

The Writer

By Pat Alvarado

Copyright © 2012, Patricia Veazey Alvarado

All Rights Reserved.

Cover design: Lotus Blossom, © Petunia Fotos

ISBN 978-9962-715-02-3 (soft cover)

ISBN 978-9962-715-03-0 (e-book)

Published by Cecropia Press

To the spirit that abides in all of us.

P.V.A.

CONTENTS

1 The Arrival

2 The Encounter

3 The Decision

4 The Letters

5 The Basket

6 The Dinner

7 The Date

8 The Enchantment

9 The Illustrations

10 The Dawn

11 The Pact

12 The Lilies

13 The Beginning

14 The Discovery

15 The Meeting

16 The Face Off

The Author

1

The Arrival

AS I STEPPED off the train into the deserted station, a wall of heat slapped me across the face. It was 5:00 o'clock in the morning, and the few passengers slouched their way to the exit. I grabbed my backpack and computer bag and followed them. Outside the sky hung low and grey and menacing. Rain clouds loomed in the distance. I glanced along the empty dock, but Margaret wasn't there to greet me. She didn't know I was coming. No one did. I needed to be alone. I'd call her once I was settled in. Otherwise, she'd nag me into staying at the old place.

"Taxi, sir?" someone asked.

"Uh, yes, please, the Triangle Hotel on West Main Street."

I hunkered down in the back seat as the yellow cab sped along the pot-holed streets. What was I thinking when I decided to come back here? Nothing had changed except maybe the trees were a bit older, more moss, and more fungus. As we passed the old cemetery with its ornate iron gate, I searched for the familiar tombs, high and imposing among the smaller less costly stones. Despite the heat, I shivered. Everyone from my childhood, well almost everyone lay beneath the sod.

"Where're you from?" the driver intruded into my thoughts.

"New York," I lied.

"Oh, that is a very big place; nothing like here," he said. "I used to drive there, but I prefer here. Not so stressful."

"Small is good," I mumbled.

"Oh yes, I prefer small places, too, good place to raise a family. Safer, too," he said.

"I suppose so."

The cab crossed the river and drove a few more blocks.

"Well, here we are, the Triangle Hotel," the cabby said as he pulled onto the curb.

***

How many years had it been? Three? Four? The stone steps were rounded and worn in the center, and the circular door from centuries past stood next to the more recent glassed one. Throw rugs masked the wooden floorboards, but the peeling wallpaper belied the passage of time and lack of maintenance.

"How long will you be staying, sir?" the clerk asked.

"A week," I said as I filled in the paperwork. "Is there a strongbox in the room?"

"No, sir, but if you have any important papers, we can keep them for you here in the safe in the office."

"Thank you, I'll bring them down later."

"You're in Room 204; it's a corner room with a view to the park."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry, but our lift is out of service temporarily, you can take the main staircase. Your room is at the end of the hall on the left."

"That's not a problem. I prefer to use the stairs anyway."

"We have a small dining room that's open for breakfast from 7:00 – 9:00 in the morning, and for dinner from 6:00 – 10:00 in the evening."

"Thank you," I said and climbed the stairs to my room.

The room was minimal but neat; a double bed with an iron frame dominated the space. A Victorian dresser stood against the wall near the door to the bathroom. A small writing table and wooden chair hugged the window that indeed gave off to the park. A faded watercolor print of a group of dahlias hung over the bed. I felt at home, almost cozy.

I picked up my cell phone and checked the time – 6:00 a.m. – too early to call Margaret and too early for breakfast downstairs. I emptied my few possessions on the bed and stashed them into the dresser, leaving my passport and wallet in the backpack. I opened my laptop onto the writing table and sat down to write.

The first chapter would be the easiest, I thought. It would be all about my parents, how they met, how they lived and how they died. I would leave no leaf unturned...

***

Joseph and Mary – their background

Joseph Edward Binder was born on March 12, 1916. He was the sixth son of eleven children. He was a middle child with the passion to succeed and outdo the odds that is inherent in that position. Schooling was rural and erratic, and shared billing with farm work, but he managed to graduate salutatorian of his class, beat out only by the girl. University was a stretch, but not out of reach. It wasn't a question of whether or not, but one of how. By the time Joseph was 21, he had worked his way through by working on oil rigs in the summers and by doing odd jobs during the school year for room and board and tuition. He made it almost to the end of the degree, but world war and money and destiny intervened.

Mary Margaret Murphy was born on November 10, 1917, right before the end of the First World War. She was the eldest of six children, and was filled with the insecurity of being the first-born. Schooling for Mary Margaret was rigid and strict and there was no question of whether she would graduate. She was a diligent and dutiful daughter. She would learn to support herself if need be. Trained as an accountant, she kept the books of a small local firm and rented a room in the home of an old couple who were friends of her parents. By the time she was 22, however, she decided on a career change and became a teacher. Her first post would change her life forever.

Joseph Binder and Mary Margaret Murphy met on August 1, 1941, only four months before the United States would enter the Second World War. It was a meeting of the minds – one determined, the other decided, but both moon-struck by destiny.

***

The keys seemed to type themselves, with a sense of purpose all their own. They didn't need me except for my fingers, which clicked along senselessly happy for the exercise, but my stomach grew vocal. I glanced at the clock on my laptop – 7:00 a.m. – time for breakfast, so I saved the chapter and stood. The light from the window had grown brighter, but the sky remained heavy and clouded. Hopefully, it would rain soon and wash away the oppressive humidity.

I grabbed my backpack and headed out the door. I was the first one in the dining room. Checkered tablecloths with laminated menus graced the tables. I sat at the table near the only window that gave off onto an abandoned enclosed patio with moldy benches and a fern-filled fountain.

I chose No. 4 on the menu – bacon yummy pancakes, maple syrup, orange juice and coffee. I was hungry. I hadn't eaten since dinner the night before, and if I was going to meet my goal of writing a chapter a day, I'd need to eat something.

By the time I finished my coffee, the room began to get crowded. The five tables were occupied and a couple waited by the door so I signed the check and headed for the front desk.

