a teenager in St. Charles. They had the most obscene looking desserts, and we all loved them."

"I see. Have I released some wild animal here with my business lunch menu?"

"Can we change the subject?"

"Sure, I have two answers I was curious about. Well, no, three actually. You like eating ice cream innocently presented as whatever."

"That's not changing the subject."

"Right, yes, well, about the gallery-cafe."

"We will have ice cream, now that I think about it. But that's not the pressing issue just now. I need help and I am wondering if you have time . . . to help. I am in deep water in more ways than one, and I was hoping you could . . . no, let me re-phrase that. I need a capable and energetic person like yourself to help me, just a little."

"You have been flattering me, and that works. After all I am susceptible to the wiles, even the declared and transparent wiles, of a man. Let's make this very simple. You get artists to donate a work or two for the auction and I'll take care of the rest."

"What about the contacts I've already made, and this summary and rendering I have made?"

"Give copies to me, and I will manage all of that. Your job is to use your charm and enthusiasm for the gallery-cafe and get people to donate or come to our auction."

Eh-em liked the sound of "our" auction.

"Deal?" said Natalie.

"Yes. I can do that. And if you need me to . . . "

"Of course, I will call you and we can adjust our game plan with whatever comes up. We don't need to sweat this, just get it done and done well so that you can be on your way."

Eh-em didn't like the sound of that. How could he bring back some of the magic he thought was happening just a course ago? He couldn't. They had reached a conclusion of sorts, and Natalie had to change for some afternoon work she had to do. Johnnie was waiting for her and popped her head in the door to remind Natalie. She said hello to Eh-em as she disappeared again saying she would meet Natalie at the boarder's paddock.

As Eh-em drove out the graveled road toward the country road, he banged one hand after the other on the steering wheel. He felt naked and inept and emotionally buoyed. He had opened a part of himself to someone he liked, and it felt so embarrassing and good. He should smile or scream, but he didn't know which. And she was so cool, so cool.

Analysis takes over sometimes, and consumes inordinate amounts of energy, energy wasted because reality bites without warning. A short time later at the hardware store, Natalie dropped off a proof of the invitation she had prepared for the She-Bear Gallery-Cafe Benefit. Art on display and for sale for a good cause, liquid refreshments and hors d'oeuvres . . . bring your checkbook and guest or partner with his or hers. A brief demonstration of horsemanship and sample horse flesh could be viewed from the comfort of the visitors' center. No dust or country smells to spoil socializing around refreshments and the rewards of owning a painting or sculpture for work or home. Come discover, et cetera. Did it look okay?

"Looks great," said Eh-em.

"Got any beech tar?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Don't be afraid, Paul. I don't bite."

"I'm not," he said unconvincingly. He was at work and had his customer service apron securely cinctured about any chakra that could release those impulses again.

"I'll get these printed and give you some. You can send or give them out as you choose. But keep a list of the people who say they will come. I need a count for the refreshments and to cordon off a parking area. And call me with a firm date as soon as possible."

Megan and Janie enthusiastically accepted his personal invitation. Politic as he was, he asked each person he sort of knew as he made the rounds around town. He wanted some people for sure to get the invite. He didn't believe they would buy anything, but it would be nice to have them on his side when (if?) he opened the simple cafe and bookshop, a picture in his mind of a community space completely different in feeling from what Upton knew. Eh-em was still worried there would not be enough money generated to afford the remodeling he wanted, much less enough to equip and decorate the garage.

Before Eh-em took off work for two days to recruit exhibitor-donors, he had accumulated a total of nineteen works, seventeen for auction. There were eight photos by Silla Sheridan, all for auction. There were three of his watercolors, all for auction. There were five small carved figures Russ donated. There was a stained glass lampshade a glass worker from Red Bluff donated. It had a reserve price on it, which Eh-em found odd. If it didn't sell, he guessed it went back to the artist? or into the gallery-cafe when it opened? He didn't know and forgot to ask. There was one bust of a mountain lion's head, not for sale. And there was one acrylic, "Girl in Swimsuit" with a sign that read "SOLD" to be placed below it.

Not enough, thought Eh-em. There is at most one or two thousand dollars represented here, if they all sold. He felt he needed more. He must find fields to reap farther away from Upton and Benton Valley.

## Chapter 22: Different spheres

Natalie contacted Dolly and through her Doug. She said her understanding was that they wanted to come to the auction and would help. Doug could pour drinks and Dolly could serve them and hors d'oeuvres. Would that be okay? Dolly spoke for both of them and enthusiastically confirmed they would be there. Natalie gave her an invitation and said that there would be some very interesting people to meet. Some bachelors, too, she said with a quick lift of one eyebrow. Dolly said she only had eyes for Doug, or some such cliche, but that it would be "fun to see people we don't normally see." Natalie didn't think there was any difference, but Dolly should feel free to get to know the guests as she made sure they felt welcome. Serving champagne from a tray would be a nice touch. Would she be okay with that? and could she wear something kind of formal? cleavage accented with simple jewelry would be quite nice, she added. Dolly said she would see what she could do. And Doug, could he dress up? Natalie confided that Dolly could advise him in this, as if men were just big small boys and needed guidance in social grace. Dolly brightened at this and said she knew what to do.

When Natalie went back to the hardware store to deliver a handful of invitations for Eh-em to distribute, she asked if he would be inviting Patta and Hank. Eh-em said he would. In fact, some mention somewhere publicly, they should acknowledge that Patta was helping make the business possible. Eh-em and Natalie decided that Eh-em should give a few words of welcome and acknowledgment at the beginning of the auction as well as words of appreciation at the end. Eh-em said he would prepare some things to say and made a mental note to include mention of Natalie and her generosity.

We are capable of more than we think. Natalie, avowedly capable, took charge and proceeded. As she did so, she subtly delegated tasks to Eh-em. "He was the best to handle it." She knew he was more than capable, just naturally reserved and self-effacing. She concluded that his bumbling at their business lunch was more about having to face her and whatever effect she had on him. Perhaps she knew what she could easily do with one arm tied round her back, and the rest she could re-purpose under the best of verbal wraps so that Eh-em, or her staff for that matter, took on what they were unaware they could do.

Life went on whether she initiated maneuvers or not. No matter, the auction was approaching. It was late summer.

Killer came calling that month at Cougar Corner whenever he could get away from his duties at the Russel Johnson estate, which meant regularly and noisily and constantly and nightly and mourningly and even when there was no female at the modest cottage Eh-em rented. In fact, he had no duties. In further fact, he didn't know or have any consciousness of duties. He was on autopilot.

Before, during, and after Snarl's propitious days, Eh-em had his hands full, and Russ was either inattentive or just couldn't control the all-male, mating-driven beast he called his gentle pet and trusted staff member. For Killer, the invitation had been broadcast for miles around, and he was crashing the party. He wanted to be there first and always. Neither work nor play—not even food—would keep him from a certain festive commingle he was born for. He showed, up and ready— _persistence_ , that would be—to have his way with Snarl.

Snarl for her part managed this and two other suitors while Eh-em did his best as the pope's figurative and celibate Rottweiler to prevent funny business. If the rhythm method worked for the faithful, it would work for a dog, wouldn't it? And this was the time in the cycle for abstinence. Even when Snarl was not receptive or could no longer entertain her relentless visitor from down the road, Killer followed behind, all nose and not to be deterred by anyone or anything. He wanted in in the worst way. There were no concepts of late and never, only early and now. That gentle creature was fully present, pertinacious, tenacious, and gave irrefutable evidence that the word dogged deserved so vivid an image for canis familiaris and blind instinct. We know that during these times, a dog is not man's best friend but wild and crazy with hunger. Killer was on a mission, forgetting all training, all loyalty, all the tricks and prohibitions learned since puppyhood. There is but one objective, and good sense and obedience and no-for-an-answer are meaningless. No forethought. No afterthought. Only go. I want it. I need it. I will have it.

In the end Russ gave up, and Eh-em would not leave Snarl alone or on the loose. Fornication and its consequences would not be tolerated on his watch. When the heat of the times subsided and Killer visited less and less frequently, Eh-em was still not sure something had not happened. Only Snarl and Killer knew. Neither was telling, but each became somehow calmer and content, this despite all efforts to manage appetites by human, would-be handlers up to this point.

Eh-em got into his car and ushered Snarl into the back seat. He was on chastity watch still, and Snarl was captive maiden. They visited the office of the Museum of Northern California Art, and the receptionist invited Eh-em to view their exhibit. Perhaps there was some artist there whose work would fit with the kind of art he would like to display in his gallery-cafe. Eh-em realized this suggestion was off the mark. He asked the receptionist to see someone in charge.

Lauraine Bruner got the picture right away and said that some of her artist-members would definitely like to have the exposure. She would contact them for Eh-em and see what she could collect if she shook the tree once or twice. Two weeks later, Lauraine asked Eh-em if he would like to come and collect the seven paintings and two sculptures she had been able to free up for his auction. Upon collecting the donations, Eh-em made sure to get the names and addresses of the artists as well as Lauraine's. Proper thank-yous and invitations would be sent, he said. Lauraine made a point of telling Eh-em to come back soon for a visit, and that she would like to visit the She-Bear when it opened. Please be sure to contact her, she underlined with a smile. Eh-em missed any ulterior motives in her earnestness, if there were any.

*******

"I have more names, addresses, and news for you," he announced early that late summer day after he had found Natalie talking with some volunteers. Although they went off with rakes and pitchforks with enthusiasm, he wondered aloud, "How can it be that some people like cleaning up excrement? What was it about the beasts that was so interesting?"

"It has to be done. Besides, don't we do the same thing, I mean sort of?" replied Natalie.

"I suppose we do. I think that when all of this is done, I would like to sit down and not do the cleaning up or the serving. I would just like to enjoy the day and have nothing to do. Stop working for the pleasure and comfort of others."

"I would like to do that and include some quiet time for things like my poetry," said Natalie.

"Poetry?" Eh-em questioned in falsetto, hitting the _y_ as if it were three _e_ 's strung together.

"Yes, does that surprise you?"

"Of course it does. I didn't imagine you."

"Remember, you are not supposed to imagine. You are supposed to take people as they present themselves."

"You listened to me. I'm not sure anyone did."

"Don't give me that. Look at what you are doing. What you have done."

"Okay, not about me today. I was just saying . . . "

"That we should take the day off," declared Natalie.

"Sounds dangerous."

"Nothing dangerous about it. The girls are mucking out. There are no owners scheduled to come, and if they do, they really don't need me. Their horses after all. They can use the facilities, part of what they pay for. Johnnie is around somewhere. Are you free to follow your, er, daydream? Or was it just that, a daydream, an impulse again you're not prepared to actually enact."

"You sound like a philosopher who calls people on their, their . . ."

"The word is shit, Paul. S-h-i-t," she spelled.

"Okay, shit, but I wasn't the one who suggested . . . "

"Detail. Now, are you ready?"

Natalie and Eh-em took the afternoon off. They drove in Natalie's car to the coast and found a beach to walk and explore. They picked up little shells and pieces of driftwood. They bemoaned the amount of plastic they thought had come from the careless Japanese. They huddled under a blanket when the fog and wind began to chill them. Eh-em suggested a driftwood fire, but Natalie said she knew a Mexican restaurant in Willits that served food that would heat them beyond belief if he could wait long enough to get there. It would take about an hour and fifteen minutes from where they were near Whitethorn.

On the way Eh-em asked about Natalie's poetry, and she asked him about the story he was writing.

"Cowboy poetry, only in my case it's cowgirl'."

"Not very English is it?"

"Well, the English riding crowd is very different from the Western folks. I don't think there is a tradition of poetry in the English group. I claim ignorance."

"Does that mean that . . ."

"It just means that I grew up in Texas and we moved to Nevada. My dad and me and. . . . Mom died when I was fifteen, and I changed from English to Western. Best of both worlds. I ride both ways."

"Sounds like there is a double meaning in there."

"Dirty minds gather moss, or however the saying goes," observed Natalie. They both laughed. She continued. "Want to hear one? There's one I recited last time I was in Elko at the roundup. In April."

"Sure. I mean, yes. I would love to hear one of your poems."

"Kind of a special genre. Sometimes sentimental, sometimes humorous. You know what I mean?"

"Try me."

Natalie dug down into her shoulder bag and came up with a notebook with a leather cover. She thumbed through it and stopped and studied a page.

"This one's called Lars' Lament. I think it would be good with music, but I'm not a musician. Here goes. Are you ready? Do you really want to hear this? It's not very good. Lars is not a real person, just a name I thought up for the poem. Sounded good to me at the time. Some people like my poetry, but I haven't won any prizes. I don't want to appear like I am a really great writer or something, because I don't think I'm that good . . . "

"I'm listening," Eh-em broke in.

"Okay, okay. Here goes," said Natalie. "It's just that . . . never mind. Here goes."

> 
>         I sing a cowgirl's lonesome song.
>         My mount I ride, the day is long.
>         Come to me my trusted ride,
>         you, me 'nd Sage by our side.
>         Horse 'nd dog 'nd then there's me.
>         They said I'd say, "Let me be."
>         But know that ain't it at all.
>         I'd just as soon see you tall
>         in that saddle we picked out,
>         me a smilin', not this pout.
>         So bed me down beneath the stars.
>         For all the world I'd be with Lars.

Natalie added, "You could make a refrain and sing it, I think. But it says what I wanted it to."

Eh-em felt a little electrical surge throughout his body as he sensed something in the choice of _mount_ , and then he went silent until, "That was great. I mean really great. Do you publish them or something?"

"I have another notebook like this one full of them, but no, they're not published."

"Let's publish them and we can put them in the cafe."

"That's an idea," said Natalie idly, and then the subject dropped. There was no discussion of Eh-em's story, or what the lament signified beyond the simple rhyme. They had arrived at the Mexican restaurant.

The drive back to Natalie's after eating huge portions of tacos and burritos and re-fried beans and freshly steamed tortillas saw a mandatory stop on a country road with a turnout. They fell asleep for a little more than an hour, Eh-em behind the wheel and Natalie resting her head on his shoulder. After waking they returned to the main road and pulled into the equestrian center late that night. Still tired, they said good night, and Eh-em drove home to a dark house and a dog barking. He had forgotten to feed and walk Snarl, and after letting her out and calling her back and giving her food and fresh water, he climbed into bed and lay there awake till almost six. He didn't hear the alarm clock a half hour later and was of course late for work.

Natalie sent invitations by mail that next day. The two had finally settled on a date, and for each invitation, Natalie wrote the date and the time the auction started. Printing couldn't wait, so there was room on the invitation to write in details and a message. For some she included a personal note. For the invitation that went to a rural route in Elko, she wrote that she looked forward to seeing her guest and getting even more acquainted.

In the off chance that visiting guests might want to see the garage before renovations, Eh-em went in and moved stored things out of the way. There was a pile of things Eh-em was not sure about, and so there was an area set aside for these. Patta could look at them and decide. Other things went straight to the trash behind the store in the alley. As for Silla's studio furniture and supplies, they had their place. Eh-em covered these with a tarp he took from stock in the hardware store. If not already in folders or otherwise protected, the large format photos were stacked carefully on a work table and covered in new, clean, heavy mill plastic. The personal items and small studio supplies found their way into several cardboard boxes. Eh-em folded the four flaps one over the other until the last held all flaps closed. One box was stubborn, one torn flap and the contents all mixed up. In this box Eh-em saw Silla's diary along with postcards of some of her photos and a million paper clips. He tried to organize the mayhem, and in doing so a paper slipped from the back of the diary. Eh-em picked it up and read:

      Your love life will take a decided turn this
      year. The North Node will move into your
      house of love and romance this February and
      spend the remainder of the year there. You
      may be shocked by your sudden need to go
      directly from dating to mating. This year
      promises to bring serious lessons in love and
      partnering. Saturn is asking you to get
      serious about your sexuality and how you
      direct your life force in general. As much as
      you love to flirt and evade, you'll gain more
      if you go deeper with just one or two people.
      Try not to give in to what's comfortable
      because the real magic happens when you go
      beyond what's familiar and safe.

Now that didn't happen for Silla as far as Eh-em knew. It didn't apply to Russ. Not Russ. Was there someone else? In Eh-em's mind, he was the only one the astrologer could have been referring to, but this was Silla's reading. It was possible that Silla was approaching something really magical, and he didn't know about it, and he might have been that, on the same track . . . somebody magical? Eh-em hardly knew her and what she did when she was not in her studio. His memory or lack of information twisted and turned the reality he saw and felt about Silla during the short period he knew her. In fact, he had to admit, he didn't know her. Could it possibly be this was a reading that applied to him? Not likely. But the reading seemed to have some uncanny relevance.

Identity is a funny thing. To live with the homogenized version gives little to others to hold onto. No one knew Eh-em, just as he did not know Silla, or anyone else new or old in his life. And they, whoever he was thinking he was closer to, they had no notion, no specific idea of who he was. He judiciously kept himself closely guarded, and the outward manifestation of himself was not very helpful, that is his self-effacing reticence.

Identity is about stories, the ones we create with others; and in order to trust enough for that, we have to relate our past just enough to let us proceed with the other. Who would he, could he do that with? Natalie was the only one he saw, but there were others he could have singled out. But a Natalie promised something more, although she would not, could not be for him. She was busy being Natalie, or she was just too busy.

Eh-em started painting portraits again in earnest, and he had taken pictures of Dolly and Ben. It took some talking to get Ben to pose, in essence to agree at all. In Dolly's case it was easy because of her sense of wonder and experimentation. Her agreement was assured even though asked in the middle of busing dishes. "Sure. Why not? Now? When?"

Courting Ben was the route to a yes and it was complicated. Ben the bartender was affable and patient. He had to listen to other people's stories. He was not given to telling his own. He didn't have a word edgewise. It was not his role, not his job. Eh-em had to draw Ben out and into agreeing.

Ben's mug was not so much unusual as it was expressive. His characteristic look was twinkle-knowing shown mostly with a smile that went straight across his face, hidden in part by a down-turned mustache. Such gave his greeting and listening a kind of dual message: I am sorry for your woes and glad to see you. His beard matched his hair; they both receded, the beard leaving the barren parts with noticeable stubble. His hair, black and straight, needed washing, and a long thickish clump kept getting in his face. He was constantly lifting it back off his forehead, whereupon it would soon drop back down again. One wondered if it dropped something of itself or something else into the drinks he was busy concocting as he leaned over them. He had thick black eyebrows. With all this black his oh-so-white skin stood out, and one thought dominated anyone who noticed. Perhaps he should spend more time outside in the sun. He wore a gray t-shirt under a gray, loose fitting, long-sleeved sport shirt. These too, one reckoned, needed washing. It appeared he wore them every day even in summer, but Eh-em thought that couldn't be the case. He was perhaps better for a black and white photo than an acrylic.

That night Eh-em came in the bar after work and stayed for six servings of beer instead of his usual two draughts. That was when he gave the question. Ben dismissed the coaxing and the invitation saying that Eh-em would see his folly the following morning. It would be wiser not to not choose him. Barb gave her two cents, which amounted to shaming her husband to get out of his routine.

"But there is no time to sit and pose. I have to work."

"No problem," his wife said. "Eh-em can take your picture."

"No, no." Eh-em said, somewhat slurring and elongating each word. "I'll paint you right here."

"Now how are you going to do that?" asked Barb.

Eh-em didn't have an answer and muttered something like they'd work it out. "Not to worry. We'll meet tomorrow, same time same station. Okay?"

Ben said he had no choice to which Eh-em said "Eh?"

"Never mind. I'll be here. Will you?"

"Of course. Of course."

And so began a series of meetings at the bar the purpose of which was to capture Ben on canvas. Ben didn't have to do much except stop now and then and look just so for Eh-em. Eh-em for his part had never painted anything other than from still shots. Ben was a live subject who talked back and said things like, "Can I go now?" and, "That enough for tonight?" Painter, painting, and painted often proved challenges for one another. The only thing Eh-em came up with as onlookers shook their heads was a moving object that looked like a black on white-gray blur. Eh-em said he would touch it up in his studio, but Ben and Barb and two or three regulars stared at him as if the blotchy mess and the painter himself were odd and delusional. The lessons that everyone learned was that Eh-em was no painter, at least not of the realist school. The painting never saw formal display until Eh-em painted over what he had done, and a barn in a field of Scotch broom emerged to his relief and pride.

Ben the Bartender portrait project did one thing and one thing assuredly. The patrons and proprietors and the town of Upton knew that Eh-em was a so-called painter who could hold six beers, sort of, and a non-sequiturious barroom conversation with quasi-aplomb.

Eh-em's success with Dolly was more to speak of and see. And what she and others saw was a girl, possibly Dolly, sitting at a bar or table with a glass of wine in front of her. Ben wanted it for placement over his bar. The Wilde West half-nude reclining on dusty red velvet had seen better days. Eh-em said he would donate the painting of Dolly if it didn't sell at the auction.

The possibility of attraction involving diametric opposites revolving around different spheres should not be ignored. Unless of course there is no chemistry at all. Isn't art as much about the subject as its creator and vice versa? Ben was no subject for a portrait. Dolly was. And why?

*******

      Sis,

      Susan said I to write you . . . then I burn
      the letter and you will get it. I don't know
      if she is right—she is sometimes.

      I miss you. Where are you? Of course I am
      here. We miss you even Susan. I know you are
      not coming back and I will never see you.
      This makes me sad.

      Dad is sad mostly. He doesn't talk very much.
      He sits in his chair. Sometimes I ask
      questions and he wakes up. But then he goes
      back to sleep. He misses you too. Very much.
      But he doesn't talk about you. I just think
      he misses you. Sometimes he's crying.

      We went to Mrs. J.'s and had dinner. It was
      nice. Russ was there. He and Mrs. J. talked
      about you. They both miss you. Russ is nice.
      His sister came to live with Mrs. J. She is
      nice also. She always says hi to me. I don't
      think she has many friends.

      Well, I know you will ask, so school is the
      same.

      Dad works but not too much. I still have
      chores.

      Love,
      Hank

      P. S. I hope Susan is right and you get
      this.

## Chapter 23: All too human

"You bought this?" asked Johnnie. She and her stepsister were just inside the entrance to the observation area of the covered arena. "Girl in Swimsuit" was positioned so that anyone entering would see this painting first.

"Yes. You like it?" said Natalie.

"I'm not sure. How much did you pay?"

"Too much."

"Well, I guess you have to like it, or is there some other reason?" Johnnie was not seriously curious.

"I like the artist."

"It says here Pehem. Who is that?" asked Johnnie as she peered at the lower corner of the canvas.

"That's the way he signs his paintings I guess."

"This is the same Paul? the one of the benefit?"

"Yes," said Natalie without expression. The two stood back and considered the painting in the manner of serious critics.

"He hasn't decided who he is. Or he is just dashing off a signature like it doesn't matter," Johnnie concluded.

"You're right I suppose. I don't know much about him."

"If this is a signature piece, we know at least this much. What do you like about her?"

"I like the heat, the youth, the flower in her hair. Her shape. What she has that I don't. Curves. She has the hair I have always wanted. Body type. I'm all straight."

"You like it because she is not the physical you."

"I guess. It gives a good feeling."

"And you identify with it in a kind of envious way."

"Yes."

"I don't need a picture to remind me I'm not my mother's child."

Natalie fell silent. She knew the sore subject all around plus up and down.

Johnnie mused. "Well, this piece isn't dangerous. It's without a big idea. I would have preferred oils. Acrylics, asexual. Kind of decorative as opposed to moving. Then again, the choice of subject, pose, colors, texture. This painting is an act. Says something strong, or maybe that the painter has strong energy in a kind of totemic, sinewy, almost masculine way. Does he have any others here?"

"Watercolors."

"Wishy washy, definitely feminine" Johnnie said with a question written on her forehead as if strong energy and watercolors was a contradiction.

"I never thought about them that way. Well, this one is nice to look at, and it will go well in the house. I will enjoy her company."

"Not his?"

"Jury's out."

Although if she had any romantic feelings for Eh-em, this was bald self deception. Perhaps Natalie was either holding Eh-em at bay or passively wondering, given her hope to another prospect, one whose chemistry she knew with hers made for fire of the burning kind. She hoped that the volatility she felt was more the spark igniting constant affection than mere fireworks, spectacular at first and then nothing.

One hundred people came to the benefit and a significant handful bought. Most came for refreshments and to see who else was there. The festivities spilled out onto the lawn in front of the observation lounge for the riding arena. Whereas the arena itself was covered and otherwise open to the outside, the viewing lounge was an enclosed space the size of an expansive restaurant. Why it was so big was a puzzle to some of the guests, except to be used for events such as the day's auction. But even then it too large. The garden party atmosphere plus upscale facilities led people to suppose that they had come to a multi-million dollar riding school with Lipizzans rather than a boarding stable with exercise and training areas for retired thoroughbreds.

Dolly held a tray of glasses with champagne as she stood by the door welcoming guests as they arrived. A couple of young girls rode horses in the arena putting them through their paces. One teenaged boy, who looked like he did not want to be there, adjusted chairs, emptied ash trays, and looked bored. The event could have done without him, but some parent had an idea about how her offspring should be helpful. Eh-em circulated among the guests introducing himself and pointing to the table with copies of the working drawings and budget for the gallery and cafe. He also answered questions about the works on display, especially those works from the Northern California Arts Council. He had done his homework on the artists and had business cards for most of them.

Natalie circulated slowly among the guests with champagne in hand. Dolly kept her supplied, or Natalie sought Dolly to avail herself. She was on the lookout for someone and often excused herself from one arrival to welcome another she either recognized or thought she should. She was also on her way toward that feeling that at first seems good but later one pays for. At bottom she was anxious and drinking to ease jittery anticipation.

Dolly, when she had an empty champagne tray in hand, returned to the bar and loaded it with an assortment of drinks and returned to the entrance. She learned that not every arrival wanted alcohol. As the onslaught became a trickle who said thanks as they took a glass of something, two people approached, a man and a woman. He was dressed in leather pants, cowboy boots, and a white long-sleeved shirt, his dark hair slicked back. She looked as if she had just stepped out of a casino with hair done up, or rather messed up. Single strands flew all about as if it had last been hastily combed or teased and come undone during late night gambling. She was in heels and peddle pushers with a tight tank top and a string of what looked like plastic turquoise beads around her neck, a matching bracelet on her right wrist. An oversized bag kept falling off her shoulder as she met people. She said, "Thanks, hon," to Dolly, who handed her a drink.

The couple clung to each other and were laughing. Dolly followed them with her eyes as they entered the lounge and wondered who they were. After all had apparently arrived, Dolly returned inside with a tray half full of drinks she was sure she could get rid of. It was time for a second round for some.

After it took most guests to finish their first drink and wait for the second, Johnnie was on at least her third. She gravitated to the source and stood staring as Doug poured glasses of wine and Dolly placed them on the silver tray. It was probably silver plate Johnnie said. She was dressed in a thin black cocktail dress cut low in front and low in back. You could see the dimples above her buttocks in back. No one noticed the dimples on her cheeks, or the color of her eyes. Men and women focused elsewhere when meeting her or saying hello. She delighted in the diversion she caused as she concentrated on quenching a thirst. The more Johnnie drank the more she flirted with Doug. He played the verbal game back like an excited puppy. Each time Dolly showed up with hors d'oeuvres or to pick up more glasses of bubbly, she told Doug to cut it out. When Johnnie was beyond three to the wind, she excused herself to no one in particular, but she gave a parting sneer at Dolly and loudly threatened that she could have her boyfriend or anyone in this crowd she liked, including Dolly herself, if she would just lighten up and smile once in a while. As nearby guests turned their heads and raised their eyebrows at the micro-scene, Dolly huffed and gave Doug a seething look that said they had something to talk about later. Doug for his part tucked his tail between his legs and began going around picking up empty glasses and silently opening more bottles of wine, which would leave too many half drunk bottles by event's end. Johnnie disappeared.

As Natalie chatted with an elderly couple, she saw Jakes enter the observation lounge, and who was that hanging on his arm? Natalie didn't know, and she had no choice but to find out. "Well, you made it."

"Yes, we did. What a place you've got here. It's all yours?"

"The standard dowry for all us Texas cowgirls, ya all. And who might this be?"

"Oh, Grace. Grace meet Natalie. Natalie, Grace."

"Pleased I'm sure," said Natalie.

"Me too. Jakesy, I need another." She couldn't have been more of a stereotype if she tried.

"In a minute, Gracie. We just got here."

"I thought you might be coming alone," questioned Natalie.

"The invite said bring a guest, so I brought . . ."

"Yes you did," underlined Natalie, not giving him time to finish his sentence.

"I need to go to the little girl's room," Grace said sensing tension. "Long drive, you know."

"Right over there, honey," said Natalie.

"Yes. Back in a flash."

"Well, this is not quite . . . "

Jakes finished what she was going to say. "What you expected?"

"You could say that."

"Well, I'm newly divorced. Officially. So I am out . . . "

Natalie, whether by smarts or intuition, knew where she was and where it was going with Jakes. Nowhere.

"Did you bring any cash?"

"For what?" asked Jakes.

"The auction. That's what this do is all about."

"Well, I have my checkbook, if that's what you mean."

"You and your friend should take a look around and . . . "

"Don't be like that, all business like. I came to see you," Jakes said in faux repentance.

"Me? How quaint. If anything, you came to check me out and see if I was eligible enough to add to your stable. She's a little inconvenient, don't you think?" Natalie was on her turf and on her game.

"I wouldn't go so far as to . . . "

"I would. The first thing you said was look at these digs."

"No I didn't. I said. I mean I asked if this place was all yours. You never told me you had such a big . . . operation. It is big, isn't it?"

"You never told me you wanted to sow your oats with the likes of me and . . . whoever. "

"I'm back. Miss me?"

"He did. So, have a look around and buy something. It's a good cause. And that guy over there, the handsome one? He's one of the artists, and has his stuff for sale. It's his project we are trying to support." Natalie was coming to a boil and at a loss for additional polite words. Realizing it best to leave it at that, she then forced a smile for each of these Nevada guests and walked in the direction of the bar. There was a bottle waiting for her there. When she grabbed it she did not let go. With bottle in one hand and glass in the other, she stepped up onto the viewing platform in the lounge area, turned, and called for everyone's attention.

"We are gathered here today . . . no, that's not it. Excuse me. I am so happy you all have come. As you know, we are here to enjoy one another's company and get to know some new people. We have here for you two of our regular girls who exercise some of the horses." She pointed at the girls in the arena. She continued. "I hope you have had a chance to see what they can do and the quality of horse flesh we have here. The two horses you see are here on consignment. If you are interested in considering one or both of these for your stable, talk with me or Johnnie. Johnnie, where are you?"

Not finding her, Natalie said, "Johnnie is not here it seems. Anyway she is the tall girl with the flowing black hair and black dress. She looks stunning. Can't miss her. Watch for her ladies. She's just a filly, and some of you guys will get caught looking when she returns. Just look, now. Where is she, anyway?" She looked over to the bar and Doug. Doug shrugged his shoulders, and Dolly gave Doug another look, something like "see the likes of what you were flirting with? Miss drunk No-show."

"The Center also sponsors equine therapy. We have new brochures over on the table by the entry. Not to be confused with the main attraction."

Natalie began to focus. "But this is not the reason I invited you all this afternoon. Upton is in need of beautification and revitalization. One thing every community should have is an art gallery. The former Ursilla Sheridan Studio will reincarnate as a gallery-cafe under the stewardship of Silla's partner and friend, Paul Eh-em. And it is he whose work is represented here as well as are his plans for refurbishing a space in town for people to gather, have refreshments, talk, write in their journals, whatever, and view works by local and regional artists. You will also be able to buy works on display there as well as other unique items. He will have a small selection of books for art and horse lovers, guides to the trails and byways of northern California, and other special items. But I should let Paul say a few words before we start the auction. Before I turn it over to Paul, though, let me just say in all sincerity, this is a great local cause. Your purchase of one or more donated works will ensure that the business gets off the ground and that we can create the best atmosphere for convening and conversing, to appreciate what we have. Get your wallets and checkbooks ready."

Eh-em stepped up to where Natalie stood. "Hello. I am Paul Eh-em, and we hope you can help us realize a project conceived by myself and the late Silla Sheridan. I am here to present it to you and ask for your support. We don't need a lot of start-up capital, but some will permit me and others to put plans into action and open the She-Bear Gallery-Cafe in a few month's time. We hope you find here a donation worthy of your home or office, and I personally thank all of the artists who have contributed their work. Some of them are here with us this afternoon, and I hope you have a chance to meet them. I would also like to thank our first benefactor who bought my first, well, almost first painting in a new medium for me, 'Girl in Swimsuit'. She greeted you as you entered today. Oh, I mean the painting greeted you. Dolly is one of our volunteers and served you a drink as you came in. She is over there by the bar."

Eh-em realized he was off script and quickly lost where he was in his spiel. He glanced down at his notes, raised his head again, and said, "Natalie Zapulco, our hostess, bought 'Girl in Swimsuit' for more than it's worth, and we are thankful for her generosity. Congratulations on your purchase and thank you for your donation. It will surely help open the She-Bear Gallery-Cafe." Eh-em looked over in Natalie's direction as everyone applauded. She held up her bottle of wine in acknowledgment of the recognition.

Eh-em continued for a few minutes, wandering and bumbling through what came to mind instead of what he had prepared on note cards, concluding with, "Let the auction begin."

Bart Jones from Reno was the auctioneer, and said that he would conduct this not as a livestock event, his usual venue, but as a "more considered affair." He admitted that his experience had not prepared him for this, and it was no livestock viewing ring. Rather, he moved from one piece to the next calling for bids. Where there was a reserve price, he announced that and opened the bidding. There were four pieces that did not sell. No one took the bait to open bidding on them. But the rest were sold, some at bargain prices. The take was announced at the end before money and checks changed hands at the designated settlement desk, the bar. It was just under five thousand dollars.

By this point Natalie was nowhere to be seen. Johnnie either. Eh-em and the volunteers were left to take stock of things and clean up and say thank you and good-bye to all bidders and non-bidders. He shook hands with Jakes and Grace as well as Natalie's old friends and his new acquaintances. He didn't know where Natalie had gotten to, but he would convey regards and regrets that they were not able to say good-bye in person. He reminded two people that indeed he would appreciate their offer of help in the garage conversion, a contractor whose wife rode horses at the center. He didn't have much work right now, Willow Henry. His plumber friend, Fred, also offered help. Eh-em didn't quite get his last name or connection to Natalie or the center.

One of the four unsold works went missing. Megan, an unsuccessful bidder on another work, looked thoroughly as did others. No one could find it, and there were no obvious suspects, everyone was so well dressed and proper looking. Eh-em was bewildered by this turn; he didn't know what to do except to mention it to Natalie when he saw her. He was clueless what to tell the donating artist, who was not in attendance.

Megan discovered in the process of looking for the missing painting that another piece was missing, one not for sale. It was the puma head. Had Russ or someone else? She told Eh-em.

Eh-em looked for Natalie at home. There was no answer when he knocked earnestly on the front door. She could be anywhere on the property. Her car was still parked in front of the house. As he began to walk away, a rather tipsy Johnnie came round the corner of the house clutching the puma head in her arms.

"What are you doing with that?"

"Saving him. Saving."

"From what?"

"Robbers. Robbers."

"What robbers?"

"Bastards."

"Could we take that back to where it belongs?" Eh-em was feeling he should gingerly suggest putting the puma back. He didn't want to rile a tall young woman whose inebriation could turn her into mother-protector.

"It's not for sale. Natalie said so."

"Natalie. Where is Natalie?"

"Sleeping. Sleeping."

"Where?"

"Back there. Back. . . ." Johnnie started to walk off with the sculpture as Megan walked up and spied what she was clutching.

"Oh, there you are. You little wild cat. I wondered where you'd gotten to. Can I?"

"No. No."

"I just want to put him back where he belongs."

"He belongs to Russ. Russ."

"Yes, I know. But Russ isn't here. His puma—she belongs on the stand by the door. You know. Over there."

"Where?"

"The riding arena. Entrance."

"Yes. Entrance."

"Shall we go and put him back?"

"Yes. We go."

Eh-em looked a little astonished. What possessed Johnnie to take the puma? And Megan. She handled that well. But he had not found Natalie. Thinking that Johnnie's appearance from round the corner of the house might be the clue, Eh-em walked to where Johnnie had come from. He found Natalie asleep in a chaise by the pool. She was quite peaceful and looked delicious. Eh-em remembered his day off with her and wished to have her next to him with her head on his shoulder again. But this was not the time or place. She was at her home asleep in her backyard. He didn't have the right or the relationship to disturb. She didn't look like she would wake before all had been cleaned up and the event officially over. He decided to check on her before he departed, and when he did he saw no change at seven that evening. Dead drunk, he thought. He went to his car and took out his notebook. He wrote a note and left it on Natalie's front door tucked between the jamb and screen door where she would find it.

      Natalie,

      I can't thank you enough. Meet tomorrow to
      talk over details.