"I'd like to leave this in the office safe, please," I told the desk clerk.

"Certainly, sir, just fill out this form, and we'll take care of it."

I placed my passport in the box and watched the clerk lock it. Then I dropped off my room key and headed out for a stroll. I'd call Margaret later. I needed some fresh air, even if it was hot and stifling and even if it might rain.

Just for the fun of it, I entered the circular door and twirled out of the hotel, memories of my childhood following me along.

Which way to turn? The right promised old buildings much like the hotel bordering the park. The left promised the same. I crossed the street and entered the empty park. A pebbled path dotted with wooden benches crisscrossed through the trees. The fountain in the center stood empty, and the merry-go-round tilted to one side as if it needed a counterbalance to straighten it out. Off in the distance, a swing set stood idle, beckoning me.

Why not? I thought.

I clamped my hands on the chains, cool to the touch, and sat on the seat. A rush of nostalgia accosted me as I pushed forward and then swung back. I closed my eyes and swung higher, remembering, but no longer needing to be pushed...

"Higher, Daddy, higher!"

"Here you go, son!"

"Weeeeee..."

My father wasn't a big man, really, but he seemed so tall then. He wore tailored suits most days. He had cultured his speech and trimmed out the country accent. Only his hands, rough and calloused from hard work, belied his upbringing. Saturdays were ours, at least for a while, until Margaret came along and spoiled everything. She usurped my place. I resented her for that until I was old enough to understand and later I actually came to like her as my sibling, but I didn't like to share, and that would be the bane of my existence for a long time.

I suppose all siblings compete, but I was outclassed from the beginning. There was no competing with Margaret. Margaret was a natural athlete; I liked to read. Margaret could run fast; I liked to write. Margaret could throw a ball and catch, and I wrote poetry. Margaret could swim and dive, and I lived in the world of letters, a dream world all my own. But when it came time to being with my father, I endured the ball games, the fishing trips, whatever it took to be with him. Margaret of course tagged along, always.

But I have to hand it to my father. He never really threw my sister's abilities in my face. In fact, he applauded my literary endeavors. He may have feigned delight, but it was not evident to me. His tacit approval fueled the fires of my passion for writing. My mother, on the other hand, was a case apart entirely. She expected me to be a person I could not be. She wanted me to fulfill a role that was not written for me. She refused to understand that I had to write my own life, according to my own criteria.

When I opened my eyes, the swing stood still, but before me stood a little boy. He wore a tattered shirt and jeans and muddy sneakers.

"Are you okay, mister?" he asked.

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"Because you were crying, that's all."

I raised my hand to my eyes and wiped away the tears with my forefinger.

"Yeah, well, I guess I was thinking about something sad, that's all."

"You like to swing?" he asked.

"Yeah, at least I used to. I hadn't been on a swing in a long time."

"I like to swing," he said and hopped on the swing next to me. "Want to see who can go the highest?"

"Sure."

We swung for a few minutes, and then I said I had to leave.

"Where you going?" he asked.

"I have to go back to work, but I'll be back tomorrow if it doesn't rain."

"Me too," he said. "See ya."

"See ya."

2

The Encounter

AS I LEFT the park, I turned around to wave good-bye to the little boy, but he wasn't there, only the swing danced in the distance.

At the gate, I turned to my right and headed down the street with no direction in mind. It was still early and the streets were deserted except for a few shopkeepers setting up. The greengrocer, the tobacconist, the bookstore stood fast despite all odds. I entered the bookstore – Books and Treasures. A little bell announced my arrival, and an older man glanced up at me from behind his bifocals and smiled.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning."

"Are you looking for something special?" he asked.

"No, I just wanted to browse around and see what catches my eye," I replied.

"Go right ahead. If you need any help, just let me know."

"Thanks," I said and picked up the first book I saw that lay on the counter, a soft cover with big red letters that shouted "CONTROL YOUR ANGER – DON'T LET IT CONTROL YOU!" I put it down. Piles of books stood on a table nearby, but I moved on toward the big stack against the wall.

As I read the titles, my eyes fell on a thin hard bound volume. The gilt letters on the spine read "Verses – M.M.M." I pulled the tiny tome off the shelf and slid the tips of my fingers along the front cover, feeling the embossed letters, delighting in them. The pages were thin and yellowed, almost an onion parchment, and the ink was dark brown. The title page repeated what was on the spine and on the front cover, but across the top of the page there was an inscription: E = M3, and then on the copyright page, only one listing appeared –

COPYRIGHT, 1937 BY MARY MARGARET MURPHY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

My hands trembled as I turned the pages. The contents listed 36 verses, mostly one-word titles. Were these my mother's verses? Was my mother a poet? How many Mary Margaret Murphys could there be? I had no idea, but the coincidence led me to believe that I had been guided here. I carried the book over to the shopkeeper.

"I'll have this one," I said. "How much is it?"

"Oh that's a neat little book, in mint condition, except for the yellowing pages, of course. That'll be $10.00, a bargain."

"Yes it is, thank you."

The man handed me the book in a paper sack with the name of the store printed on the side – "Books and Treasures."

"Have a good day," he said.

"Yes, you too," I said and left the shop, the little bell jingling a cheerful good-bye.

***

I hurried back to the Triangle Hotel, picked up my room key and bounded up the stairs. The concierge had already straightened up my room, so I locked the door and sat down on the bed with my package. I held it close to my chest for a few moments, not wanting to look inside, but then my curiosity dictated otherwise and I took the book out of the bag, lay back and began to read.

The first verse was entitled Feather. It was only four lines long, a quatrain, but it captured the essence of a feather. As I read, I could feel a feather's lightness.

Follow this feather through the sky,

Let it lift you on its descent,

And trace its pattern as you fly,

Wingless to the Earth.

The next verse was called Moon Beams. This verse also contained only four lines, but it too carried me along on a silver ride.

Reflected light

From Sun to Moon to Earth

Pierces my heart

And fills me with mirth.