      We netted almost five grand. Let's look at
      your expenses.

      I'll call before I come.

      Paul

Eh-em went one last time into the observation lounge and looked around for anything left to be done. He straightened some furniture and closed the door to the closet that contained cleaning supplies and a vacuum. The last thing he did before shutting the entry door was to lift "Girl in Swimsuit" off the wall where it had been displayed during the auction. He took it to his car. The puma was nowhere to be seen nor were Megan and Johnnie.

_Sometimes you get the idea that our notions of things are not as they are. If truth is somewhere in between I and thou, that means that we both need to communicate enough such that a common perception about how things are can be forged. This effort is not necessary in the most trivial of matters, but in a developing relationship it can be pivotal, humorous, problematic, ludicrous, absurd—an ending or a continuation of a beginning._

Eh-em didn't know which it was for him and Natalie, for the following day she was again unavailable. He thought his note and the results of the auction warranted at least a celebratory glass of wine. On second thought, maybe alcohol had been the problem. They could at least congratulate each other. Did her disappearances mean she was out of the loop now, no longer involved or interested in his—was it his and his alone—project? He seemed to recall someone using the word we. Was he the one, or was she? He could not remember, but he had a strong feeling that a we-together was in the making.

_Stories have no beginnings and no endings. What came before we came on the scene, well, people and places have pasts, don't they? So no beginnings, unless you go all the way back to whatever origin fantasy you want to lay claim to. And I'm not doing that. As for endings, even when people are killed off, they linger in the minds and hearts of those they knew and touched; and they carry whatever it is of them that is to be carried forward. There has been no violation of unities here. If anything, in the various streams of lives that we can glimpse but partially and ever so microscopically in stories like this, an almost insignificant one, we can participate in the human comedy. And that participation is its own justification. If you do not wish to go with this flow, stop. Go about your other businesses._

Two days after the auction, Natalie phoned Eh-em and asked if she could stop by his house. She had something she wanted to talk about.

## Chapter 24: Friends then

Natalie apologized for her behavior. She even accused herself of being quite rude to her guests and especially to Eh-em. Then she confessed.

Eh-em for his part quickly saw Natalie had things she wanted to say, and except for however lamely he might respond, anything he wanted to say would be anticlimactic and mundane. The fact that he made a connection with a carpenter or raised quite a bit of money for his project were of no significance in these moments, and he felt these moments treasures, especially precious.

Natalie revealed herself to be more and more other than the efficient superwoman she tried her best to be. "I am not the catch I thought I was, and certainly he is no catch at all. I totally deceived myself in thinking that Jakes, you know who I mean, and I had anything more than a one-night stand that night in Reno. What a frickin' fool . . ."

"You don't have to . . . "

"Yes, I do. And then I go and pinch two bottles of that special wine I bought for the guests, your guests."

"No, your guests."

"Paul, they were not yours or mine. No one is ever possessed by another person, unless it's the devil, and Jakes is the devil. Did he even buy one piece of art? No."

"No, he didn't. I have the list . . . "

"I don't care about any list. I let you down and I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"It's not. It's not what we talked about. I was a chicken. I escaped in a despicable way."

"Yes, you are despicable."

"What?"

"I said . . . "

"I heard what you said. And you're right. You're right."

"I've deceived myself also. Well, a lot really. I don't really think you're despicable. I think. I think you're. . . ." He let the silence hang there a moment. "Fantastic. I think you're fantastic. And the fact that you opted to disappear after you had done all that work and spent a lot of money and good will, I admire you. We got along fine. Look, we made almost five grand. Not bad, eh partner?"

Natalie allowed herself a moment of reflection. "We were sort of partners, weren't we?"

"Yes, and we still are. This ain't over. It's just beginning. We wrap up whatever we have to from the auction, thank-yous and all of that, then we get to work on the garage, collect more art, figure out a simple menu."

"This is supposed to be your project. I did this for you. I invested in you. And I'm glad it's working out. But me, I gotta keep the ship afloat at home, I mean my business."

"Right. Right." Eh-em was jolted back into his former place. He smelled intimacy just then, but he must have been mistaken.

"And about me being fantastic. I popped that balloon. I pop it right now. Maybe I'm not despicable, but I am a big chicken and a fool."

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Are you crazy?"

"Are you? Stop it. We can all pick ourselves up and . . . "

"No fairy tales, please." Natalie was swirling in a small vortex of mixed emotions most of which were dictated by a relentless superego. Then she said abruptly, "I gotta go."

"Why did you come here?" asked Paul.

She stopped. "I came here. I came here. I don't know why I came here."

Eh-em moved closer to her. She was standing by the door. He held out his arms and she just stood there. He stepped forward and put his arms around her and held her close. Their cheeks met and their bodies melted into one another in a hug that Natalie surrendered into. "This is why," she whispered.

After what seemed like a moment too short, one more important than all the words they said or could say, they parted and she collected herself saying, "Thanks. I needed that." She stepped away from him and said softly, "I need to go now. We'll talk later. I just need to kick myself a few more times before I come back up strong again."

Eh-em said, "Okay. We can talk again."

She quietly opened the door, walked through and out onto the porch and down the stairs. At the bottom she looked back and smiled. And then she was in her car and gone.

*******

The phone rang and it was Megan. "Just want you to know, I rescued Russ's puma and I have it. I talked with him and he said to give it to you when the cafe opens. He wants you to have it there. And until then, can we keep it here at the B and B. It's a great piece, and there is a nice spot for it in the breakfast room until it gets a new home."

"That would be great. Do I want to know the story?"

"Not too interesting, but Johnnie and I are great friends now. You know, you never know about people. She looks like this together person and above it all, but her childhood. No, you don't want to know."

"I guess I don't, but thank you."

"Thank you, Paul. You and Natalie did a great thing and we all are looking forward to your grand opening. When will it be?"

"I haven't had time exactly . . . "

"Well, start thinking. And call me when you need help. Janie and I can help cleaning or whatever. Okay? Remember now. Call us."

Eh-em felt like a vessel into which came all sorts of stories and pain and emotion. He felt better now that he saw and felt this very thing. It was heartening to be someone for other people. At the same time, this vessel had feelings of his own, and they stirred about such that his own security, confidence, stories could come out and find the right words. He had things to celebrate after all his work, waiting, and lessons. A grand opening of the She-Bear Gallery-Cafe would be his coming out, he guessed. The auction had been one for Natalie, a kind of rude awakening. His turn was coming. Would Upton and his new friends stand by him, or distance themselves as they got to know him better and better? He was still not sure he could disclose as those around him did almost effortlessly.

*******

Converting the garage was not as difficult as Eh-em had made it out to be. He enlisted help and bought materials and FF and E—everything needed. Megan and Janie helped with cleaning up before, and they would do the same after remodeling. As well, they showed up several times during the work to keep the place safe and easy to work in.

Johnnie, at the invitation of Megan, came by and was given odd jobs that came up throughout day-to-day progress, holding a long length of PVC conduit for Fred to cut, bringing nails to Willow who was up on a ladder, hauling out trash and debris, and going to the dump to unload unwanted stuff. She worked silently and had male and female admirers wondering who this goddess was and how anyone could look so good in coveralls and a t-shirt. Mostly she showed up only when Megan and Janie were there. That was usually at the end of the day after her own work at the equestrian center.

Russ stopped by a couple of times and made suggestions to Eh-em about placement of tables and shelves for whatever it was "they" decided to sell in addition to art and books. Eh-em wasn't clear who the "they" was.

Fred and Willow knew exactly what to do in matters of plumbing, electrical, and carpentry. Willow turned out to be an artist in wood, not the sculpture kind but in counters and corners and trim and small detaily joints. The two were invaluable and Eh-em took a liking to both. He enjoyed consulting about what would be best in thises and thats. The kitchen soon looked like a functional work space with prep table, stainless steel sinks, microwave, and two burner stove with small oven. Unused corners became home for storage cabinets and trash receptacles. The tile floor with center drain was prepared such that it could be cleaned easily under ample lighting. The unisex bathroom, although probably not according to code for the public, was spacious enough for handicapped as well as general use. A small office space in the plans became a built-in desk with shelves above and outlets for an adding machine or other equipment.

The electrical was kept as is for the most part, but at a certain point Eh-em had to go to the county and town offices. Permits had to be pulled. John Farnsworth, electrician, was brought in so that the electrical would meet code, although Willow said he probably could have done the work himself.

Once the town found out what was going on in the garage and the usage was changing from storage and workshop to "restaurant and bar," the authorities that be got involved and some work had to be redone to the inspector's satisfaction. Johnnie greased the works by tagging along with the stern official as he looked at plans and into everything that had already been done. Why-questions with a smile went a long way to soften any building inspector's stone heart. It was Eh-em's conjecture that they got off rather easily because of Johnnie. He smiled and thanked her sincerely. All had a great laugh, including Johnnie, when the inspector left. Jokes flew around the group about how men were slaves to women, especially young and pretty ones. Johnnie laughed along with the others. She did so without inhibition, and Eh-em felt a sense of family in the making with his volunteers.

Dolly and Doug pretty much observed from a safe distance. One excuse was that Johnnie was around. Dolly didn't want Doug near her, and Dolly didn't want to be around Johnnie because of what she called "her nasty side." Eh-em tried to have everyone cooperate and make up, but his efforts were ignored. That situation would remain as it was for the moment. Not so much a true truce as a messy ceasefire with combatants relegated to their respective corners.

Eh-em met with Natalie each week while the conversion was taking place. Natalie helped pick out different fixtures and furniture, but she didn't enter the garage while work was going on. For one, she was busy with her own work, and it seemed to be going well, especially the equine therapy program. Eh-em gave her reports of how the money was being spent, and he talked about reimbursing her for expenses for the auction. Natalie kept agreeing to work up an accounting, but it never came. After a while, Eh-em stopped asking, wondering what was going on. They spent time together, but it was always about business.

The word we was not used until one day Eh-em asked Natalie if she would like to take another afternoon off. She seemed subdued and withdrawn somehow, and Eh-em thought breaking her routine, or their routine, would be good for both of them. He felt indebted to her, but more importantly she was his friend. He cared about her. His feelings he left unspoken, but in deeds it was clear he was very fond of her. For her part she felt that this man had seen her at her worst and would never accept her for being weak, a woman, a chicken, a fake. She hoped that in view of Johnnie's time spent on the gallery-cafe project as a volunteer, there might be something that could develop between Eh-em and Johnnie. Johnnie was a catch—didn't Eh-em know it? What's the matter with him? She was young, but in fact so was Eh-em, his early thirties if that. Twenty-four was not too young for a man thirtyish.

As Eh-em sensed Natalie's self consciousness and vulnerability when around him, he rationalized that she occupied herself with all things equestrian center, because that was safe and a realm she could control. But his interest was in her. Everyone else was interested in Johnnie, including young women, for whatever reasons. There was something very attractive and seductive about her. But she was not Eh-em's type. Her insecurity and sometime shock-value sexual orientation remarks unnerved; Eh-em was not attracted to over-the-top women who might be aggressive. As he thought about it, drinking and withdrawing was better than drinking and attacking. He didn't trust her deep down, or he didn't trust himself.

Yet truth be told, Eh-em had very little to go on to judge these women. In fact he had little personal experience with anyone in Upton to have an opinion, even though his tendency was to have at least some fact or detail to guide him at any beginning. Fortunately, he was mostly wrong and he was beginning to realize this. The only way to know for sure, he was slowly concluding, was to get closer to people; and the only way to get closer was to initiate. He used to do this without fear, but certain experiences and perhaps a developmental shift or two had brought him to where he was now. But that could change. He could change. He had proven he could open up and act more freely if awkwardly.

"Let's take the afternoon off," was his next attempt.

"What about the store? the garage?" replied Natalie.

"All being handled competently by others. They don't need me all the time. You?"

"I suppose I could."

"But what?"

"But something. I don't know. I'm sorry. Have we sort of run our course?"

"What course? I am not clear on what you are saying."

"I'm saying I helped you, some bumps, but helped. And you have people to take my place. Johnnie, and others for example. I believed in what I did, and that's sort of that. Mission accomplished. End of story."

"You mean we have no basis . . . for a friendship?"

"I didn't mean that. We're friends. But you have your plate full and lots of people are getting to know what a good person you are. They like your project at least. You look like you are coming into your own."

"I am not getting the message you are trying to tell me."

"I don't know what I am trying to say. I just thought, well, you have so much in your life. There is even your story, the one you're writing still, I guess. Your painting, your dog, people. A new business which will take more and more of your time. That gallery and cafe are not going to run themselves."

"Oh, I don't think it's going to be that hard. If all goes well, I will have a few people to help me run the place."

"Johnnie for example?"

"Never thought about her. I was thinking about Dolly. We talked about it months ago. I guess I need to talk with her again."

"Dolly. She's very attractive. She'd be great, but she has Doug."

"Wait, wait. This is not about me and another woman. It's about me and you. Us. We, remember? We said 'we'."

"We did."

"And I am asking you to take the afternoon off with me. Is that so hard to understand?"

"No."

"Well?"

"Okay. Where are we going? What are we going to do? We could go to the pool, drink margaritas, lie in the sun, and swim."

"We could. But Mexican food sounds better. To go with the margaritas. Let's go back to that place where they stuffed us."

"You're on. Let me change and I'll meet you at your car. You drive. It's a man's job."

"I'm not going to take that bait."

"Good. 'Cause you might get caught."

"Stop flirting and procrastinating. Go change."

Their afternoon off was much like the previous one including napping this time in a field on a blanket. Snarl explored the surrounding woods, returned, and settled in next to Natalie. They woke after sunset, felt chilled, and rushed to the car, started the engine, and turned on the heat. The drive back to Natalie's was silent. She nestled next to Eh-em and Snarl took shotgun. They parted and thanked each other for the time away from responsibilities. They did not promise to see each other soon. They knew they would.

*******

Identity is a necessary thing. Some get it from nationality. Silla got part of it through a rebellion against her roots. Eh-em seemed to get it through methodically plodding through his life and its endless and trivial changes. He also seemed to get his through observation—watching. Russ and Megan had to fight and take flight to find it, not necessarily in that order. Natalie it seemed had to wrestle with herself and her so-called feelings and failures. The Dolly's of the world as well as Patta just had it and solidly lived their lives as if it was a deal done and nothing to fuss about. It is a wonder we become, if becoming is our path. It is a wonder that some have apparently little difficulty. They can just proceed, at least from late adolescence on.

Hank struggled inwardly. Those around him loved and supported him, but this was not enough for some reason. Of course the loss of his sister affected him, but it was not until Susan came home bent over and crying that Hank came into everyone's focus. Mrs. J. and Megan were the first to hear what happened and went straight to Patta to see what could be done. Susan's parents and the school principal got involved and wanted to address the issue with Patta or Hank, or the world at large if that would help. However what was done could not be undone.

Hank was riding his bike, and Susan was ahead of him walking in the direction of school that morning. It was not Hank's usual routine; he usually walked to school rather than ride. But for some reason, he took his bike.

He called out to Susan and she turned round and waited for Hank as he rode toward her. For a lark, or some unknown reason, unknown even to Hank, he plowed straight into Susan and stopped, his front tire lodged high between her legs. Susan dropped what she was carrying, a lunch bag and three books, fell to the ground, and held herself between her legs. Hank laughed and told her to get up, "You sissy." But she didn't get up. Hank's boyish prank had broken Susan's hymen and it hurt terribly. Neither went to school that day. What Susan did we do not know. Hank was confined to his room for he knew not what as adults tisked and wondered how to handle the situation.

Megan elected herself to have a talk with Hank. And Mrs. J. and Patta were thankful that they had the kind of relationship that would permit her to go into details that a young boy needs to learn at some point. Hank returned to school the next day and sheepishly went about his day a subdued young man. Susan returned to school a week later after a short "illness" and that was that. Hank said he was sorry. Susan did not know what to say, but after a time, they were friends again, Hank feeling that the ground beneath them had shifted. New knowledge of the adult variety tends to sober one in ways that carefree childhood days cannot. But some would say they were sweet on each other, and no one in the know tried to explain how this could have happened after what had happened, but they were glad they were still friends.

However, Hank began slowly to withdraw from the female adults around him and began spending time alone, with Susan and some boys from school, or with Russ. Doug had no skills in relating to teenaged boys, and Eh-em was Hank's father's lackey. Eh-em became aware of a change in Hank's demeanor toward him and became concerned. He asked himself what he had done. He asked Dolly for any comments. She had none. Just leave Hank alone. It is a tough age, she said. She for one would never like to repeat those years. So embarrassing. No, she did not know what had happened and why the change. She even asked if there was a change. Perhaps Eh-em was just imagining things.

Eh-em showed up at Natalie's more often now. He brought along Snarl and always had an excuse why he was there. Natalie saw through the ruses and was pleased. Jakes fell into a past best forgotten; Eh-em was becoming a present in present time. She liked the attention and was fond of the mystery man she could talk with and lean on if she needed.

Janie did not mix with people. She kept a low profile.

## Chapter 25: Things left hanging

The counterweight to any noticeable excesses Megan was made of—there weren't many—that was Janie. Megan was the person you saw and heard. You got what she was whenever you saw or talked with her. Janie on the other hand was more private, so much so that many people didn't know she lived with Megan behind Ed's gas station. Well, to be more accurate, who would?

Megan and Janie turned up at Natalie's, and instead of a ride as was Megan's usual reason for coming to the center, they both looked for Natalie. They found her getting her boots dirty in the stall of her only horse, a stallion of singular disposition. More than this horse was too much for Natalie to manage along with her vocation and avocations. Megan asked if they could talk when she had a moment. Natalie gave a quick yes and warned her visitors to stand back and away. Spring Break had a tendency to bite when other women were around. He was somewhat jealous and possessive and required a strong hand. Natalie was always the dominatrix with him to make sure the muscular animal never took free rein.

They met at a round outdoor table under an umbrella stuck through the middle and into a concrete weight so as not to blow away. The four redwood armchairs were not often used, but it was an open and friendly space near the comings and goings of both horses and riders near the outdoor riding ring.

"You know Janie," Megan began.

"Yes, I have seen you here a couple of times. You don't ride, do you?"

"No. Horses scare me."

"Janie is a writer, Natalie. And a good one. We would like your advice on something."

"Interesting. I write some poetry, although I can't say I am a writer actually, but I try. Go on."

"We have the right person." Megan turned to Janie. "Why don't you tell her."

"Yes. I write poetry also, and I illustrate my books. In fact, I make my books myself. Each is unique. Poems and water color illustrations bound in handmade paper. I do it all myself. And I was wondering . . . Megan?"