I smiled to myself. If these were indeed my mother's verses, she must have been around twenty when the book was printed, so she would have been in her teens when she wrote most of these. I turned to the middle of the book and was taken aback by the title, Shadows. This poem was eight lines long, an octet, dark and foreboding.

Darkness envelops me.

Light cannot find me.

Through the curtains they emerge,

Filtering into my room.

Soundless they pass me,

Encircling the gloom,

Leaving me breathless

To my doom.

What could have inspired her to write this? Though I could identify with the feelings, it frightened me to contemplate the sadness and the depression she must have felt. What I knew of my mother, she certainly had her feet on the ground, she was religious, but not overly so. Some of the rules of her faith didn't seem to trouble her. Oh, we knew our prayers, said grace before meals, and attended Mass on a regular basis, but that was about it. No major dogmatic discussions or major diabolical threats to make us behave.

I flipped through the book and noticed that most of the poems were either quatrains or octets. I suppose my mother liked simple multiples of four. I turned to the last poem in the book – Blossoms, another octet, but at least this one was uplifting.

Border my heart, oh Blossoms

And color my life with happiness.

Render my path with petals

And lead me along the way.

Rejoice with me, oh Blooms

And help me find the trace.

Fill my form with your fragrance

And surround my life with grace.

This one I liked. It brought hope and reflected an innocent trust in the universe and creation. But a nagging thought made me feel that perhaps my mother was manic-depressive, and the poetry was her way of dealing with it. If this was so, then why didn't she want me to be a writer? Why was she so against allowing me to be the person I wanted to be?

I closed the book and set it aside. I stared at the ceiling and followed the exposed beams, rough hewn and heavy, toward the wall and back again. I got up and stared out the window. The sky had turned to a steel grey, and the sun glared through white-hot and hazy. The park was dotted with people, mostly nannies or young mothers with strollers. Two little kids twirled on the lopsided merry-go-round. No one was on the swings. I checked the time – eleven o'clock.

Should I call Margaret? Should I even let her know I was in town? She would be terribly hurt if we suddenly met somewhere on the street. What would I tell her? That I had just arrived? That I was just passing through on to somewhere else? How long had it been since we'd seen each other? I didn't remember, but it was after the funeral when the executor read Dad's will, leaving her the house and the business. I got some stock and the cabin on the lake. Good old Dad, he knew I wanted nothing to do with the business, but Margaret was keen on taking over. In fact, she already had, behind the scenes. No one wanted the car, there was nothing much left of it after the accident, a total loss, a pile of expensive junk.

Dad and his cars, he loved them fast and fancy. It gave him a sense of power, I suppose, part of the image he wanted to portray, the be all and end all of success. Well, it successfully ended him. At least he enjoyed the luxury. I remember wishing I could be like him, but deep down I knew I wasn't. Mom always said I needed to be tougher if I wanted to succeed in life, that I'd never amount to much if I kept my nose in books all the time, but Dad would only smile and wink at me whenever she'd start in on me, and Margaret would roll her eyes, as if to say, "Yeah, sure, my brother, Mr. Tough Guy!"

I glanced back at the book lying on the bed. Mary Margaret Murphy hadn't made it in the world of letters. Why not? Was it that she didn't have the stamina, the guts to pursue her dreams? Was she rejected one too many times and gave up? Was that why she persisted with me? Was she trying to protect me?

A thunderclap brought me back to the room. I opened up my laptop and looked over what I had written early this morning. I hated it – so drab, no life. Who would want to read it? Why would I want to write about that? What was driving me? Where was I going with all this? Dribble, all dribble, so I started a new chapter and called it Chapter Zero Zero. I would write whatever came into my head and see where it led me.

***

Chapter Zero Zero

The hour had come to do or die, so either he did or else he'd be humiliated forever.

"You go first, Jake," Marty yelled.

"Why me? Why don't you go first?" Jake whined.

"Because I'm the chief, that's why! What's the matter, you chicken?"

The other boys snickered.

"I'm not chicken," Jake mumbled as he stepped on the edge of the makeshift diving board that extended over the bayou.

"Don't look down, just jump!" Marty shouted.

Jake looked down. The muddy river meandered slowly around the bend. His knees felt like rubber, and his heart pounded heavily in his ears. He reached the end of the board, took a deep breath and leapt into nothingness. He splashed into the murky water, his body plunging into the depth of darkness. On impulse, he kicked toward the surface. He emerged a few yards downriver and paddled toward the bank. His bare feet stuck in the saturated soil, causing little sucking sounds as he climbed up the side.

"You did it! Great!" Marty said and slapped Jake on the back, the other boys following suit.

"Who's next?" Jake asked.

"No one, we just wanted to see if you'd do it," said Marty.

Jake looked from one boy's face to another, taking in the smirks of derision. He picked up his sneakers and headed out of the woods.

"Hey, where you going, Jake? We were only kidding!" Marty yelled.

"Come back or else you can't be in the club," someone else yelled.

As Jake reached the edge of the woods, he found his bike and rode home.

***

I glanced at the clock on my laptop – one o'clock, time for a break.

3

The Decision

AS I STEPPED out of the hotel, I turned to my right in search of a café or diner, nothing fancy. The air was thick and heavy from the menacing clouds. Perhaps it would rain today. It would be good if it did. I always liked the rain. It allowed me to hide away in my room and write or read. Television and gadgets never attracted me; it was almost as if someone had put them there to stifle my imagination. Not so for Margaret. She was up on all the sit-coms and collected gadgets – you name it, she had it. My only compromise in the gadget world was a laptop, though a pencil and paper served me well. There's something about putting my thoughts down on paper, whether it's a virtual page or one made of pulp.

When I reached the corner, I stepped off the curb and crossed the street with the few pedestrians who were waiting for the light to change. I found a little diner nestled between a frame shop and an art gallery. I chose a booth near the window so I could watch the passers-by. I like to observe people, a hobby of mine.

"What'll it be, hon?" the matronly waitress asked.

"What do you recommend?"

"Well, the lentil soup is really good."

"Okay then, let's have the lentil soup."

"And to drink?"

"Iced tea, no sugar, with a twist of lemon."