"It's okay, Jane. Go on."

"I want to start selling my books, in Eh-em's cafe, when it's open." She paused between each idea as if delivering something in bite-sized pieces so that it could be clearly digested.

"Fantastic idea. Can you show me one?" replied Natalie.

"Yes, here is my latest." Janie reached into a brown paper shopping bag and took out what looked like a pink envelope with a yellow bow holding the flap in place. She undid the ribbon and carefully withdrew a yellow paper covered book about twelve inches by eight. Both envelope and the book were handmade paper—you could see the rough texture made by the different pieces of pulp. The front cover of the book had a relief of a flower. Janie handed it to Natalie. Natalie took the object gently in her hands and opened the cover. The title page appeared after a blank page, and in handwritten black letters inscribed perhaps by a calligraphy brush she read, _Femininity's Sake_ by Jane Cardiff. The title appeared at the top of the page and Janie's name at the bottom. Between was the flower, a sensual yawning thing in the shape of a diamond.

"This is truly beautiful," Natalie said as she slowly turned the pages. "I think it will sell, if that's your question."

"It is not so much that as I don't know if the cafe is the place for it. I heard you wanted books there about horses and riding and such."

"What I want or don't want has nothing to do with Eh-em's business."

"I thought you two were . . . "

"No, no, nothing like that. We are . . . we are friends. I helped him out a bit. That's all."

"You mean . . ."

"I mean I think Eh-em would be entirely open to having this kind of art in his cafe. Don't you think Megan? You know him."

"I do, but Janie wanted to make sure first not to step on toes."

"Not worry about my toes. I don't have my toes in anyone else's business. I have enough to keep me busy. The only toes I have a concern about around here belong to dreamy-eyed girls who want to exert their own power, and extract in return some pleasure from some, well, truly magnificent animals. As far as Eh-em and I are concerned, I think . . . he's not magnificent but he has a quiet power I love." Realizing she had almost lost it for a moment, she recovered quickly by saying, "Forget I said that."

"Does that mean?"

"Nothing. I think Paul would be lucky to have your books in his cafe. These are works of art. I am envious."

"Envious? Why?"

"Let's say I am not that creative. I am into different stuff. Not doing art, for example."

"You said you wrote poetry."

"Yes, but it's different, different from this. And this is really, really nice."

"So Janie could ask Paul," confirmed Megan.

"Why not? I think he'd be delighted. He needs artists. Whether he knows it or not, he is a kind of patron or curator. I guess that makes me a collector. I would buy a copy of your book. Without even reading it, it is a beautiful object."

Megan and Janie thanked Natalie as Natalie fended off the homage. She did nothing, she claimed. Except, she told herself, saying something entirely stupid, and she hoped it would not go beyond the confines of the concentric circles of redwood table and surrounding chairs.

Of course it did. And Dolly was the first to receive the first ripple. From Dolly it went to Doug and stopped dead with him. But then it went from Dolly to cook Clarence and then to Ben and then to Barb and then to Eh-em, who hadn't been in Ben's for a while.

"Say, heard you got a sweetheart," sang Barb.

"Who me?" said Eh-em raising his eyes to Barb.

"Yes, you. All secretive and private but word gets around."

"I'm afraid of what you're going to tell me."

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Tried before, but nothing happened."

"What are you . . ."

"Wasn't enough time then, but now, maybe we'll see something."

"And what is it you want to see?"

Two could play the evasion game. "I want to hear your order. What'll ya have?"

"Beer, of course. Draught. Pitchers. One dark and one regular."

"Expectin' someone, or you planning on drowning in two colors?"

"Guests. Should be here any time now."

"Comin' right up."

Barb returned with the pitchers. Eh-em couldn't quite let it go. "What do I have to do to weasel it out of you?"

"Nothin'. Just pokin' at ya. You and Natalie. I think she's sweet on you."

"Be nice if it were true. But I think she's preoccupied and I'm real busy. Got to open the gallery, and the cafe, and do one or two things before it does. No time right now."

"The girls see you out at her place quite often."

"The girls? Oh, girls. Yes, those girls. We're kind of friends. Natalie. I like her. A lot I guess. But there are complications."

"I hear these excuses all the time in this business."

"Could I have some peanuts please?"

"Got it. How silly of me. Comin' right up."

Seeds get around and sometimes they sprout right in the limbic reaches of our brains and we go crazy. Other times they just blow away in the wind and sprout elsewhere. Other times we don't know just what happens with them.

Johnnie was the first to arrive at Ben's, and because the place was so small, she easily spied Eh-em at his table. She seemed nervous or eager, not her usual poised, all-miss-self-assured horsewoman and ice-model self. She sat at the end of the u-shaped bench and said, "Hi. Am I the first?"

"Yes. Thanks for coming."

"No, thank you for inviting me. I don't get out much."

"I'm surprised."

"The work at the She-Bear has been good for me. I'm enjoying it."

"It will be ready to open soon. That is why I thought we ought to get together to celebrate some before the grand opening."

"Grand opening?"

"Yeah. I'll tell everyone when they get here. Beer?"

"No thanks. I'll have something else." Johnnie got up and walked over to the bar and gave her order. She returned sipping a dark-colored, non-alcoholic drink. She commented when Eh-em looked at her with a question mark, "Cola, root beer. I don't know what it is. Keeps me from saying embarrassing things to people who don't like me."

"Everyone likes you."

"Some too much, I'm afraid. And here comes one."

Eh-em couldn't tell which one, Doug, Willow, or Fred. Johnnie slid down the bench next to Eh-em to make room for the arrivals.

"We're thirsty. And I see you knew we would be," said Willow.

"More glasses Barb?" called Eh-em.

"You got 'em."

When the glasses arrived the boys poured their beer.

"Expectin' anyone else?" asked Fred.

"Yes. I think two or three. But maybe they won't want beer," said Eh-em.

"No problem. We can take care of it," said Fred.

Fred sat on the side of the table next to Johnnie. Doug and Willow sat on the other side. When Megan and Janie arrived they sat on Johnnie's side. Janie looked like she wanted to crawl into a corner, and the end of the table leaning back so Eh-em could hardly see her was that corner. A few minutes later, Dolly and to everyone's surprise Patta Hardrey joined Doug and Willow. Patta sat on the end across from Janie. After all—except Patta—had drinks, Dolly asked, "So Paul, what's the occasion, 'cause we gotta go pretty soon."

"Well, I thought it would be nice to celebrate a little. With Patta's help and your hard work . . . we have all worked to get the She-Bear into shape for opening, I figure, in about three weeks. So that is tonight. Plus I have a few more things to say before we can just relax and enjoy each other's company."

Johnnie moved closer to Eh-em and their legs touched. Eh-em noticed and subvocalized a thought, witch or wench? He then made nothing of Johnnie's proximity. The booth was small for the size of group he had assembled.

"One thing, I think we should have, a grand opening a few days after the place opens. For the community, anyone who wants to come for coffee and cake, for example. And to see the place. That's the good news. What do you think?"

Johnnie moved even closer to Eh-em. This time his eyes caught Fred trying to get too close to Johnnie on her left. It was as if she was moving so that Fred couldn't even inadvertently touch her. Perhaps she instinctively sought sanctuary next to Eh-em, or on his lap. Either would signify an emotional and physical safety zone. She wanted protection, it seemed, and he was literally the closest strong and de facto trusted person. Eh-em wondered what she might have said or done had she been drinking. He had witnessed what had happened at the auction. Ah, perhaps that's what she was referring to after bringing back her drink from the bar. Ice queen was warm and soft inside, more domestic than wild, and unpredictable. She smelled of balsam, new and refreshing like menthol. Seemed innocent and somewhat fragile.

Oblivious to the effects of her presence in that open space, Johnnie looked down at the table most of the time, studying the grain of the wood, or something. Eh-em thought it was about avoiding eye contact. Dolly was across the table from her as was Doug. Eh-em sensed Dolly was a bit cold when all said hello to one another as they sat down. Dolly and Johnnie did not look at each other.

"The bad news, for me at least, is that I have not taken care of everything. I don't know how long it will take me to get these things done and paid for. But I thought I would mention at least one that you might be able to help me with." He paused and everyone waited.

"Here is how I thought it would go. I would open the She-Bear and someone would be able to staff it most days and early evenings. I would help, of course. But I need to keep my job at the hardware store. Dolly and I have talked about her getting involved, but her schedule at the diner doesn't work with what the She-Bear needs. So I am looking for someone to cover for me when I am not in the She-Bear. And I am very limited. I should have had a backup plan, but I don't. I wonder if someone you know might like a part-time job."

Megan was the first to consider volunteering, but she had opened an office in the medical center for community service information and referral, and there were now volunteers to recruit, train, and supervise, including those for hospice. She and Eh-em talked about this for a while in front of the others and determined that it did not seem likely.

The construction guys said they were not available. Different reasons, but bottom line, no, not likely. Dolly reiterated that unless something changed with her work at the diner, she was sorry but not available. Maybe in the future. Doug said he was happy in the hardware store, and that took all his time. Janie said nothing. She was still hiding at the end of the table. Willow asked Johnnie if she would be interested. She looked up and said that she did not know. Natalie had plans for her, she said. No one mentioned anyone they knew who might be available.

Fred observed, "Well, I guess we can't help you with that one. What else do you have?"

After a bit of inconsequential chit chat, Dolly stood up as did Patta and said they had to go. But Paul could come for lunch one day to the diner and they could talk between customers. Patta was silent.

Eh-em returned to the track. "I have some other things, but I have to take care of them myself. Business license, final inspection, buy supplies for the kitchen, and books, of course. But I will have to go slowly on that. Natalie is supposed to be working on a book list. I hope I have enough money left from the auction to cover a basic set. Finalize the consignment agreement for the artists. May have to wait on that and just wing it for now. Oh, and a sign. Got to design and have a sign made."

The group conversation devolved at this litany, which didn't involve them, and different people addressed each other again in small-talk questions and answers. Fred tried to strike up something with Johnnie, but as with the question of working at the She-Bear, she had a way of distancing herself when she wanted to. And she wanted to where Fred was concerned.

The beer pitchers were empty and the last ounces in the mugs became warm. People left until only Megan, Janie, and Johnnie remained. Megan opened the gate for Janie to ask Eh-em what she had come to ask—would he be interested in stocking her handmade books. She produced the same example as she had with Natalie and got the welcome reception Natalie predicted. How many did she have?

"Five right now and two more almost finished. I thought I would use the same material for content but different papers, and that way they'd actually be different books. Each unique like."

Eh-em agreed, and they had a deal. He would ask Natalie about display. In fact, although she was not a part of the conversion itself, her ideas and recommendations had been very helpful. He would talk with her in a day or two about it. And Janie should keep her books for now. Just before the She-Bear opened, she could bring them round, and they would decide on display and what the consignment terms would be. It would have to be consignment. Eh-em said he didn't have enough reserve to take care of all he had to. He couldn't purchase the books outright and then resell them.

"Would you be interested in working at the She-Bear?" he asked Janie.

"I could think about it. When do you need an answer?"

"As soon as possible."

"I promise to think about it and let you know. I want to talk with Megan about it, to make sure it's the right thing."

"That's sounds good, make it the right thing. Okay. Let me know."

Megan said to Janie as they left, "See, that went well, didn't it?" "Yes," was all that Janie said as they exited the bar.

Johnnie was still standing tall and motionless by the table they had vacated. The fact that she was still there stirred Eh-em's male ego. He felt, though, that there was some pressing question in the air, and it was not about whether or not she found something interesting in him. What it was actually about could be but conjecture.

"Paul, I just want to say . . . I didn't want to say anything in front of all those people. But I would be interested in working for you, as much time as I can."

"I thought Natalie . . ."

"She has plans for me, and I am very grateful, as her little black sheep. I don't really meet anyone. I need to learn about something other than horses."

"I am not sure you will learn very much by working at a cafe and cash register."

"All the same, I think it is the right thing for me."

"Okay. Okay. Let me think about that. I have some other people to talk to."

"I am really, really serious."

"I hear that. How about we talk with Natalie and see if . . . "

"That would be fine. I could work part-time and not give up my day job. I can work my schedule maybe, at the center, and the other time at the She-Bear."

"Should we talk with Natalie then, or should you?"

"I think we should. That would be best. Natalie trusts you and so do I. You are one of the only ones. I guess you noticed that lunk next to me trying to nestle in close?"

"I figured there must be something going on."

"When should we talk with Natalie?"

"Let me talk with the other people first and I will let you know."

That is how they left it except for cordial thank-yous and good night. Left hanging in Eh-em's mind was the black sheep part. He had no clue, or he hadn't been paying attention.

## Chapter 26: Do your thing

Eh-em painted the mostly promising picture. He and Doug and sometimes Patta were in the hardware store. A doorway through the common wall led to the She-Bear from the store with emergency get-over-here doorbells should either business need another body. Janie was in the gallery-cafe. Eh-em had a business perspective with two who needed, he felt, to concentrate on working with people and selling. Doug in this race seemed to be in the lead. When she was on the schedule, Johnnie, although undoubtedly good with horses and horse people, was an unknown. Eh-em would be running back and forth. Would the final organization work for the businesses, customers, and "employees" involved? Hard to tell. Oh, and then there would be the Doug-Johnnie-Dolly constellation.

_No problems, please._

Again Eh-em found himself with impressions that could not be fixed, represented, or relied upon. He needed more to assess accurately if he could continue incremental progress forward. Or would he fall? Each detail had to be carefully executed. He now had dependents, who were almost contemporaries. He would have customers expecting inspiration, or at least a great slice of pie.

There was a last step in the form of information he needed. Were there any known consequences from his past? Would knowing that reassure, or lead him into retreat and resignation? What was required would take at least a week and not in Upton.

Hindsight tells us what we failed to realize at the time when looking back from now—failures for whatever reasons. In this case it was Eh-em's fault. He had let Johnnie lead in how to approach Natalie. It would have been better had he gone with his instincts, but what happened happened.

"We'd like to talk with you about the She-Bear," said Paul

Natalie's sensors rose to the unlikely twosome. Eh-em and Johnnie stood before her as she surveyed some papers. She tucked them back into a folder as she considered the request. She sat at the redwood table under the shade of the umbrella. It was a cool day where the sun played hide and seek with the passing clouds. She sat back and crossed her arms and said, "I'm listening."

"We had a break from our work at the garage. Beer last night at Ben's as a kind of thank you to the crew for working so hard on the conversion." Eh-em continued along like this, setting the stage for the question. He finally came to the point. "So Johnnie here would like to work at the gallery-cafe."

"Why aren't you, Johnnie, telling me this?" broke in Natalie.

"Well, I, I mean we, we thought it would be best to work out the details with you," replied Johnnie.

"I'm lost. What exactly do you mean details?"

Eh-em volunteered to clarify. "You see, I don't, I mean we don't have a very good plan for who would man—excuse the sexist . . . "

"I will overlook that but remember you said it," Natalie commented.

But Eh-em heard her and took the unintended bait. "What would you have me say? 'Staff' the cafe? Sounds a bit high minded to talk of a one- to two-person operation, or the equivalent of that. I mean we could have 'part-time people'. You know what I mean." Eh-em was off script again, and he sounded defensive. No, he was defensive.

"Go on." Natalie was impatiently waiting.

Eh-em tried to weasel his way through the thicket that he threw himself into. He felt they were all in the thicket though. He could rescue no one, not even himself. Natalie's reservoir, not full to begin with, ran out of dispassionate understanding.

"What you are telling me is," began Natalie in her best executive tone, "that you two want my blessing to release Johnnie here to your care, or something like that, while I am left with a part-time, distracted stable manager who works I don't know how much on what I have so carefully carved out for her here?" She took a breath and continued. "And what will you do about money? Expenses tied to accommodation in the manager's apartment, vacation allowance, and all the rest of it? The savings I keep for your MFA. Undoubtedly a cut in monthly income from the trust. I just can't see. . . ."

Eh-em and Johnnie could not salvage the disaster developing before them. Eh-em decided to re-approach the subject after he had worked out a plan. He and Johnnie needed to talk further. "Could we postpone this? I think we need to work this out better."

"Are you insane? You and Johnnie? I think that she and I need to talk and you, Paul, need to think about . . . hell, I don't know what you need to think about."

"Perhaps we can all go and think about this some more," he repeated.

"Good idea," said Natalie in a manner that said subject closed, maybe forever.

Eh-em and Johnnie turned and left together. They hadn't even sat down at the table, which didn't help. And leaving together in the direction of Johnnie's apartment wasn't the best of maneuvers.

Natalie fumed under a resolute look, took the folder she was working on and stood up, fumed some more, gritted her teeth, and walked in long strides towards her house. Eh-em gave a last look back before turning the corner of the boarder's stable. He spied Natalie and her long strides in tight riding pants and polished riding boots. He thought her profoundly attractive and a friend he did not want to lose. In a way her anger made her more human and more attractive.

"Do you want to come in for a moment?" asked Johnnie.

"I don't think it would be a good idea."

"I think you're like most men after all. You are afraid of me."

"I am not afraid. I just think it is time to take stock of things and cool down. Perhaps you can cool down, too."

"I am cool. It is Natalie and you. You two are not cool."

"Well, that's beside the point. Could you please think about how this can work. I would still like to have you work at the cafe if you want to."

"I don't think I'm the right person."

"Wrong. You are almost perfect."

"Almost. I hate this competition between her and me."

"Almost is not bad. Give this some thought. Meet when Natalie cools off. She's the one who is hotter under the collar. And involve me or have Natalie contact me when all the dust settles. You can do this. If you want."

"I want. And I want it more now that I have seen the harpy again."

Eh-em didn't know what Johnnie was referring to but continued by assuming, "We all have our dark sides."

"And what is yours? I haven't seen it yet," said Johnnie.

"You will, or you will if you work for me. I am the bastard boss from . . . from Hades."

"I don't believe it."

"That's the best approach. Don't believe anything. Makes getting along . . . aw, let's cut this. Call me." Eh-em could hear a whispered "okay" as he walked away. He was a bastard, walking away from two women he did not want to argue with. Such unwillingness to fight with them made him look like the winner, but he knew better. He was the mouse toyed with; the two of them were like electrochemically charged predators, but predators all the same. He knew that. Women. And he knew he could run away from this. Escape was always an option. Besides, he had something more important to attend to, and he'd better get on with it.

*******

Damn. Did it again. I chased him away. Maybe that's what I do. Chase them away. Once they see the real me, they bolt. Get skittish. Shy. I can't go that way again. The last time he really got to me. He flirted, didn't he? He said those outrageous things, things you think but don't say out loud. He started it when he came to ask my help. He hangs around, gives me compliments, admires me regardless of what I wear. Shows me he likes me. Lets me cuddle in next to him and lean on his shoulder. How could I be so stupid, so quick to judge? Why do I attack? and why him?