"Iced tea it is; be back in a bit," she said and headed to the little window and placed my order.

While I waited, I gazed out the window. On the other side of the street a young couple chatted. Both wore cargo pants, t-shirts and sandals and carried backpacks. They seemed to be waiting for someone because they kept looking down the road. Then the boy pointed, and a mini-van drove up and stopped, they hopped in and the van drove off.

Then a grey-haired man in a business suit entered the diner. He sat in the booth next to mine, with his back to me. He must be a regular here because he called the waitress Selma, and she greeted him as if she knew him.

"What'll you have today, Mick?"

"The soup, Selma, I know it's good," he answered.

Selma looked over his shoulder and winked at me. I smiled back and gave her a thumb's up.

After Selma placed his order, she brought mine and laid the large crockery bowl on the table with a soupspoon wrapped in a napkin.

"I'll get your tea in a minute. Would you like some bread with your soup?" she asked.

"Sure, that'll be fine," I said.

Selma returned with the tea and a basket full of tiny homemade buns.

"Here you go, hon. Enjoy it."

"Thank you," I said.

Steam rose from the bowl inviting me to dig in so I un-wrapped the spoon and dug in. I was hungry and the lentil soup was just what the doctor ordered.

When I finished my lunch, I paid the check.

"That was really good soup and the bread was delicious," I said.

"The bread is fresh from the bakery and the soup is a secret recipe concocted especially to bring customers back," Selma said and laughed.

"I'm sure it'll work on me," I said.

When I left the diner, it was two-thirty and the sky was still grey and overcast so I decided to check out the art gallery next door.

The door to the gallery was wooden with glass inserts and an old brass knob. A set of butterfly wind chimes announced my arrival.

"Good afternoon, welcome to the gallery. May I help you?" a thin woman with short, curly red hair asked. She wore tight jeans and a loose-fitting, paint-splattered t-shirt.

"Hi, good afternoon, I was just passing by and I thought I'd take a look."

"Of course, go ahead. If you need anything, just let me know. I'll be in the side parlor."

"Okay, I'll do that. Thanks."

The façade of the gallery was deceptively narrow, and once inside, little nooks and crannies displayed an entourage of artwork, mostly abstract and mostly novice. I suspected that some of the work may have been the gallery keeper's. As I moved from room to room, I'd step back as far as I could and squint my eyes in an attempt to understand some of the work. For some I would extend both arms with my thumbs and forefingers crossed to get a cropped view, but the closeness of the walls hindered me.

When I thought I had seen all I could see, I started to leave, but the inevitable had happened. The sky had fallen at last. It was raining. So I stood at the door and watched the raindrops trace patterns along the windowpanes. How many days has it rained in the universe, I wondered. How many more rainy days would there be? All of a sudden I felt this sense of urgency compelling me to return to my task at hand – the manuscript pending on my laptop in the hotel room.

"Well, what do you think of the gallery?" the red head asked, interrupting my daydream.

"Oh, quite interesting. I especially like the stained glass, though I'm afraid it's out of my price range," I hedged.

"Really, which piece?"

"The water lilies, the pink ones floating on the grey pond."

"Oh, yes, that's a lovely work. I tried to reproduce that scene as an acrylic, but for some reason it didn't look quite so nice," she said.

"Maybe it would look nice in watercolor," I feigned deep knowledge of the art world.

"Nah, it's the artist, not the medium. I may need to add a frog or something," she said and laughed. "I dabble in paint, in other words, I try to paint well, and I'd be surprised if it came out well. I'm a much better photographer than I am a painter. Do you paint?"

"No, I'm a writer. Not that I make a lot of money at it, but it's what I prefer to do, and I'm working on the money angle."

"What type of writing do you do?" she asked.

"Fiction mostly, but I actually do copy-editing for a monthly magazine to pay the bills," I said, grateful that she didn't ask me if I had published anything.

"Oh really, which one?" she asked.

"You don't want to know. It's a monthly insurance report magazine, boring stuff, especially what I edit, bedtime reading."

"Oh, I understand totally. So, are you just visiting?" she asked, biting her bottom lip.

"Yes, I'm here for a week. My goal is to finish a manuscript I've been writing in my head for years. Each day I plan to write at least 4000 words, come what may, and hopefully, by the time I leave, I'll have a decent manuscript almost ready for someone else to edit."

"Four thousand words a day? You must be kidding!"

"I said I planned to write that much. I didn't say I would," I said and laughed.

I glanced at the door. The rain had abated.

"Well, the rain has let up. I'd better get going; I have a lot of words to write. It's been nice talking to you," I said and reached for the handle.

"Yes, I enjoyed it, too. Say look, we're having a little art presentation here this weekend, Friday, at 7:00, it's free, no obligations, why don't you come? You'll get to meet some of the artists. The person who does the stained glass will be here."

"Well, thank you, I might just come."

"Wait, here's a card so you don't forget, you know, in case you decide to come," she said and handed me a post card invitation with a print of the water lilies.

"Thank you," I said. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye," she said. "See you Friday."

The butterflies tingled behind me as I shut the door.

***

My steps took me back to the hotel. Before I entered, I glanced over at the park across the street. It was empty and desolate.

I picked up my room key at the desk. As I headed up the stairs, the grandfather clock in the lobby sounded four double gongs.

Four o'clock already. If I was to reach my goal of 4000 words a day, I needed to do some typing. I booted up the laptop and stared at the blank screen for a long time. I placed my fingers on the keyboard – a, s, d, f, j, k, l, ;. How many times had I done this? How many words had I typed since that first typing course I took way back when? What was this umbilical connection I had with the letters? My fingers are so at home on those wiggling little keys, so much so that I could type in the dark. In fact, I have typed in the dark, many times, in high school especially, when the house was quiet and no one was around to nag me. Naggers, hmmm, maybe I should have called Margaret, just to say hello.

I picked up my cell phone and scrolled down the list of names. Margaret's appeared at the beginning of the M's – first in line, first in everything, except the alphabet. I waited till the little light on the cell phone screen grew dim. I clicked the back button and put the phone down next to the laptop. I'd call her later.