Johnnie. I've been there for her since that bitch stepmother of hers stepped into our lives. She never knew I was the one who fought for her. I rescued her. She is better off here than in Nevada or Texas. What is she up to?

I knew the day would come, but so soon? Or has it been that long? Has Johnnie changed somehow, or is she still in that rebellious stage?

_We would do well to review and revise our assessment of who we think people are. Or better, we should keep the assessment forever open. People are their history, and that history plays itself out sometimes ambiguously but always partially. We never have a story in its richly textured fullness. Nor can we escape, really escape._

_We put on a face to meet the faces that we meet, and thus hide who is really in here. For my part I have tried not to tell a me-myself story, although in fact I have revealed the most: this story is me._

_I have two readers. One, me. And I reify who I am by reading me. Two, I have another person. Now why did I ever start that if not because of ego, somewhere below the radar, that wants intimacy with someone. Russ has about him the aura of Brian. He is Brian. He is a Brian. And I chose him to share my private words with, words that are the windows into my very essence. My story—it is the photo or painting from which he can construct a partial and therefore as-full-as-sufficient view._

_This story will never break open into the light where all will be revealed. It cannot by virtue of the very medium and my imperfect acting and the limitations of writing itself._

Natalie would have us see her as superwoman, but her acknowledged and unacknowledged desires betray her. In the recent minor explosion, we who are privy see her disappointment in those she would hold close. However, Johnnie does not see, does not know who Natalie has been for her from Natalie's perspective. Eh-em underestimates Natalie's pent up romantic inclinations as well as Johnnie's search for a trusted male figure. And no one sees the emotional needs of themselves for an other they can depend upon and be close to. Is that about it? Or is it the other way round? We are made as artifacts by the artistry or deception of others.

_Ah, amateur psychology amuses me. All is confused. And people's lives are in motion still._

Janie came into the Hardrey's the next day to get a pound of wallpaper paste mix. In addition to whatever she planned with this purchase for her handmade papers, her quest was to be the one Eh-em chose to help with the She-Bear cafe and art concession. Megan was not with her, and consequently Janie moved slowly and cautiously. It was more shyness, however, than caution. Janie was usually under Megan's wing. She seldom met and socialized with people without her, although she could be seen wandering Main Street and poking her head into the shops from time to time. Eh-em noticed when Janie appeared unaccompanied in Hardrey's.

At the checkout counter, Janie waited till Eh-em was alone, and then she approached to make her purchase and appeal. With a slight stutter and a reddening face, she asked Eh-em, "Have you decided about someone to help you with the gallery?"

"I'm still working on it. Still interested?"

"Very much."

"Let me walk you to the door." Eh-em felt like putting his arm around her shoulder but refrained. "Now, Janie. What is your last name? I'm afraid no one ever told me, not even you."

"Cardiff."

"Now, Janie Cardiff, do you really think that this would be a job for you? I mean you have to brew the coffee, clean up after people, scrub the toilet, maybe prepare small snacks, or serve cake and goodies. Sell books. Talk with people. If we are lucky, sell some picture or something on consignment, keep records on what is sold. There would be quiet times, but mostly, I hope, there will be busy times. You are up for all of that?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any experience with these things? I am sorry I didn't ask before."

"I'm from Iowa, and I grew up on a farm. So, no, not really. But from my senior year in high school until I showed up here, I worked part-time at the Writer's Den. In Iowa City."

"And what was that?"

"It was a bookstore. Then it was taken over by a chain. They moved to a larger space, got rid of the used books and added a coffee shop. Not a coffee shop for snacks exactly. A place to sit and read magazines and books and have a cup of coffee. Talk with friends. Like that."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't like that. I mean me. I still worked there but in the back. We had a mail room and we shipped books and other things all over the country. You see, there's the Writers' Workshop, and people come from all around. It is big business. Not big big but people know about it."

*******

Johnnie sat on the edge of her bed, hands clenching the sheets. She was not sure what had happened, but she knew she had transgressed. Eh-em was solid, or so she hoped. She could never attract a man like that, she thought. What little she knew, she was convinced he'd make the best male friend, even a kind of mentor if she was in the market for one. Natalie was where she had bumped into some sensitive spot. She guessed it was about Eh-em and herself versus Natalie. Natalie wanted Eh-em for herself, exclusively—surely she didn't want to work for him in the gallery-cafe. Natalie was jealous, thinking that she, Johnnie, was stalking her man, her quarry.

It was not her intent to offend, only to emerge from her world of horses and what was beginning to feel like indentured servitude. She could see making friends and having a beer or doing something fun with others in her free time. Eh-em's get together was a sample, although unfamiliar territory and an occasion again where someone she did not want to deal with appeared—Fred. She felt, however, that that kind of camaraderie was basically good and innocent. Emotional and physical safety were out there, she just needed to be more out there.

Would that she knew Mrs. J. and her summer barbecues, but being at Natalie's riding and boarding facility most of the time did not allow this information to trickle her way. Local opportunities for widening her field of vision and activities, or who might be available, were effectively not available. She felt a protected species, and she no longer needed that kind of monitoring or whatever it was. The people who did not want her or wanted to hurt her were gone or far away. She wanted to take care of herself.

And whose fault was it that the full feeling of freedom and independence had not happened sooner? She could have people close to her age to be with, if she didn't scare them off by being her bitch self. Nothing would happen if she did nothing. So Johnnie resolved to visit someone in town as soon as she could get away from work for a few hours. Someone she had already met and was able to talk with.

She made that opportunity happen the next day. She finished her work by six thirty, and a quick shower and change of clothes saw her in the equestrian center's pickup headed to Upton. She stopped at Ed's and pulled around the side. She got out of the truck and walked the few steps to the apartment at the back. She knocked and Megan answered.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Could we talk?"

"Sure, come in."

By the time Johnnie left for town, Natalie had collected herself concerning the scene the previous day with her stepsister and Eh-em. It took Natalie at least a day when she caught herself, or was caught, in a snare of her own making. Her feelings and assumptions sometimes directed the traffic out of her mouth. Brain engagement came later with tempered emotions. This better self ruled, mostly, the efficient, rational Natalie. Another better self, that soft and nurturing and understanding and wise one needed time and foreplay to emerge, and it was only after brush fires and life's other emergencies had subsided that this Natalie could come out and stay out and play. It began to emerge while sitting before the picture window looking out to the barns and covered arena and fields beyond. White wine sipped slowly with pieces of cheddar and soda crackers from a white porcelain plate massaged and nourished her. Soon a sober series of thoughts flowed. Natalie talked with herself in lockstep fashion.

Johnnie needed a life beyond her work, and being a resident relative-employee on the property did not foster that. She was also an adult with issues, but an adult all the same. She needed freedom to blossom into who she could be as a person and as a woman. The equestrian center was her shelter, but a protected space can be a prison. A door or gate needed opening wide to free that potential, whatever it was, into the open spaces and its own self expression. Johnnie was old enough and responsible and competent enough, like Natalie, to have all the chances Natalie enjoyed. Time to let go, let her experience them for herself, and accept. Time to support independence, although truth be told, she had virtually raised her younger sibling with increasing amounts of self confidence and readiness for whatever life might bring or offer. Time to let go and underline that reality.

Johnnie was working on her chosen alternative. Coincidentally, Natalie's renewed role was to support and encourage. Sisters entrained by living and working together thus sympathetically sync in matters of the heart and soul. The last of the strings, except the love bond between surrogates each played for the other, Natalie would have to sever to keep their relationship, one they both wanted she was sure.

Megan said bye to Johnnie as she left, and Janie warmly thanked Johnnie for her suggestion and the visit.

"Do you want me to talk with Eh-em? or go with you?" asked Megan.

"I'll talk with him," said Janie.

"Sounds like a plan. I'm going to spend time with my brother and mom then. You do your thing."

## Chapter 27: To no avail

"What would it take for you to get angry?"

"Not being able to see you."

"Stop it. You are making me angry. Please answer the question."

"Which one?"

"The one about getting angry, of course."

"What was that again?"

Audible sigh. "What would it take for you to get angry? Careful."

"I don't get angry."

"What do you mean you don't get angry. Everyone gets angry."

"Define angry."

"I don't need to define angry. If you don't get serious and answer me, I will show you what angry is."

"No, let's not do that. It'll just get you upset."

"And?"

"I am surprised and in wonder. There is no point in anger."

"And that's supposed to mean?"

"I mean anger is about not getting what you need. If you need something, go after it or ask for it or do something about it. Anger is just wasting time and emotional energy."

"Oh, really, mister psychologist, how can anyone human do that? Especially when someone else can't or won't give you what you need?"

"You need something?"

"Yes, I need you to hold me."

"See. Easy. Better than getting angry about it."

"Shut up."

That is the way at least part of it should have played out. But it didn't. In fact, Natalie's peace-making with Eh-em was on hold and that was not her choice.

Eh-em's house at Cougar Corner was locked. There was no one about, and Snarl wasn't there to screen visitors. Natalie then stopped by the garage in town next to the hardware store, and it too was locked. No one was putting final touches to the place for an opening she thought was supposed to be soon. She went into Hardrey's and asked Patta what was going on with the gallery-cafe. He didn't know. Eh-em had just said he would be back soon. Maybe work could then be finished and he'd open the place. It depended.

"Depends on what?"

"I don't know. He is a man of few explanations. "

"Tell me about it. You don't know where he went?"

"No. I didn't feel it my place to inquire. Other people's business."

Natalie got it and moved along.

Hank, Megan, Dolly, others knew nothing. Like children holding empty bags up to the next Halloween treat-giver, a small circle in Upton awaited its now familiar face. He was gone. Noticeably absent. Missed.

Funny how you can miss someone you hardly know. With the first buds of romance it can happen. When the object of affection is somewhere but you don't know where, when will they come back is the question foremost. This might have been the case with Natalie. With someone you see around and have gotten used to seeing around, their absence seems to disturb the order of things. Something is different, something you cannot define but you know. You just know. And it bothers you till they return, or you know where they went or the reasons why. This might have been the case with other Uptonites, too.

Eh-em checked into a small hotel on Irving Street for a week. The price was attractive even if the decor was not. He was there because of proximity. His tests, which he had saved some of his money for, began the following morning just down the street and around the corner. He had been waiting to have these performed ever since he decided to take the plunge . . . commitment to Upton and particular people there.

It was all quite silly when one looked at it from the outside. But the view from the inside, Eh-em's view, was mild yet persistent anxiety. One might even imagine something entirely irrational and stupid, which probably it was. In his mind the encounter he had had more than three years previously in which he awoke from a semi-drugged state with his penis swimming in—what was that liquid stuff?—so terrified him that he was sure, almost sure, there was "an incident" with another man, or two men. He never talked about it afterward, not with anyone, not even with those he was with that night.

Eh-em was capable of avoiding in different ways. Almost forgetting the past worked in this case, almost; but not now on the eve of personal commitments to people he had come to know and respect and like. The well-worn ways of dodging would have to go when he jumped in with two feet. Testing the waters with one toe or one foot now was incongruent with the preparations he had made. People depended on him. Some even cared for him.

The matter of his own sexual orientation he resolved months ago, but he affirmed his hetero again by walking in Golden Gate Park and actually talking audibly with himself. This was not a rare moment of reification but an important one, a kind of milestone. He said, by way of summary, this is this and that is that and I am me and not that. And I prefer. . . . So it went, like that, as if it had to, which it didn't.

He had a girlfriend, Jennifer, while in San Francisco, and since moving away he had been around people with various gender identities and sexual orientations without untoward effect or offense. He took people as they were. He had also tested his inclinations without jeopardizing or endangering anyone. This happened not because he had any conscious hand in how things developed. They just did.

Silla had departed prematurely for Eh-em, and he had hoped for something with her. Numerous times since her death he had imagined a life and sex with her specifically. Perhaps he was revising history while on his walk in the park, but during her life, what there was of it that Eh-em had witnessed, they couldn't or didn't come together as it seemed they would. There was just not enough time to come to peace with his own issues and fears and develop what might have been with someone. He didn't even know, especially at the time, if she was even the someone he wanted to pursue in this way. However, his fantasies then and since told the tale in unambiguous terms.

Thus, it can be said now, Eh-em justified his short period of grieving. He had moved on, albeit along the same paths he had started in Upton and with Silla. End of subject . . . except Silla was still alive through her family, her photos, and the enterprise they had started to talk about together. This dream he had now he brought right up to the point of realization. To be fair, it was his and Silla's dream.

He dearly hoped from the distance he had forged between Cougar Corner and a nondescript hotel in San Francisco that Natalie was the reason, or a major reason for a new and longer commitment to Upton and the life and business he would build there. He owed it to himself to cast uncertainties into the light. Thus the question, was he by chance infected—defiled and subhuman as those who had been stricken and shamed these days? He would not continue with Natalie if this were so. He would live out his life in Upton, as Russ was doing? making sure that those who deserved could have something he could bequeath. He was assembling a gift to people he had become silently but sincerely fond of. Not a gift of himself but of some thing for them, and he included people like Mrs. J. and Natalie and Dolly and Russ, Patta and Henry and others in this scenario. That gift was not hardware store service or his art or a baseball team for kids or even daily companionship for someone. It would be something concrete and lasting and evolving and ongoing. He thought that was what he was about—giving and kindness—if he had to follow Plan B. Get the gallery and cafe going and retreat into his own company and let whatever fate had dealt play out. It was a parting gesture, if he could think of it that way. The gesture would not sound like an injured animal's whimper but a soft purr to comfort a small circle of friends and customers in an intimate space when they wanted to curl up and chat or sit and hold a hot cup of tea in the palms of their hands. He had nothing else to show his affection. Nothing else to give. No one but these to show his affection for. Life. Plan A would be preferable, however.

Natalie might be the someone he would like to travel along life's byways with. She had something different from other women in his life, and he had other women friends and acquaintances enough. The only one right now who struck some kind of chord his soul heard was Natalie. If he admitted it, and he was on the cusp of doing so, she was special. Strong, competent, vulnerable—the combination was seductive. She had taken refuge; he attended and cared for her. A trust had developed by working together and getting both sad and mad at each other. Right now he was both of these. He had left her in her anger and gave no explanation of where he was going and why. Truth was, he was also a little miffed at her. Where was her trust?

A secret, a private, a personal doubt infected his soul, and exorcism was the remedy. Natalie could not help. Medical science could. If all worked out and he gained confidence that he would live a healthy and long life, he could minister to any wounds she had. He could nurse and reassure. They would make up. The only thing he had not addressed—because he didn't want to think about her distancing tactics—was whether she thought their oscillations were made of the same essential stuff, affection. He hoped but wasn't sure. Her sterner side raised a doubt.

Eh-em's self-destructive sin he again repeated in a drab hotel room far from his home, dog, and life. He hesitated. That then became inaction altogether. Eh-em dropped into the well of depression. He was, after all helical ruminations, angry at a situation and angry with himself.

What is trivial to some is paramount to others. Or take it to the singular: what you think is most important to you is seen by your closest as a waste or an aberration. For Eh-em there was no actual closest, and because of his unwillingness to open up, no one qualified to open up to. He had lived as the enigma he denied he was, and so also didn't adequately know even himself. What made him delay in discerning what did or did not happen in the past was masochism and selfishness, which possessed him such that he could only with prompting disclose answers to inane questions like where he was from and what his real name was.

We are who we are, as disturbed and misguided as we may be. Would that no one gets hurt in our being ourselves, and Eh-em felt that he had achieved this, if achievement can be gauged by omission and reserve. Proceeding through life and even recording it in peculiarly imaginary and personal terms could have fallout, especially if you name real persons in the stories you tell. If he got encouraging results about his bogeyman, he might cause or receive some of that fallout. However, he could recover. He could make sufficient excuses. He could pick up and develop those hopes, dreams, and possibilities he had prepared the ground for. He had invested in that almost imaginary place up north, not in the way he had talked about at the beginning but silently and personally without outward signs or fanfare. He was as much today an unknown to others as they were to him, but these people were now sufficient knowns to him—unique, beautiful, individual, precious knowns. Under the best conditions almost at hand, he could release himself and give what they wanted and asked for. He could share his very self as and through what he created. And in sharing he would receive.

_Nothing interesting really happened in San Francisco. I can't bring myself to narrate where I went and what I did. It was too mundane and boring. So I delved into mirrors and interiors. Perhaps I needed to get out of that environment up north to have the particulates settle and collect and thereby clarify what lay above and higher than dregs and waste._

_I took Snarl to stay with Russ for a few days. Russ is privy to where I was headed but he doesn't know why. Over the past six months I have come to understand his role as the audience of one I need so that I can visualize someone to address. He is that someone, an anyone; the manuscript was not meant for publication—I told him so. He is a mirror for me. I don't know who said it but, "In the other's eyes, I see who I am." Because I have no one, no one close, no one I can as yet come close enough. . . ._

_Unfortunately, I can't always hear what Russ tells me about what he reads. His insights I look over once and busy myself with just continuing. I want to see where my story leads me._

The medical clinic in the Haight was Eh-em's entry into the world of elective medical testing. After two days at the clinic, he found himself in various departments at UCSF Medical Center for specialized diagnostics. Most tests were not uncomfortable or bothersome. A great many forms had to be completed and endless questions to answer to any new professional he encountered. Eh-em was dismayed to find that a definitive assessment would be unlikely. There could always be something that they could miss or that had not manifested itself yet. There was also the state of the art—somewhat limited in the early days of a feared pandemic. A more certain answer could only be given if he repeated some tests after more time had passed. Maybe there was a cure out there.

_Isn't that as life is, though? I mean you never know as time passes if or when something dire has taken hold in your body and will eventually bring you to an agonizing death. I had talks with myself about this, but was not able at first to accept the uncertainty about my health before returning to my Upton life._

Eh-em had time off in the city as he trudged in and out of offices and labs and outpatient facilities. His first night he just returned to his hotel room, watched TV, and fell asleep. By the third evening, when the day's waiting rooms, questionnaires, and pokings had ceased, he wondered where his old girlfriend was and what she was doing. Jennifer. Bunny, his former partner, what was he doing these days? He remembered Melissa and how very sensual and sassy she was. She was properly feminine and flirtatious, but he didn't know how to get hold of her. Besides, she was Silla's friend, and he didn't want to go into all that and the history since. He didn't really know Melissa, only had her for dinner that one time, and she was a surprise addition to the table. Eh-em was also uncertain he could "handle" a Melissa.