I no longer wanted to write about my parents. It was too painful. I didn't want to dredge up the past anymore, at least not right now. I needed to write about something else, something to take my mind off my troubles so I allowed my fingers to guide me, and I wrote Chapter Zero One...

***

Chapter Zero One

When Jake reached home, his mom was in the kitchen. He tried to tiptoe up to his room, but she had seen him ride up on his bike.

"What happened to you? Where have you been? Why are your clothes all wet?" she asked.

"Uh, well, uh, I went swimming," he said.

"Swimming? Where? You're all muddy. Who did you go with?"

"Uh, with Marty and a few other guys."

"Marty? I thought you said that Marty didn't like you," she reproached.

"Yeah, well, he and a couple of other guys asked me if I wanted to go swimming with them, and I said okay. I was gonna ask you, but you were at work and I forgot this morning."

"Forgot? Where did you go swimming?"

"Uh, the bayou."

"The bayou? Jake, how could you? You know the bayou is polluted and dangerous, and there are snakes in the bayou, bad ones, poisonous snakes, big poisonous snakes. I thought you were smarter than that."

"Yes, mom, I know. It was stupid. I'm stupid. I shouldn't have gone."

"Look at you, you're a muddy mess. Get out of that clothes and clean up. Take a shower, a hot one, use soap, lots of it, and brush your teeth. Who knows how much of that slimy water you swallowed."

Jake stood for a minute. He thought he was going to cry, but he didn't. He looked up at his mother.

"Go," she said. "It'll be okay. You'll be okay."

***

My fingers literally flew across the keyboard. The chapter practically wrote itself. It was almost like Jake and Marty were alive, dictating to my fingers their story, and my fingers could do nothing but obey. When I looked at the clock on my computer, it was 5:30.

I stared out the window for a moment. The lopsided merry-go-round was empty, but in the distance I could see that someone was swinging. Maybe I should stop and go say hello.

When I reached the swings, my little tattered friend from this morning waved at me.

"I thought you'd come," he said.

4

The Letters

I SAT ON the swing next to him, the same one I had sat on this morning. The chains were wet and the seat was clammy from the rain, the dampness soaking through to my skin. No matter, it would dry.

My little friend had on the same shabby clothes, the jeans, the t-shirt, the muddy sneakers, but I noticed he had no socks on, and his sneakers had no strings. He caught me eyeing his shoes.

"You're not wearing socks either," he said, almost as if he were reading my mind.

"It's too hot for socks today," I said.

"Yeah, besides, they only get wet when it rains, and then you have to take them off and dry them, so why bother?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"I couldn't agree with you more," I said.

"Do you like baseball?" he asked.

"Oh, a bit, though I'm not a great fan, so don't ask me too many questions about who won what series when, okay? What about you? Do you like baseball?"

"Yeah, that's why I wear this cap," he said and turned the beak around so I could read the letters embroidered on the crown.

"Hmmm, good team, been around a long time, won the series many times."

"I thought you said you didn't know anything about baseball?"

"I didn't say that. I said that I'm not a great fan so not to ask me too many questions about who won what series when, that's all."

"Oh yeah, that's right. Do you like football?" he asked.

"Not too much. I understand the rules, but I'm not much into contact sports. Given the choice, I'd take baseball."

"Me too," he said. "Did you play when you were a kid?"

"Yeah, sure."

"What position did you play?"

"Bench mostly. I wasn't that great. There was always somebody better than me, but I got to watch quite a few games."

"That stinks. I hate it when I don't get to play."

"Sometimes it's for the best. I wasn't a very good batter, and I couldn't catch the high flies, even in right field."

"Gotcha, I understand," he said.

"What's your favorite position?" I asked.

"Shortstop," he said. "It's the most important position on the whole team. You back up the pitcher, you back up the bases and you help the fielders."

"I guess you're right."

"I know I'm right. Shortstop is the best," he said and hopped off the swing.

"You're going?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's getting late. I don't want to be out after dark."

"Right, good idea. Nice talking to you."

"Yeah," he said and ran toward the wooded area of the park, but before he disappeared among the trees, he turned and waved good-bye.

"See ya!" he yelled.

"See ya!" I yelled back.

***

When I got back to the hotel, the grandfather clock gonged. I counted six double gongs – dinnertime at last.

Again I was the first one in the hotel restaurant. The checkered tablecloths had been changed to creamy white ones and the glasses had folded cloth napkins inside that looked like two antelope horns. I took a seat at the table by the window again. The abandoned patio was lighted and actually looked inviting. The ferns glistened from the early afternoon rain.

"You'll be dining with us tonight, sir?" the waiter asked, the same one from this morning.

"Yes, please, and I'd like a glass of your house red."

"Very well, sir," he said and handed me a menu encased in leather. The choices were limited to a short list of soups and salads and an even shorter list of main courses. Dessert was a choice of either ice cream or apple pie, my favorite.

When the waiter returned with the wine, he asked, "Are you ready to order, sir?"

"Yes, I'll have the chef's salad and the Veal Scaloppini."

"Good choice, sir. The veal is excellent. How would you like it prepared?"

"Medium-well, please."

He noted my order and left me to my thoughts. As I sipped my wine, I thought about Margaret. I hadn't heard from her in quite a while. We exchanged cards for our birthdays and for the Holidays, but that was it. She was always so intense, especially about work. She seemed to engross herself in it. Why were we so different? I couldn't get enthusiastic about the things she was enthusiastic about. Whenever we did meet, after the initial hellos and chit-chat, there was nothing more to say, but I felt that I should still call her. Perhaps tomorrow...

The waiter was right about the veal. It was excellent and so was the apple pie. No complaints on the menu, that's for sure. For hotel dining, it wasn't bad at all.

It was eight o'clock when I returned to my room. The long day was wearing on me so I took a shower and called it a night. Tomorrow would be a new day.

***

Morning entered my room with a burst of sunlight framing the window in a golden glow. A new day, an old challenge...

I grabbed my cell phone and checked the time – six o'clock, too early for breakfast so I did a few sit-ups and push-ups next to the bed, not ideal for exercise, but I didn't want to become a fluff ball while I was here. Then I took a shower, dressed and sat down to read a bit before 7:00.

I had taken along a few books for light reading, nothing too heavy or dramatic. The first one I picked up was The Diaries of Adam and Eve by Mark Twain. I had read this before a few years back, and though I don't normally read a book more than once, this one I read again every so often, just for laughs. I would love to write like Twain, such wit, such insight into human nature. No wonder he's considered great. Who knows, maybe some day, if I keep at it, if I practice enough, I may be good. Somebody might read my work and say, "Hey, this guy's great."

When I finished the chapter, I closed the book and gazed down at the park. It was empty. I locked my room and headed down the stairs.

The restaurant was transformed into a checkered wonderland again with the laminated menu cards on the tables. I found my spot and ordered Number Three – French toast, sausages, orange juice and coffee. Ah, the good life, not having to cook for yourself. I could do this forever.

After breakfast, I returned to my room to write. The blue sky lifted my spirit, I felt creative, and my fingers itched for the keyboard so I fired up the laptop and clicked away for most of the morning. It's amazing how the weather can affect my mood and by consequence my writing. Rain or shine, wet or dry, drippy or bright, all is reflected in my work. I stopped only long enough for the concierge to clean my room, and then I was at it again, typing away till almost noon.

For lunch, I decided to try the diner again. I'm such a creature of habit. Routine doesn't bother me so I felt fortunate indeed when I found "my booth" by the window unoccupied.

"Be right with you, hon," Selma greeted me with a big smile.

While I waited for Selma to take my order, I gazed out the window. A lady pushed a stroller as she chatted animatedly with a companion. I couldn't see the baby, but I could see a pair of chubby little hands waving, one clutching a pink rattle.

"I knew you'd come back," Selma said. "What'll it be today, hon?"

"I couldn't resist the temptation. What do you recommend?"

"Do you like liver? Our chef makes a mean liver smothered in onions."

"Nah, I don't think so. I'm not much of a liver fan. Anything else?"

"Ah well, how about a plate of our beef stew. It's the best in town," she offered.

"That sounds more like it. Let's go for the beef stew, and I'll have a glass of iced tea."

"I'll be right back," she said.

I gazed out the window again. This time two old men jaywalked across the street and entered the diner. Selma waved at them, and they sat at the far end of the counter. Both were wearing baseball caps, one blue and one red, probably opposing teams. Such rivalries can make for long-standing friendships. I could imagine the arguments they had, arguments for the sake of arguing, to have something to say, to break the silence, to beat the loneliness.

Selma brought me a steaming bowl of stew. I don't know what kind of stew the rest of the town makes, but if it comes close to the diner's version, it's second best.

"Can I interest you in some dessert?" she asked when she came to clear the table.

"No thanks, the stew was my dessert. My compliments to the chef," I said.

"See you tomorrow?" she asked as I stood to leave.

"Most probably," I said.

As I headed for the door, the two old men raised their caps to me and nodded.

I nodded back and left the diner.

I strolled past the art gallery. In the window, there was a sign announcing Friday's presentation at 7:00. I'd think about going. It might be fun to hob knob a bit with people I didn't know, but then I thought – suppose Margaret goes? That nagging thought, I should call her, I really should, but then I thought – no, not yet. I was on a creative roll and didn't want it sideswiped or deflected into the abyss. I'd call her later...

I continued down West Main away from the hotel. The street veered into a fork, the left side circled the park, and the right offered a long line of apartment buildings interspersed with offices. I took the right fork and ambled along for almost half an hour before I decided to cross the street and make my way back to the hotel on the other side. Contrary to what I thought when I first arrived, the town had grown. I no longer felt part of it. I was a tourist on holiday, getting to know a strange place. When I reached the main gates of the park, I crossed the street and entered the hotel without checking to see if the swings were busy. The grandfather clock gonged two double gongs – two o'clock, time to get back to work.

5

The Basket

WHEN I ENTERED my room, I found a tiny basket with three wrapped chocolates sitting on my laptop. The card read – compliments of the Triangle Hotel, the best for our guests. I un-wrapped one and popped it into my mouth, savoring its dark creamy smoothness, allowing it to melt into nothingness. I'd save the other two for later, as a reward for meeting the challenge.

I opened up my computer and as I waited for it to warm up, I scanned the park for movement. The good weather had done its work; several strollers dotted the path between the merry-go-round and the forested area. Two children sat on the lower edge of the merry-go-round, and the swings swayed in opposite directions, their human plumb bobs forcing them to different heights.

My laptop dinged as a signal that it was ready for my fingers, and I decided I needed a warm-up exercise before I hit the heavy, more burdensome writing, so I typed Chapter Zero Two...

***

Chapter Zero Two

On Monday, Jake was the last person off the bus, so he hurried to the playground before the first bell would ring in a few minutes, but as he rounded the building, he came headlong into Marty. Two of the other boys from Saturday were with him.

"Hey, Jake, what's up?" Marty said. The other boys said nothing.

Jake ignored him and walked past.

"Loser," he heard one of the other boys call from behind.

Jake was tempted to stop and bop him one, but he didn't dare. Three to one were not good odds, especially if two of the three were much bigger, so he moved into the crowd of seventh graders milling about. He figured he was safe for now, but after school was an entirely different matter. As long as he stayed in big groups, he'd be okay. Marty wouldn't try anything with lots of people around, but he wasn't above an ambush.

A grindingly loud buzzer broke through the chatter in the schoolyard, and the pubescent voices changed timber and climbed at least one octave above the norm. Jake followed the crowd into the hallways that led to the various classrooms. His first class was English. His teacher, Ms Landry, was okay; she knew her stuff and didn't put up with too much horsing around.

"Okay, class, you know the drill – one blank sheet of lined paper and pen on your desks, everything else out of sight, no excuses and no borrowing," Ms Landry commanded, and the students obeyed with a few moans to accompany the movement.

"Pens up; put your heading on your paper," she continued.