The fourth evening ended as before in front of the TV. Connections former and distant were left in dying embers of remembrance. Eh-em was alone. The end of that week saw him questioning what an insane undertaking this was—coming to the city—and more importantly why he had boxed himself in without intimacy. Why in fact did he ban himself to the sticks? Regret fed the depression. It hit full force on the weekend when there were no appointments or tests, and he still was not finished with his search for answers about his past and his future. The present became oppressively heavy, so much so that on the Monday, he asked one of the doctors in the Haight clinic what he suggested. Call a friend or someone you would like to have as a friend, and get together for a drink or dinner. Be good to yourself, he said.

The best he knew was Natalie. He missed her so picked up the phone and called. Always call before showing up or asking for anything. It was safer with her that way. Eh-em didn't know why this was the case, just that it was. If he really thought about it consciously, he knew he'd have to focus on her or himself, or their relationship, thus the key to his respectful distance. Avoidance in another form. Her other man had been erased from the picture, hadn't he?

"Where are you? Everyone's looking for you."

"I'm in San Francisco. I miss you."

"What? What are you doing there?"

"Getting some tests done."

"Why did you leave without telling anyone?"

"Russ knows where I am."

"Russ? Why Russ?"

"Snarl is with him."

"Why didn't you leave him with me? I thought you could have . . . "

"You have horses and your work. It would be too much to ask."

"It never hurts to ask. Johnnie asked about you too."

"That's nice. I miss you."

"That's nice. What tests?"

"I can't go into all of it on the phone. Could you come here? Take a bus or something? We could drive back together. Take the coast road."

"Where are you?"

"In a small hotel near Twin Peaks and the Haight. I could pick you up from the bus station."

"Have you ever been to the bus station on Seventh? It is not a place I want get picked up by you or anyone. What if you are late?"

"I won't be. We have things to talk about."

"You have some explanations. I mean . . . I need to say something about . . ."

"It doesn't matter. I want to see you."

"You sound needy."

"I guess so. Mostly without a rudder."

"There you go, evading the real whatever it is you are doing or feeling or . . . "

"Not exactly evading really. You can't go anywhere without a rudder." Silence filled the space between them. Eh-em continued. "Sorry. I'm sorry I called. I will be back in a few days. We can get together then, if you want."

"I want. I want very much."

"So do I."

Without good-byes they each cut the connection and sat discouraged at the unsatisfactory tenor. Natalie shook her head partly at her own lack of warmth. She soon busied herself in the kitchen before returning to work. Eh-em hung his head in a funk, and after a few minutes' kicking himself, left for another walk in Golden Gate Park. He'd find an early dinner along the way. Perhaps he could chase away the blues with some spicy Mexican food.

The week began with a review by doctors of Eh-em's tests. There was a dermatologist, who had taken a biopsy of a small growth on Eh-em's back—negative—and an internist, who had thumped him all over and ordered three non-standard tests at Eh-em's request. He paid in advance. The news was good. Eh-em was healthy as far the doctors could determine. Perhaps, however, he should see a counselor about his health worries. The suggestion was that he was a thorough eccentric and not-so-borderline hypochondriac. The patient and his internist who observed this laughed; Eh-em said he would consider talking with someone. The dermatologist suggested that he learn to meditate, and there were several places he could go to settle into himself. The doctor didn't go further into what Eh-em would find in a spiritual practice helpful, but he was confident it would. Eh-em thought about Three Springs and then decided that meditation and retreats were fads for others who were into New Age stuff.

He had his story as diversion, for example. And he had other things to occupy himself with. A dog, a business, several women none of whom needed much if any of his management. He rather liked this state of affairs, that of effectively being managed by others. And the results of tests and consultations and this brief catalog of positives relieved his dis-ease. He had things to live for. A past need only remain in its place. A future was uncertain, at least to the extent of those things that you cannot anticipate, or anticipate you can but it will be to no avail. You can't control most anything. But you can be with people in the present and come to know and to care for—to love—them. Upton had those people. He knew them, and they were as complex and pleasant as they come. He did not need to move again or ignore those he had befriended and in a way was opening up life-spaces for. They were each different from one another. He decided he had started over.

Eh-em continued to wax philosophical until there was a knock on his hotel room door. He hadn't paid for his stay beyond the weekend, and it was time pay for the current week.

"I will be down in a bit to check out."

## Chapter 28: Fugitive deja vu

Willow saw Eh-em in the hardware store on Friday morning. Eh-em asked him if he could open a doorway between the store and the gallery-cafe and install a sturdy security door that didn't look too industrial. Willow said he could, and by Tuesday of the next week, he was varnishing its trim as Eh-em cut extra keys for the front, back, and connecting doors to the cafe. Opening would be soon with a staff of three part-timers. Eh-em would take the lead as owner-manager. Johnnie would work late afternoons and evenings most days. Janie would work from late mornings till Johnnie arrived. The opening hours would be from ten thirty in the morning till eight evenings winter, and till nine or later in summer, unless there was some event like a book reading or "music with dessert"—special occasions, that is, to be announced.

As soon as Eh-em was back in the hardware store from his recent trip to San Francisco, Johnnie and Janie asked if they could share the assistant manager responsibilities in the cafe. Eh-em accepted their offer without comment or caution. They would work out how to run the place and how to work together and with customers. They all had things to learn. He left it like that and said he would let them know when they could open. They should begin discussing operations immediately. He thought that the title assistant was not quite right, but that was a minor matter. They would be responsible for everything while he was next door in the hardware store. Did he think they should wear anything like a uniform? Eh-em said they could wear what they liked, and he might, as time and money allowed, talk with them about promotional wear. Janie asked what that might be, and Eh-em said something like he'd have to see; but he thought they might have a logo or picture that could be featured on aprons or T-shirts.

She-Bear as a name for the business sounded cutesy to Eh-em's ear. It was Silla's or Eh-em's descriptor for an exercise in "collective creative imagining," if that was possible, which it wasn't technically. (Silla had read _Creative Visualization_ and afterward invented the derived term.) They in fact had never discussed a name for the business. However, the association of Silla so directly with the gallery-cafe Eh-em also found dissonant in a way he could not articulate. No one else had an opinion, or they hadn't noticed or said anything. Eh-em told himself he had the license to name the cafe whatever he wanted. Silla would be represented and remembered. That had been a decision from the very beginning. The life he was embracing now was, in his words, "less fear and more muscularity." He began to toy with appellatives and slogans, but his juices didn't exactly flow. Pride Rock Art Cafe? No. "Bakery, Beverages 'nd Bites"? Nope, doesn't include the gallery part. Best let it stew; there must be something more, more something.

*******

Hank included the gallery front and back in his sweeping duties, plus there was window cleaning for opening, all in exchange for a piece of cake or pie plus drinks each weekend, or as it turned out whenever he wanted. Eh-em planned to involve him more if he showed interest. The needs of the cafe would also become clearer with time. No matter what, Hank was roped into the kitchen at the start to learn how to make coffees and prepare various snacks. He had no objections. He was especially helpful when Johnnie was around for reasons teenagers with a crush on a more mature woman might explain but usually can't.

Susan came by in the week before opening and took as much time as possible talking with both Johnnie and Janie. They were her buds, until it was time to get more work done—the young women had a deadline—or Hank tired of shadowing Johnnie. More accurately, Susan tired of Hank's shadowing Johnnie. Susan and Hank were then off and did whatever young adolescents do, which adults were probably well to be in the dark about.

*******

Eh-em arrived home late Thursday evening. In the morning he walked to Russ's and retrieved Snarl. Snarl was too busy to leave, what with Killer and roughhousing in the yard and jumping in and out of the vegetable garden and Russ yelling to get the hell out of there. Eh-em thanked Russ for taking care of his dog, and everything. He underlined everything, all that he had done for Eh-em over the year they had been neighbors. It was more than a year actually, wasn't it?

"Indeed it has been, but no need for thanks. I appreciate your—I don't know what to call it—acceptance? of me and my family and Janie, of course." She was like one of Eh-em's family now, he said. Eh-em had told Russ about his plan for her and the cafe.

(O _r he had read about it._ )

On the way home with Snarl trotting ahead a few yards, Eh-em realized that his narrative had become jumbled. Russ even observed that it had lost its focus. Eh-em's story like his life had fallen into a state of confusion. Was it because of excessive self absorption? To get out of the mess, Eh-em sat at his kitchen table and reviewed his notes and stray paragraphs from his time away, which still had to be typed and edited when he had the chance. He felt on this occasion that his story was not really worth telling, but the discipline of writing was a diversion and fulfilled a kind of purpose. He admitted to himself that basically he was entertaining himself when alone by recording from the further reaches. At least he thought of it as recording. And the manuscript pre-SF and pre-UCSF, well, that could be sorted out later.

However, the story he concluded was boring. A running commentary for general audiences on a life lived with nothing for censors or voyeurs to pore over. His painting studio was gathering dust. The last painting on the easel under a torn sheet had been untouched for a long time, since before the garage conversion started. His bathroom needed sterilization; his sheets, pillows, and blankets begged fumigation. In fact, a good cleaning followed by regular care of his home had not taken place since move-in.

And his story. In similar shape. What he had been up to that these things had become so neglected were his work at the store, the garage conversion, his time away from his own space and solitary life. He was divided among other people's lives. He was attending to others, living for them in a way. Also he was substituting for someone who had died and not been able to carry her work into her own promising future. Time spent admiring Natalie and quietly treasuring her company at any excuse, well, that was also cause for neglecting things at home.

To hold and to hold and to hold eventually leads to letting go, which is no tragedy but liberation. The following day after work, Eh-em called Natalie and asked if he could stop by. He wanted to clear up misunderstandings about Johnnie. That was the excuse. He knew and Natalie suspected other reasons.

Eh-em got out of his car after parking in the area next to the outdoor riding ring. He was walking toward Natalie's house and saw that she was walking in his direction. She stopped and waited for him to come to her. She was expecting him; and she wasn't on her way anywhere except to meet him, but he was to take the initiative after her show of interest.

Such imaginative interpretations get put into words later. At the time they may be dimly felt and inarticulate. If the understandings are accurate before given language, they work their effects without awareness or manipulation, albeit after a little fencing.

"Hi," said Natalie.

"Hi."

"Come on. I don't bite."

"I hope not."

"Well? Long time no see."

"Yes. I just want to say I'm sorry. Sorry for . . . "

"Forget it. I'm just a jealous female, or overly protective. I don't know which. I assume you are talking about that thing with Johnnie."

"Yes. I wasn't thinking."

"No, but that's all right. I wasn't either. We're even."

"But about Johnnie, I've . . . "

"I know all about that. She's going to help you in the cafe. And that's great. For both of you."

"Both of us?"

"I mean nothing by that. She needs to spread her wings. Meet new people, and people her own age. And you need the help. She can make the time. I can adjust. That's all."

"Oh."

"That's all you've got to say?"

"Not exactly."

"Well?"

"It's hard."

"Remember, I don't bite. I won't bite."

"It's just that so much has happened, and I haven't been exactly forthcoming."

"You can say that again." Natalie's words came out like a cat's muted meow just before a scratch, or mating. She caught herself. "Sorry. Passive aggressive there. Won't happen."

Eh-em and Natalie walked in the direction of her house. It was a sunny day and being outside for Eh-em animated him. He was glad for the clear physical space. That and the sun matched what he wanted to say.

Eh-em told almost all. He said he had been preoccupied for several years about the possibility that he had contracted something in San Francisco. He had gone to have tests to assure himself that he hadn't. Although the results were "conclusive" that he hadn't, yet anything could happen in the future. He needn't worry about that now. He had received good news in the guise of no news. Living and enjoying the present was more important. That is why he had decided to fully take on longer-term commitments, the gallery-cafe and everything that that entailed, including now two relative unknowns, Johnnie and Janie. They didn't have all the skills or experience necessary for helping him with the business, he thought, but what the hell, he didn't exactly either. They would all venture off and learn by doing. He guessed he was probably further along by having had a business of his own, and that should be enough to help his two helpers catch up if needed and come into their own. Or they would surprise him and run with "their business" and teach him.

"But why would you want to do that for these girls? You don't really know them. Especially Johnnie. I don't know about the other one."

"It's all connected with something new. Coming to Upton, meeting new people, helping in the hardware store . . . people seem to be comfortable with me. They trust me. And that is a good thing. I can use that for good. It feels good. Plus I like being here."

"An angel. Angels fall sometimes, don't they?" Natalie had the hint of doubt in her eyes.

"I have already, only it's not a bad fall, for me. I think it is a good thing."

"And what is that?"

"You. I have." Eh-em stopped short of premature declaration.

"Yes?" Natalie drew out the word as if coaxing him into a confession.

"I missed you. I got to San Francisco and found what I was doing there, and doing for the last years, stupid. To be honest, I like being with you. I like you. I have let myself like you."

"I missed you too. I am not just saying that because you said. I have been silly. Stupid is too strong. And I don't think you have been stupid. Silly, maybe. And too closed, I think. I guess you are saying that is going to change."

"I have wasted a lot of time."

"Join the club."

Natalie stepped closer to Eh-em. She held out her arms and he stepped into the embrace. They hugged each other. They both felt a calm come over them. Swords sheathed. Defenses rested. After a moment, they each stepped to the side of the other, Eh-em's arm over Natalie's shoulders and her arm around his waist. They walked to her house. The phone rang as they entered the art-filled living room from the mud room at the entry.

Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but in this case who could guess except that it only might with such a good start, the warm reunion only minutes old. It was Natalie's turn to travel, and Johnnie, Eh-em, and Natalie's volunteers knew ahead of time where she was going. Natalie's father, Ron, had an accident and was in Reno's Washoe Medical Center. Within an hour, Natalie was packed and had briefed everyone. She blew a kiss good-bye as she stepped quickly to her car and said she would call when she knew more. No, she didn't know how long she would be gone. The only missing pieces were the words "wait" from Natalie and "I will" from Eh-em.

Eh-em, with slight and fugitive deja vu, drove to Upton and the gallery-cafe. Once inside, he surveyed the state of things and thought he could open within a week. He needed to gather all the art to be included at opening. He would move the books he'd ordered and had already received at the hardware store. He would also gather together the cafe supplies and the few perishables needed to get going. The gallery itself needed organizing as did the kitchen. Tables on order would be delivered in two days, he hoped. He would again call on gratis helpers to prepare for the promised pre-opening party and official opening the following day. He wrote on the coming Sunday on his calendar, "open business." Johnnie could help in the evenings during the week, and Janie could help whenever he said. They started the following day and all would be ready in no time.

The young women worked silently and steadily. They hardly knew each other, Eh-em thought, and it was not clear at this point how much they would work together, or how they would get along. Dolly stopped by on Tuesday evening when she saw activity through the window. She asked if she could help. That offer plus her cheerful energy broke the ice with Johnnie, and soon the three young women were making jokes and giggling. Eh-em hoped it was not at his expense, but was assured it had nothing to do with him. Apparently it was something about future customers from out of town and what services the young women could offer.

Russ got wind of the pending opening through his sister who mentioned how busy Janie was, and he stopped by the cafe mid-week to discuss the sculptures he wanted to put on consignment. He brought his cougar head and told Eh-em to decide where to put it. He added that he was no longer carving small figures but had graduated, with prideful smile, to real art. Large objects in wood—natural and stained and partially painted. His western themed pieces were particularly beautiful, Eh-em thought. There was also a bison so big Eh-em was not sure he could accommodate it. It was tethered securely upright in the back of Russ's truck ready to unload.

In view of more art than the space allocated as gallery could allow and still have tables and chairs for cafe patrons, when the tables and chairs arrived, Eh-em would have to arrange things strategically to accommodate it all. Eh-em decided his own watercolors superfluous. He had plenty of stuff from artists working in and around Redding and Red Bluff. There was Janie's handmade paper poetry books and the equestrian books. Almost too much.

Eh-em and Dolly took on the job of where to place the photos and paintings. They worked it all out by discussing each piece and then hung most of the art on the walls and on a t-shaped partition. The sculptures were in a corner awaiting their places for when everything else, that is tables and chairs, could be positioned.

Eh-em had three items of special interest, and he alone took his time to decide where to put them: Russ's and Silla's pumas, both for sale, and Natalie's "Girl in Swimsuit."

## ???Chapter 29: Shakedowns

Just inside the entry door but out of the way to protect it from traffic stood a sturdy table. On the table patrons would find a short stack of one-page menus and an array of business cards fanned like playing cards. Prominently a majestic, life-sized head of a mountain lion guarded table and contents as it silently counted those entering Cougar Corner Art Cafe.

The "Girl in Swimsuit" rested on a paint-spattered easel. The easel was waiting patiently for painter to no avail at home, and so Eh-em decided to put it to use in the cafe. The girl looked out the window onto the sidewalk and street. In the evening a soft spot shone on her. Anyone passing by could see and admire. A small label below the title and artist's name in the lower right corner indicated she was not for sale.

The photograph of a puma in the tree was mounted eye-level on the back wall behind a row of four tables along with other photos by Silla. It was clearly the best of the black and white photos in its prominent center position. It was as if the doors and interior were monitored by a mascot Eh-em had finally recognized, if only because of insistent and consistent periodic recurrence. The essence of cougar asserted its emblematic status as Eh-em noticed patrons and visitors stop, stare, and comment on the aust and the watchful photo. The magnificent predators for their part were still and passive, sentinels for realities and images and memories and latent passions.

The cafe of Cougar Corner Art Cafe was just that, a corner; that is, about a third of the space of the converted garage had tables and seating for conversations and refreshments. The balance of the space was art and books. The cafe appeared the lesser in space but was more important in function. It was where people could come alone or join others in a world nourished by created objects, representations, and illusions. In the case of the bison, they could even touch. Eh-em said he felt he and his volunteers had made manifest a vision and gateway to an intimate place for Upton and visitors.

One entered the Art Cafe through double french doors. Just to the inside of these was a security gate. When the cafe was closed, it could be stretched across inside and locked. Once inside the cafe one immediately noticed the warm, light-colored wood floors, furniture, and fixtures crafted and lovingly installed by Willow the finish carpenter. The back three-quarter-height wall was painted a light gray and was filled with photos in one row. There were also other works, mostly paintings, tastefully positioned above the photos and lit to highlight details and colors. This was the puma's wall. At the right of this wall was a door to the kitchen with necessary fixtures and equipment for preparing light snacks and what would become the cafe's most popular item, peanut butter brownies. In the back was a storage closet, small office with desk and two-drawer file cabinet, and a minuscule staff WC with basin. Light from a bank of north-facing glass blocks lit both kitchen and the back of the cafe. The blocks were at the top of the exterior wall at the back, a kind of clerestory. On top of the gray wall was a shelf with small sculptures. The light from the clerestory from behind them obscured their features as one gazed up from the cafe and gallery, that is unless the lights were on from early evening till closing. Then those pieces could be seen in more detail as was the case when the sun came in the front windows and french doors. The left side of the gray wall went from floor to ceiling and there was a door, also gray, into a unisex public WC.