This was Jake's favorite part of the class. It was his time to shine, at least to himself. The exercise was pretty much the same every day with a few changes to break the monotony. Ms Landry would write part of a sentence on the board, or a few random words. She would set her timer for ten minutes; say 'go' and the students had to incorporate those words somehow into a logical essay.

Today Ms Landry wrote: My sneakers are...

"That's too easy, Ms Landry!" someone said.

"Don't complain," she said. Then she wound the timer and said, "Pens in the air; Go!"

Scratching sounds filled the room as the students scribbled whatever came to mind.

Jake paused before he began writing:

My sneakers are too big for me so I stuff the toes with paper and tie them really tight. By tomorrow they will fit me, and they will fit just right, so I'll under-stuff them and I'll wear them out or at least until my toes come into sight.

My sneakers are red and brown with a lightning strike across the sides. They're smelly and stinky, but that's all right, they cover my socks, which smell even worse, but not as bad as my toes all nestled and cozy inside.

When the timer rang, Ms Landry spoke.

"Pens down; tally your words."

Jake tallied his word count and placed the number in a circle on the upper left hand corner. He hadn't written much, but it was the mental exercise he enjoyed.

The next part of the lesson was grammar, and Ms Landry used the sentence she had written as a starting point.

"Let's fill in the blank," she said. "My sneakers are...?"

"Stinky," Jake offered and everyone laughed.

"Yes, they are!" another person added and everyone laughed again, even Ms Landry.

Then she asked, "What does 'stinky' do here?"

"It describes Jake's sneakers," someone answered, more laughter, even from Jake.

"Correct, so let's describe somebody else's sneakers."

And so it went for the next few minutes, Ms Landry called on people and wrote their responses on the board. Then she hit them with the clincher.

"Write this sentence somewhere on your paper and fill in the blanks - All of these words that describe the sneakers are called _______."

Everyone dutifully copied the sentence and filled in the blank.

"You may check your answer with your neighbor. Once you've done that, pass your papers forward."

Jake slid his paper forward with the rest of the row. Though Ms Landry hadn't mentioned the answer, by the end of the class most everyone knew what adjectives were and what they did. For sure Jake did.

***

When I looked up at the clock on my laptop, it was four-thirty, time for a stretch. I stood up and did a few knee bends, and then some shoulder stretches. I twisted my neck from side to side and crunched up my shoulders toward my ears, turtle fashion, making tiny cracking sounds all along my upper neck. It felt good. Then I un-wrapped the second chocolate; I deserved it, and it certainly wouldn't ruin my dinner.

Dinners... they were always my favorite meals, at least in the early years, before Mom began to nag me unmercifully about my life career. She was a natural cook and could whip up the tastiest culinary delights, and she insisted that we dine together as a family. She was rigid about this, something in her upbringing. We had a round table. Dad sat in what she called King Arthur's chair, it had arms, and ours did not. Mom's chair was closest to the kitchen, opposite Dad's. He named her chair Lady Guinevere's chair. Margaret and I sat opposite each other; I suppose to keep us from fighting. We were expected to help set the table and to help clear the dishes. When we would complain that it was child abuse, Dad said it was to help defray the cost of our room and board. Then he would wink and point to the cook.

"We don't want her to wear out, now do we?" he would say.

Whenever we'd ask why he didn't help to pick up, his answer was that he brought the bread and he was the king, enough said.

On school nights, after dinner, Margaret and I were allowed to choose one television program before heading up to our rooms. We had to agree on the program, and Margaret always won, mainly because I hated arguing with her. She'd pick the dumbest sit-coms. I'd sit through the program, dazed into numbness until it was over and I could escape to my room, to my world of books.

With time, the rules grew more lax. Though we kept the dinner routine, the meals were often laced with silence and brooding, mostly mine. The conversations became mundane, meaningless, spoken to fill the void. Four headstrong people, alike and different, un-budging, unyielding.

Things only grew worse when Mom got sick. She would leave the classified pages of the newspaper on my desk; some had sections highlighted in yellow or green or whatever color marker she had handy. Sometimes she'd write little notes in the margins, or put happy faces next to a particularly lucrative job offer. She was so worried that her only son wouldn't be able to support himself.

"Writing doesn't pay," she would say. "You need to get yourself a real job, something steady, with insurance and benefits."

"I like to write, Mom, and people do write for a living," I would inevitably answer.

"But you could write at night, after your regular job," she would argue.

"Why should I do that when I can do what I love full-time and get paid for it?" I'd argue.

"But it won't be enough," she'd argue back.

And on and on we'd go, round and round. On the last day of exams during my third year of college, she could no longer argue with me. When I got back to my apartment, Dad was waiting outside. He looked so small, lost, beaten, King Arthur without his Lady Guinevere.

The drive home was long and silent, filled only with tiny sighs and an occasional intake of breath.

We buried her in the old cemetery, in the family vault. I should go visit her, bring her flowers; perhaps I will, but not now. Now I had to stay focused if I was going to accomplish what I came here to do, but I needed to take a stroll, get my mind back on track.

From my window, I could see the swings, still and empty in the distance, and long shadows fell across the park. I grabbed the book of verses and left the hotel. I breathed in the damp, muggy air; rain, it would rain again, but not yet. I crossed the street and entered the park, but instead of going to the swings, I followed the path toward the wooded area. Under the leafy canopy, the air seemed cooler, less daunting. I found a tree off the beaten path where the ground was flat. I settled myself against its wide trunk and opened the book of verses to whichever page fell open – Stars...

Eyelets of the Universe,

Moon dust in the sky,

Pinpoints of the night,

Powder for the Earth.

Why didn't she want me to write? After she died, I was more determined than ever to be a writer. Maybe she knew my rebellious nature. Maybe she understood that, without a challenge, I would cave in to apathy and sink into the ordinary. Had that happened to her? Had she caved in to apathy? Had she sunk into the ordinary? Was this her only poetic attempt? Or were there other collections of her writings somewhere? I longed for the answers. I needed to know. I opened the book to another page – Mushrooms...

Spongy fungi

Umbrella roots

Mini trees

Poisoned shoots.