In the center of the cafe space was a t-shaped partition about six and a half feet high. Each of the four spaces had paintings mounted at about five feet up from the floor on the panels, eight display spaces in all. A wood sculpture took up space on the floor in each of the four corners. The partition separated the central space such that the cafe tables became more intimate and semi-private. It also partially hid the commercial serving counter with cash register from the main seating area.

Front left behind the table with the puma aust was a corner with wood window bench and shelves with books. Billowy cushions invited browsers to sit and have a read in comfort. The other side featured Eh-em's portrait of Silla, and behind and to the side of that a community table invited patrons to converse or look out the window with Silla in the corner and to the center and interior of the cafe and exhibition area. It was a sunny and welcoming spot. A sideboard with various necessities for serving customers sat next along that wall where other tables awaited patrons. There were three more tables in the middle. One table that Eh-em had ordered was not set up here as planned. In its place a large bison stood, not life-sized but big enough to impose on anyone sitting near. It failed to discourage riders of the smaller variety from mounting and calling out. Russ couldn't expect children to look and not want up on its back. On the right separate from the book nook was a long counter with glass top and front showing the day's goodies. Behind that was a four-serving Italian coffee machine, two-burner hot plate, microwave, small fridge, open shelves with dishes, cups—all the food service and short order necessities.

The pre-opening helper's do on Saturday evening saw the same people who had made the finished space possible, but missing was one who was instrumental. Two showed up who didn't really contribute but were most welcome. Natalie was the no show, for good reason. Eh-em had not heard from her and had almost forgotten about including her when Willow asked how she was doing. Johnnie filled in but one detail everyone knew already. Natalie was still in Nevada. The building inspector showed up as did the lumberyard salesman. Hank and Susan showed up briefly to grab soft drinks and cookies, and then they disappeared. Patta was there. He brought Rice Krispy bars as a contribution to the celebration. He politely thanked each worker personally as if the project was his, which in a sense it was. Missing was plumber Fred, to Johnnie's relief. Included for no reason that mattered were Megan and Doug, maybe because their partners were key to the success of the conversion. But if truth be told, each contributed behind the scenes to make the dream and the conversion happen. Megan had urged Janie to get involved and Dolly was head cheerleader without official connection to the enterprise. Just a good friend. In some ways Eh-em wished she could be more a part of the venture, but her customers at the diner made her feel as if they would die without her. It was a proper cafe with full service, and her reliable, friendly, and familiar face was essential.

Mrs. J. via Megan sent over oatmeal raisin cookies to further sweeten the evening, and Eh-em fiddled with the Italian coffee machine long enough to clog one spout with coffee grounds. Dolly gently pushed him out of the way and told him she could manage it. "Watch and learn," she instructed with a smile. "This isn't nuclear physics."

"I hope not. It cost a fortune and it'd better work."

Dolly proceeded to demonstrate how to use the machine to Janie and Johnnie as Eh-em looked on, now and then distracted by other conversations he thought he should be a part of, or thought he was.

Eventually everyone had a small espresso whether they wanted it or not. And the Rice Krispy bars, cookies, and store bought peach pie were all gone before Eh-em got a crumb. He acted the obsequious host-waiter and therefore missed enjoying his own party. The coffee was wonderful though, he thought.

The evening was over shortly after the treats were gone leaving Eh-em, Janie, and Johnnie to clean up and prepare the place for the public opening the next day. The back door, connecting door, and entry door security gate were all locked and all lights were off by ten, just two hours after the small talk and thank-yous had been heard and repeated for emphasis.

*******

_Russ contacted me after reading an installment about the pre-opening party. He noted that if I was trying to represent reality as if in a mind-photo, why was he not mentioned?_

"I was there," said Russ, "preferring that to the public event the following day. I made a special point of showing up and supporting you as I have since I helped you resurrect the cafe idea from the ashes of your grief, or was it your neurotic stupor? I am disappointed."

He then softened and said it didn't matter, "especially if you are painting a word picture again. Greater license can be taken with that medium than with photography, even photography where you are the image and the image is you. Photography lies less than a painting, but I think it is a painting you are after, after all. A word painting.

"The feminine is more complex and interesting than the masculine. It is a pity we cannot know more about those we identify with in some way, because we read to find out about ourselves through your players, whether they are based on real people or not.

"We want to be transported by and to transform through what these figures do and say. I am sorry to say, your male lead is monochromatic—he's not even worthy of black and white and gray. But the women, they speak more to more and different people. They are the paintings we would have you paint with your words."

*******

On Monday Natalie began making regular calls from Nevada. She first called Johnnie and had extended conversations. She next placed calls to Eh-em. She gave him perfunctory progress reports.

Ron was in the hospital recovering from an accident on the ranch. A horse he was riding stumbled, fell, and rolled, and Ron had broken bones and internal injuries. At first the prognosis was good. He would heal and bones would mend, some effects on his mobility possibly, but he should be able to resume his life and work on the ranch as before. However, while undergoing an operation to re-set a compound fracture, he had a heart attack. His stay in intensive care was indefinite, and if all went well and with a dash of luck, he would recover. But he could not wake up from the surgery, and his heart showed signs he was just maintaining. An operation to address his heart issues was not recommended, at least not yet. Blood thinner medication was not administered for fear of internal bleeding. His condition was critical.

Natalie told Eh-em she had to stay indefinitely, commuting between the Nevada ranch and the hospital. She did not know when she would return. She missed Eh-em and felt lonely. The possibility was that she would have to work out how to take care of her dad and his ranch until things got back to normal again. Big if. She could rely on Johnnie to manage the equestrian center. She hoped that didn't screw up Eh-em's plans for her. And as for Eh-em, she just missed seeing him and feeling the calm and peace she felt with him.

"I have no plans for Johnnie. Whatever is best for you and her and Ron, that is all I hope for. We, I mean, Janie and I, can manage around here. How are you holding up otherwise?" Eh-em asked. Natalie repeatedly talked about inconveniencing people she depended on.

The conversations thus revolved around Natalie, her father, how she missed Upton and her California life—Eh-em took that to mean she missed him in and among whatever else she was referring to. Weeks passed.

During that time, Janie and Eh-em and sometimes Johnnie worked the initial shakedown of how to operate and promote the cafe. There was much that Eh-em had not thought of. One or both young women made suggestions as issues arose, and so the cafe grew into its own quickly from real and felt emergencies. The balancing act that Eh-em had to perform to be in two places at once was at first unnerving, even for the together-leader in him. But by the end of the first four weeks of business, there were systems in place, if provisional, and two works of art had been sold. Not one book, but Eh-em hoped for more activity in that department. He toyed with featuring some books in the book nook window behind the bench on a shelf facing out to the sidewalk. Yet he wasn't certain Art Cafe needed rearranging in that way just yet.

When she smiled, Johnnie looked truly happy. But she didn't always smile. There was the hint of specific pain and possibly something else. Eh-em couldn't identify it and saw no sign of a dark side. In fact, Johnnie was polite and pleasant. She was good with customers and kids, had to be or her work at the equestrian center would have been a disaster. She was Natalie without quiver and bow. But Natalie's Achilles heel? Definitely a mystery girl in some ways if only because no one tried to get too close to her. Her beauty-beast aura may have figured into this distancing.

Janie's mystery was open for all to see who looked. Her handmade paper poetry books attracted a lot of lookers, but when customers placed them back on the counter after looking at them, they sometimes muttered, "Too expensive," or worse, "I had no idea people could write about sex like that." Janie got the feedback and in consultation with Eh-em lowered her prices. She suggested a poetry reading, and Eh-em said he would think about it. It was too early to plan anything more than just opening the doors, closing, and serving as much as possible during business hours. In reality, Eh-em's prudish side held up a caution sign, especially after one evening's closing. He read several of Janie's poems, raised his eyebrows several times, and put the book back into its envelope and back on the counter.

Through Janie, Megan heard about Natalie's father and the dilemmas that Natalie must be facing, in effect two ranches to oversee plus a father who might not get out of the hospital or long-term care. Megan, another seemingly independent young woman, proved she was just that as well as sincerely compassionate. Although she had a few regular clients whose families paid for or donated money for hospice care she or her volunteers provided, she made the trip to Reno and showed up at Washoe Medical Center and appeared in Ron's private room where Natalie was sitting reading the news to her dozing father. He had regained consciousness and just been transferred out of intensive care. Natalie knew Megan because of her involvement at the equestrian center, but they were not close. Both were serious and business-like. Natalie was surprised to see her in Reno. What possessed her to come all this way and to the hospital?

"I have a week to ten days with time on my hands. I thought I would come and see if you and your father could use some help."

"That's very nice of you but. . . ." Natalie was stuck for words.

Megan said that Janie had said that Eh-em had said and that her mother advised and her volunteers offered . . . it all just seemed like the right thing to do. "You could use some help I'm sure."

"Yes, I think we could. But I don't know right now. . . . "

"If you want me to do whatever, I will. But I'm not really qualified to take care of animals, except for dogs or cats maybe. I thought you could use a break. I could be here when you are at your father's, or when you need to go back to Upton to check on things. But I don't know what the status of your father is. Sorry not to ask him directly, but he looks like he's resting."

"Yes, he is. And there's the pain medication."

"Well, I am not pushing you in any way. I'm just here to see if I can help. It's nice for me to get out of Dodge."

"I suppose it is. Well, this is all so sudden. I have to think . . . talk with my father and Johnnie. "

"No problem. I have some gambling to do at a slot machine downtown that has been waiting for me for a long time. I can stop back later, or tomorrow. I am here for a few days no matter what."

"I have to . . ."

"I know. I will be back. You and your father talk. Just think about what you need to do, and we can discuss it later. That is if you want."

"Yes, thanks."

Megan disappeared. How curious, thought Natalie.

## Chapter 30: Let it be

Natalie was actually coping very well. The only thing that tired her was worry over her father's health and recovery. Well, there was that and the life she led in Upton. It was becoming more and more complicated because of a man and because of the lessons about not controlling empire and herself. Paul helped open a space for her for self acceptance. Although she could not articulate these developments in words, she felt them, and the feeling was good, good enough to keep repeating what she was doing for her part to create them.

Mistakes and misunderstandings were all part of it; guilt at not capturing and holding tenaciously was not productive. It was because of so-called errors and hasty words that you could learn, and learning was best, even enjoyable if you have your independence along with support, the support of a special someone. She felt the support was in Upton, not in Nevada, not Texas, not anywhere else she had ever been.

Eh-em seemed to need her also, and palpably sensing his need completed the wholeness she needed and wanted. The strong and accomplished equestrian center professional had met her feminine side, the side that had sensuality and vulnerability and companionship in the proper mix. If truth be told, she was preparing herself to surrender to Eh-em, if he ever opened with the signals. He was a bit slow, she thought. He was a sensitive soul on the phone; would he be, could he be a soulful mate? She wanted the time and opportunity to find out. However, leaving her father at this very point would be risky and selfish.

*******

Natalie showed up unannounced at Cougar Corner Art Cafe on a Tuesday. She ordered coffee from Janie, who was at the counter busying herself with cleaning the coffee machine, microwave, and snack prep area. The cafe was otherwise empty. It was just after opening, about ten forty-five.

Upton was about its business, which was nothing much, and the streets and shops were quiet. Commute traffic, such as it was, had already left by seven, and those remaining in town to shop, visit the clinic, or discuss the affairs of the day were somewhere unseen. Hardrey's was open but empty.

Janie served Natalie her coffee and asked if she would like something else. Natalie, looking tired and lonely, asked if Eh-em was around. Janie said he was. She would go get him, which she did and stayed behind in the hardware store to talk about something, anything, with Doug. Patta had not come in for his day as yet.

Eh-em came into the cafe through the open connecting door, from hardware of products and things and tools to the software that is human necessity. Natalie looked up and smiled faintly. Eh-em greeted her wordlessly with open arms. Natalie rose and returned Eh-em's hug with pro-forma-like brevity. They sat across from each other. Eh-em gingerly reached his hands across the table. Natalie took them into her hands and drew Eh-em closer. Both leaned towards each other and looked into each other's eyes. They searched to a depth within for recognition of a something comforting, secure, safe, loving. And each found what they were searching for.

"How is he?"

"He is stable. Still in the hospital. Megan is helping us out. She's a godsend."

"I know. And you?"

"I am exhausted. Got in late last night. It is a long drive, and I have been very . . . occupied."

Eh-em kept his silence, and Natalie felt no need to go into details. The only sound that could be heard was soft music that Janie had selected when opening the cafe. Next door was still. No one walked by the windows of the cafe or came in the door. Upton was as if in suspension, and the moments slowed to almost a stop. The two continued to look into each other's eyes.

Natalie was the first to blink. She let go of Eh-em's hands and straightened up in her chair. She took a sip of coffee, and by the look on her face seemed to recover a part of herself that she had left somewhere in Nevada or in Upton past or in other places unknown or forgotten.

"What are you doing this evening?" she asked.

"Anything you want. I can make dinner for us. Some comfort food. Or we can get smashed. Whatever you like."

"Could you come to my house this evening? I don't want to spend the night alone."

"I was hoping you would ask."

As the two continued to watch and wait and stare at each other, the cafe phone rang. Janie came running in from the hardware store and grabbed the receiver.

"Oh, hi." Janie listened to the other party and looked over to where Natalie and Eh-em were sitting. "Yes. Yes, she is here. Just a sec."

Janie gently called Natalie and Natalie looked over. "It's for you. It's Megan."

*******

"You sound right next door. Where are you?" asked Johnnie.

"I'm at home."

"So really next door. I didn't know."

"I needed to do something. I'm leaving again in a few minutes."

"I see. Well, everything under control as I said two days ago."

"Great. Johnnie, can I talk for a moment?"

"Sure."

"About dad. Ron."

Johnnie and Natalie waited in the silence they had fallen into many times before when approaching this subject. Natalie broke the spell. "It doesn't look good. I was wondering if you wanted to come with me. It might be your last chance."

The other end of the line seemed to have been abandoned. "Johnnie?"

"I'm here. I can't decide that quickly."

"Well, there isn't much time."

"Natalie, don't" and it was Natalie's turn to maintain the silence that had always been the answer.

Johnnie said, "Sorry. There is just so much past crap, I can't, I don't want to go there. Go back."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. He is your father. You must go. Me, it's different."

"I understand," said Natalie sincerely.

No she doesn't. She can't. She didn't go through what I did. If she was anywhere, she was in the middle and. . . .

"Johnnie?"

"I'm here."

"I will be in the car at nine if you decide. We can get someone to cover for us and leave later if you want."

That silence again, which Natalie knew she had to break. It was getting late. "I wrote you a note. I am leaving it on the dining room table. You can read it if you want. I am not pushing."

"Okay. I need to think."

*******

_Men are simple creatures, except for that twenty-plus percent of the population with erectile dysfunction. Show the remaining eighty percent and the percent of that heterosexual, a mere drawing of a female and_ voila _, arousal and, if the opportunity even remotely permits, emission. What men do without a partner—what Eh-em has done since he and Jennifer broke up—has not been a concern here but is adequately treated in other stories by other writers. But not to be coy, I can report that Eh-em performed commendably with Natalie that night—by her own account._

However, it is not completing the physical act that relieved Eh-em as much as it was the rush and release he felt of the refuse he had been carrying in his soul. Although the missing pieces of his two or three puzzles had turned up and he had found their proper places in their respective trivial worlds of his concern, the overall dilemma Eh-em solved with and through Natalie finally. And that was about finding an important part of his self and reciprocating a love romantic enlaced with personal compassion not only reserved for others. Oh, he had other relationships and care for those who were or wanted to be closer to him, but the woman Natalie complemented who he was now, and he would be hers. Natalie for her part allowed her best self to express who she aspired to be, defenseless and unguarded with a singular man she trusted. Yet women are not simple creatures. To mistake them for uncomplicated leads to all levels of hell. Not that they would ban you to any of these levels. You would condemn yourself.

A woman was, at least in the cases Eh-em had encountered in his new beginnings and around Upton, and specifically in the incarnation of Natalie, in form and quality beyond circumscription. Setting the carnal aside, Natalie made love to Eh-em by welcoming his embrace and protection in ways simple touching and comforting hugs did not and could not motivate. If she or her lover had issues, and she knew they did, these she would not let stand in the way of reaching for completeness, excellence, and the stars. She could let Eh-em be who he was just as she was at the point of allowing herself the same license.

Sex for Natalie this night was delicious and sensual, like bathing in a tub of whipped cream for as long as it took to satisfy the sweetness and softness of successive blissful moments and enduring caresses. Her orgasms filled the empty spaces in the narratives she was living; they were not exclamation points but veritable streams of gifts she received as she gave selflessly back to her other half. Unashamedly naked finally with him stripped of his excuses and evasions was as she would have each of them, together, always.

Sex was also refuge from a storm, it must be said.

*******

      Dearest Johnnie,

      This is hard for me. I know it is different
      for you. Just a couple of things and then I
      will be quiet. Ever since I woke up and saw
      what was going on and understood it
      somewhat—I never condoned it . . . I tried to
      be on your side and protect you. Your mother
      was ruler absolute over my father, and you
      know she never wanted you. He was weak and
      the worst in him came out after he married
      your mom.

      Of course things got worse when you pulled
      that lesbian lie. It drove your mother over
      the edge, and as for my father, I think it
      had the opposite effect. I don't know what
      happened. Maybe we can talk about it some
      day.

      I got whatever I wanted. It must have been
      excruciating for you, and I am sorry. Your
      mother wouldn't step between me and my
      father. I think she would have jeopardized
      her power if she went that far.

      When we came here from Nevada, it was a
      blessing for us both. We could be
      independent, and you have come into your own.
      (I erase "recovery" from my vocabulary.) I
      fully support that, although I still have
      this protective thing. I just worry.

      I just want everything for you that I had—the
      good stuff. And I want you happy. The
      discipline we have achieved and our
      arrangement has worked well, I think. But it
      too can change, and it should. Life tells me
      that. And when you are thirty, you will get
      your inheritance. I promise nothing will
      change that. And nothing will change my love
      for you. We are lucky to have each other and
      this home.

      If you want to see Ron, now is the time. I
      will even come right back here to trade
      places for a day or two. Just say the word,
      OK?

      I am not smart enough to say everything will
      be better if you say good-bye. I don't know
      anything that people should talk about at
      times like these. All I know is that he is my
      dad and I don't want to regret anything. It
      wasn't easy for me sometimes, but coming here
      has helped me put things where they should
      be. I want what's best for you too.

      Love,
      Natalie

*******

Two days later, Johnnie was scheduled to work in the evening at the cafe. She didn't show and didn't call. An hour after she was due, Janie called Eh-em at home. He had left after work in the hardware store and had agreed that the last on duty was the one to close the cafe. Eh-em asked Janie to stay put for fifteen minutes more. He would call right back.

Eh-em rang Johnnie at home. There was no answer. He tried again with no luck. He called Janie back and asked if Johnnie had shown up yet. Were there any customers at the cafe? She hadn't and there weren't. So Eh-em asked Janie to close shop. He was going to try again to find out why Johnnie was a no-show.

In a final effort for the evening, Eh-em tried Johnnie for the last time. After four rings, she picked up and absently answered, "Hello. Your dime." But that is not the way it sounded. More like "you die" with a question mark. Eh-em said, "Johnnie, that you?" Silence, and then it was as if the receiver hit a hard surface. "Johnnie?"

"Right here, baby. Wha'd ya got for me?""

"Are you okay?"

"Never better."

"You know who this is?"

"My savior."

"No, this is Paul. Why didn't you show for work this evening?"

"What?"

"Have you been drinking?"

"You know I never touch the stuff." The receiver apparently dropped again, and then there was silence. The connection was still good, but there was no sound.

"Johnnie? Johnnie?"

Eh-em hung up, left home with Snarl in the back seat, and drove the fifteen minutes to Natalie's. He walked quickly along the back of the borders' stable. Lights flickered on as Snarl led the way and tripped the photo cells leading to Johnnie's apartment. Eh-em knocked on the door. No answer. Snarl knew Johnnie was inside. She sat at the door at Eh-em's side and waited. No sound except perhaps water running. Eh-em then banged on the door with his fist, fearing something was seriously wrong. The water sound stopped and then silence. Next Johnnie opened the door and looked surprised to see someone. She had on a short, thin cotton bathrobe. She held the front together with her hand. Drops of water dotted the floor at her feet, and the bathrobe was absorbing the droplets of water from her shower. Snarl entered the apartment, circled around Johnnie twice, and sat next to her looking at Eh-em.

She spoke slowly and deliberately as if enunciating carefully for a foreigner. "What are you doing here? Sorry about the appearance. Just got out of the show." The word missing its ending including its slurred pronunciation gave it away. She had been drinking. Eh-em tried to ignore the fact, partly because of a scene that he had reflected on more than once. Johnnie's wilder side, or was it the darker one, could quickly turn into a verbal lashing. The skirmish between Dolly and Johnnie was not a distant memory around Upton. Bad behavior is never entirely forgotten in small towns. But this line of thinking and calculation, avoiding again actually, led to Eh-em's undoing.

The whiskey Johnnie's stepfather plied her with had in this revisionist's re-play weakened her as it did with her guilt and shame around what to do in his final days. She had decided not to go to Reno, to escape instead of stand and confront. This was something Eh-em knew something about, but he missed the signals if there were any. What he mistook for possible aggression and attack was readiness and need for surrender and tenderness, things he knew how to give compassionately, with empathy. From listening to loving, Paul Eh-em was perpetrator as well as sometime prey. And he usually had the desired response for the other person in need, admittedly not always the right one for himself or the situation. But no matter. There was no thinking or premeditation going on here.

Eh-em and Johnnie stood looking into each other, dead straight on into depths that they themselves had camouflaged and concealed from themselves. But Johnnie knew that Eh-em knew. She was cornered. She was trapped. She was fair game. She didn't look or move away, and where once there might have been defiance, empty was now that space.

As Snarl looked up at Johnnie from her side as faithful friend sympathetic to the feelings in the ether, or as quiet servant to masters and hunters, tears filled Johnnie's eyes, overflowed, and found parallel paths down her cheeks. Thin, fragile streamlets they were. Her wet, shiny, silk-like black hair lay against her head straight and down, each side broken by now motionless, bony shoulders. Her short robe hung on her thin frame, and after she let go of the material gathered in her hand, her robe slowly parted at the front as she dropped her arms to her sides. She just stood motionless looking sorrowfully into Eh-em's eyes. She was simultaneously the stunning, tall model and the image of pathos itself soundlessly weeping. She was defenseless. She was caught. She posed no threat. She would not fight. It was surrender without hope for gentle nurturance, sanctuary, adoption.

Did Eh-em know Johnnie was Natalie's stepsister? Did he know she too was a wealthy heiress? a future curator-critic? Did he know he had the hint of a commitment to someone other than himself? to a new business, to an aging and grieving father and son? to a woman longing? Did he have a clue how many people depended upon him for strength and kindness and understanding? Could he suspect that the game of cat and mouse and mouse and cat he had been playing on a board full of powerful emotions and attachments had resulted in the one-word warning, "Check"? Could he even hear it had it been uttered at that moment? Did he know this person Johnnie standing before him? Did he know there would be a tomorrow after the charity, after the eros? Did he know personal histories mattered even if they had not been shared?

_No, I didn't know. No, I couldn't hear._

_I stepped from the bright security lights outside the apartment and then through the doorway into a darker interior and the solitary figure standing there before me. I was not afraid. I reached out to hold Johnnie to comfort and protect from I knew not what. She took no step into the light of the doorway or into my open arms. I hugged her. Her arms continued still and heavy at her sides. I thought quick reassurance would bring her to herself. She did not move as I held her. I could feel my shirt tingle as it absorbed droplets from her wet body. Then slowly she raised her hands and put her arms around me and straight up my back to my shoulders pressing her whole body against mine. She held me tighter and tighter. I did the same. Our bodies melted together. We embraced each other for the longest time as she cried quietly. Her tears and wet hair against my face brought us somehow closer, as if we were both being washed of our scars, shame, inaction, miss-steps, sins, and omissions. We had no history, no future. We had each other. We lived and breathed in that moment in the present._

_I said nothing. I didn't know what to say. I had no idea. The only thing I knew was that we fit together perfectly. And that life was extraordinary._

_###_

## Afterword

With Paul Eh-em's declaration that it is his story plus large doses of verisimilitude in an historical period not in the distant past, you will not be surprised to learn that some of the characters you have been introduced to live on.

Paul chose to write his story by keeping in mind the names and images of real people. He told me he had to do this in order to paint the word-pictures he had in his mind. He would change the names after he had completed his work and readied it for publication, a step he was unsure he would ever take. He never got to the point of changing the names, and I have chosen as his apologist to change as little as possible from the manuscript as I received it.

Now the two exceptions. Paul died in the late nineteen nineties and left a loving wife, two boys, and friends in a California town and beyond. He opened a gallery-cafe and had helpers and benefactors. People liked him and miss him.

Hank Hardrey's father, Patta, a character without whom we would never have witnessed Paul's relocation and journey, passed in the late nineteen eighties. Hank himself is an enthusiastic uncle to Paul's boys. He and partner Susan visit as often as possible. They reside in another state.

Silla lives. Paul killed her in his story for reasons the story itself reveals. She is still a dark beauty as described and has two children. Her surname has changed—it is hyphenated, actually, in keeping with an era—but she has kept her first name that she chose for herself when she was fourteen. She is not nor ever was a photographer.

Doug and Dolly own and operate a diner. Doug is now the cook, having given up computers for food preparation, which he approaches as a methodical technician. Dolly does what she has always done best, meet, greet, serve, and chat up the customers. The diner is a going business, maybe more successful now than when Paul first frequented it. Clarence, the former owner and cook, is retired and occasionally comes in for a free dinner as agreed in the handshake that consummated the negotiations for the sale of his business.

Megan is my sister, and she and her partner, Jannie, not Janie, own and operate a hospice and wellness spa, the former B and B our mother Mrs. Ancilla Johnson ran for almost twenty years. Jannie writes wonderfully outrageous, sometimes scandalous short fiction. She would like me to plug her latest book, but that would complicate matters, which I explain below. Megan? A quiet and active angel of mercy still.

I am an associate editor for a small San Francisco press at a distance. I occasionally take breaks by sculpting in wood. My works are for sale in different California and New Mexico galleries. Publications I have helped give birth to are not numerous nor notable. I am still a recluse who loves working in my fields and garden. Occasionally I sell what I grow. Vegetables, of course.

Johnnie, Natalie's stepsister, owns and runs a guest ranch in the middle of nowhere in Nevada. Her two boys are said to be handfuls. Only Natalie knows more details but won't discuss them or her own private life. The sisters get along well, but it is Natalie who visits Johnnie, her two children in tow. Johnnie never travels to California where Eh-em's story introduced us to her.

To protect the characters fictional and otherwise in Paul's narrative, the location of Upton will remain vague. Obviously, Upton is not our town's name, and it is not anywhere near where Paul intimated. Story groupies are not welcome in the remote possibility that this one spawns some. We treasure our anonymity, which you will appreciate if you try to find anyone named herein.

Why did Paul end his story where he did? Why so many loose ends? He brought up stuff that never got resolved, some have complained, and introduced themes that he never developed. My own view is rather simple, and I offer it if it gives some closure that patient and appreciative readers deserve. By the end, Paul, or the character Paul, had exorcised his demons and won the girl. He had nothing left to report or say. In fact, this is the only known writing he finished. He left a number of written fragments and paintings, of course, but the paintings are but derivative blotches and do not contribute to the greater story, or figure in any other as far as I can tell. With his wife's permission, you have this account and nothing more, and no comment from her that I am permitted to repeat.

Some of the people named in the story were asked about their response to how Paul portrayed them. These would make a book, and someday I might put my pro-bono editor's cap back on to bring them forth as a kind of sequel. Johnnie's response was particularly insightful and moving. Also long. We will see. It depends upon the public acceptance of this work.

It is a pity that so far public acceptance has not been encouraging. Pre-publication reviewers had dismissive comments. I include a few as examples. (The pre-publication version had quotes introducing each chapter. See the foreword for an explanation for their deletion.)

> Long and tedious in order to conclude what? that life goes on? We needn't bother ourselves with such saccharine accounts and trite 'points' underlined awkwardly with various quotes from reputable and disreputable sources. Staff writer, _Upton Star_

> We are hidden from and often deceive ourselves. The protagonist here makes it his mission to deceive himself and others—to wit, us. A royal waste. T. S. Pisaunt, independent reviewer

> People reveal themselves in the ways they wish to be seen. Are there really ordinary people like these who have almost no sex, don't drink and carouse, never go to the toilet, and smooth over life's rough spots with eating at cheap Chinese restaurants and old-timey dinosaur diners? Anonymous reviewer
> 
> No sex, no violence. Just gentle people trying to grow into better, kinder ones. Thus, the book has little commercial value. PG-13. Another anonymous reviewer

And finally I offer this minor critique, which amuses and redeems much for me as self-authorized publisher. We have an odd situation. Paul Eh-em writes a story and he is a character in his story. Because of a dissociative disorder, I suppose, he writes for the most part in the third person. He admits to fiction and fabrication while using the names of real people. Now and then he breaks the spell with a first-person disclosure. Weird. This lexical puzzle leaves a reader, I imagine, with work to perform. How much of the story is true and how much the product of license? Or is this perhaps really a book about something else?

Brian Russel Johnson, Upton, California

## Appendix

Background

The following are provided as curiosities. Paul Eh-em thought quotes would somehow illustrate or elevate his story into a game of learning about identity. In the final analysis, I thought not; and as his editor and representative where this work is concerned, I have taken the liberty of not integrating them into the main text. At the beginning of Parts One and Two, there are quotes which frame things somewhat. As with any and all other protected property in this work, fair use for learning's sake has been the criterion for inclusion.

Quotes and Paraphrases

> ". . . [A]n idiosyncratic and aggressively anti-historical reading of the novel as a branch of moral philosophy—a serial portrait of the human being's evolution from 'strong soul' to 'sensitive heart' to 'enigmatic psyche' against a backdrop of change that is deemed irrelevant." Leo Robson
> 
> ". . . [T]ruth is as much about what we allow ourselves to experience as it is about what we know." Joshua Rothman
> 
> "All men contain several men inside them, and most of us bounce from one self to another without ever knowing who we are." Paul Auster
> 
> "All too easily, we confuse the world as we symbolize it with the world as it is." Alan W. Watts
> 
> "Coming to our senses must, above all, be the experience of our own existence as living organisms rather than 'personalities', like characters in a play or a novel acting out some artificial plot in which the persons are simply masks for a conflict of abstract ideas or principles." Alan W. Watts
> 
> "Errancy—the idea that human beings are not calculators, but conjecturers, and that being wrong is, therefore, an irreducible part of being a person." Attributed to Martin Heidegger
> 
> "Everything can change at any moment, suddenly and forever." Paul Auster
> 
> "His constant preoccupation was with a hermeneutic of the self, fundamental to which is the need we have for our lives to be made intelligible to us." Kim Atkins
> 
> "I am interested in the artist who is awake, or who wants desperately to wake up." Vincent van Gogh
> 
> "I'd had an intuition like this once before, as a child in Vermont. I was walking from the house to open the gate to the driveway. It was fall. As I put my hand on the gate, the world went ablaze, as bright as the autumn leaves, and I lifted out of myself and understood that I was part of a magnificent book. What I knew as 'life' was a thin version of something larger, the pages of which had all been written. What I would do, how I would live—it was already known. I stood there with a kind of peace humming in my blood." Meghan O'Rourke
> 
> "It's not a question of getting over it or healing. No; it's a question of learning to live with this transformation. For the loss is transformative, in good ways and bad, a tangle of change that cannot be threaded into the usual narrative spools. It is too central for that. It's not an emergence from the cocoon, but a tree growing around an obstruction." Meghan O'Rourke
> 
> "Love a friend, love a wife, something, whatever you like, but one must love with a lofty and serious intimate sympathy, with strength, with intelligence, and one must always try to know deeper, better, and more." Vincent van Gogh
> 
> "Maybe I'll go where I can see stars, he said to himself as the car gained velocity and altitude; it headed away from San Francisco, toward the uninhabited desolation to the north. To the place where no living thing would go. Not unless it felt that the end had come." Philip K. Dick
> 
> "San Francisco is gone. Nothing remains of it but memories. . . ." Jack London
> 
> "Story is a process, not a waxwork." John Cotter
> 
> "The more it sides with itself, the more the good soul reveals its inseparable shadow, and the more it disowns its shadow, the more it becomes it." Alan W. Watts
> 
> "Truth is as much about what we allow ourselves to experience as it is about what we know." Joshua Rothman
> 
> "We are not transparent to ourselves. Our longings are like thick curtains stirring in the wind. We give them names. What I do not know is this: Does that otherness—that sense of an impossibly real universe larger than our ability to understand it—mean that there is meaning around us?" Meghan O'Rourke
> 
> "We construct a narrative for ourselves, and that's the thread that we follow from one day to the next. People who disintegrate as personalities are the ones who lose that thread." Paul Auster
> 
> "You want to know how to paint a perfect painting? It's easy. Make yourself perfect and then just paint naturally." Robert M. Pirsig
> 
> "[T]he individual is separate from his universal environment only in name. When this is not recognized, you have been fooled by your name. Confusing names with nature, you come to believe that having a separate name makes you a separate being. This is-—rather literally—-to be spellbound." Alan W. Watts
> 
> A photo and a painting might appear to be the same, but because of our knowledge of how they were made, they are not. Photographs are transparent; paintings are constituted. Our relationship to the depicted are different. Inspired by Kendell Walton
> 
> In third person omniscient point of view, the story is told from the author's point of view. The author feels free to describe [sic] the story from the vantage point of any character in the story. The author might get inside the heads of any of the characters. The author might tell the reader of events and motivations unknown to the characters. The author also might directly address the reader. The third omniscient is often merely a disembodied voice. . . . (See also distanciation.) Oft plagiarized bits
> 
> The puma's symbolism and totem energy teach us about the patience to develop personal power and vision. The mountain lion is a natural leader with a sense of presence and charisma. Roaming far and wide, s/he needs a great deal of territory, and the boundaries are very clear—no one enters the domain of another; each must be true to their heart, their journey of discovery, and their identity despite difficulties. . . . Paraphrase of Presley Love

## About the Author

J. K. Mactavish and Paul Eh-em write for no audience and value kindness as well as walking softly through life, if only because "There's quicksand out there."

In the matter of writing, they tend to overuse the appositive and the series of three with three _and_ s, or two commas, one before the _and_ and the third in the series. J. K. also likes to begin each word in a series with the same letter. "I am sure this playfulness irritates the same people who don't like puns." He says he has done his best to avoid these excesses.

J. K. has this to say about _A Puma in the Tree_.

> All the characters came to me unbidden, including their names. Don't look for a Dolly or a Silla or a Patta or a Mrs. J. and her gay son or daughter. You won't find them among those I know or have known. There is only one scene that comes directly from my childhood, and I doubt it holds explanatory value for much of anything, perhaps even in the book. The themes or issues that the book raises, however, these come from life as I know it. I trust they are among those familiar to others, albeit developed here imperfectly.

Other than this, Nevada has been J. K.'s lifelong love, especially the sweet smell of sagebrush riding a hot summer's breeze up from the Carson Valley. Oh, and the vistas "without no one no how." About what's next, "Johnnie is the most interesting character for me, and I hope to meet her again on her guest ranch in the middle of nowhere."

J. K. lives in Italy and wanders the Umbrian territory with its scrub and oak woodlands when not writing. Paul sits on a cloud in the heavens above Upton and watches all from a safe distance.

*******

This novel's homepage is <http://pumainthetree.blogspot.com>.

If you liked the book, write a nice review at your e-book retailer.

## Dust Jacket

Paul Eh-em is a cautious thirty year old plagued by reticence and life-world trivia. Noticing a mountain lion cub watching him from a tree, he takes inspiration and records his experiences of starting over in a rural California town. His writing and those he befriends figure in his transition and integration of his separated selves. But his story reaches beyond connecting meaningfully with people and finding the best-fit match for him. He must become resolute in working through his own sexual orientation and grief light. He must also navigate through a maze of frustrated plans, decisions about career and calling, inaccurate first impressions, feelings of emptiness, errors in judgment, troubling memories, mistakes and inadequacies, philosophical quibbles, and admirable yet formidable people and situations that challenge him. His story is a meta-fiction of identity formation animated by feminine energies, totemic mascots, and diverse and developing characters. All this and much, much more is his journey to a conclusion. Or is it a precarious beginning?