I tried to imagine my mother, age 16 or 17, pondering over these words. What kind of writing implement did she use, a fountain pen, a quill? Did she write on loose pages or in a notebook? Did her parents encourage her to write? Why did she stop?

I never knew my grandparents on either side, so all I had to go by was what my parents had told me, which wasn't much. I closed the book and shut my eyes against my thoughts. A slight breeze rustled through the trees and gently caressed my face.

When I opened my eyes, my little tattered friend stood in the clearing, watching me. How long had he been there?

"Hi," he said, "what were you reading?"

"Oh, hi, uh, poetry, a book of verse," I said.

"Poetry? You gotta be kidding, that's gotta be some boring stuff," he said.

"No, not really."

"Well, it must've been because it put you to sleep," he said.

"No, I was just resting my eyes."

"Yeah, sure. Why don't you read me one, and I'll decide."

"Okay," I said and flipped through the pages. "Here's one called Watermelon. Let's see what you think."

Green and tough,

Thick and thumpy crust,

Red and porous,

Sweet and juicy,

Inside to the core,

Black and tiny little seeds,

Spit,

And scattered to the floor.

I looked up at my friend and met his smile.

"Hey, that's not bad. Are you sure it's a poem?" he asked.

"Not all poetry has to be heavy. Some poets have a sense of humor, too."

"Who wrote it?" he asked.

"A woman by the name of Mary Margaret Murphy."

"Is she famous?" he asked.

"I don't think so."

"Then why are you reading her poems?"

"I found it in the bookstore, and something about it caught my eye. I was drawn to it, so I bought it."

"You bought that book?" he asked. "It looks old."

"It is old. It was printed in 1937, quite some time ago."

"Is that what you call an antique?" he asked.

"I suppose it is - a vintage book of verses."

"Well, I'd better go before it starts to rain. Thanks for reading me the poem. I liked it. Maybe you could read me some more tomorrow?"

"Sure thing," I said. "Be glad to."

"See ya," he said.

"See ya," I replied.

As my little poetry critic disappeared among the trees, a big raindrop splashed against my nose. I stood and hurried back to the hotel.

6

The Dinner

I MADE IT into the hotel right before the deluge. Huge droplets splattered the sidewalk as I spun through the circular door, grabbed my key and headed up the stairs to clean up, my thoughts on the hotel menu. It was well after 7:00 by the time I made it down to the restaurant. Tonight lighted candles glowed in the center of the tables with pale blue tablecloths. A couple of the tables were occupied, but my favorite by the window waited for me. As I slid my chair closer, the waiter handed me the menu.

"Good evening, sir, what'll be tonight?"

"Ah, let me see." I gave the menu a quick once over through the main courses. "I think I'll have the Fish Court bouillon with white rice, the house salad and a glass of your house red."

"Very well, sir. Shall I bring your wine now?"

"Yes, please."

While I waited for the waiter to bring my wine, I watched the ferns droop and bounce back as the raindrops sprinkled them. I thought about my little friend in the park. I didn't even know his name. I hadn't thought to ask, and he hadn't offered the information, nor had he asked mine. It was probably better. Names can be misleading. Quite often, they tend to label us and carry with them pre-formed ideas about who we are and what we're like. Take Margaret, for instance. She always insisted on being called Margaret. I would have preferred to call her Maggie, but she refused to answer to that. She said it wasn't who she was. She was a Margaret, a pearl, a child of light, according to the definition, and that queens and saints were named Margaret.

"No one ever heard of a St. Maggie," she would argue.

"Well, there was Good Queen Bess," I taunted, "and she was queen of England."

"Yes, but she was really Elizabeth, and probably didn't refer to herself as Bess or Bessy, which are names for cows."

"It's just a form of endearment, sweetheart," Dad would interject.

"Then you should have named me Maggie, if that's what you wanted to call me."

"You were named after your grandmother Margaret O'Donald, and everyone called her Peg, and she loved it," Mom added in.

"Well, that's fine, but I don't want to be called Peg either. It sounds like a wooden stick."

"From what I've heard, Peg O'Donald was a tough old woman, head-strong and determined," Dad said, flaming the fires and winking at Mom.

"And from what I see, you remind me a lot of her," Mom said and winked back at Dad.

"Great, but I still don't want to be called Peg or Maggie. Call me Margaret. That's who I am!"

So she is Margaret, not Maggie, not Peg, Margaret, tough, headstrong and determined.

The waiter brought my wine and placed it near the candle.

"Would you like your salad with your meal, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, that would be fine," I said.

The restaurant began to fill up, and the buzz of human voices filled the room. The waiter brought the court bouillon with the rice neatly served on the side. He placed the salad on my left and a small wicker basket filled with hot bread next to the bread plate. The aroma of fish in heavy tomato sauce made my mouth water. This was going to be another delicious meal.

It was nearly nine o'clock by the time I reached my room. I was too tired to write anymore, so I picked up Mark Twain's little tome again and read a few pages till Morpheus put me to sleep and filled my head with troubled dreams...

I found myself alone and barefoot in the middle of a lush, green wonderland of giant trees with low hanging, thick branches. Briars and thistles intertwined with huge ferns, and sharp rocks jutted from the Earth. I knew I had to find my way out, but I didn't know where to turn. I scanned the rocks searching for a space big enough to place my foot. Anywhere I stepped would cause me pain. Then came a low rumble, and the ground beneath me shook violently causing me to lose my balance. I swung my arms in circles so as not to fall on the jagged rocks. The tremors ceased, but then a loud crack split the ground, and before me stretched a bottomless crevasse. I knew I had to cross the divide or be stuck forever among the rocks, but the other side was farther than I could leap and my heart beat a staccato tattoo. Suddenly, there was another loud crash and a tree fell across the divide. The answer, the exit, the way out lay before me...

I awoke to the pounding rain, relieved to be awake, to be alive. I got out of bed and looked out the window. The park was dark beneath the downpour, a grey wall of water matting its view. I turned on the light, opened my laptop and began to write...

***

Chapter Zero Three

The morning slid by slowly for Jake. After English class, he trudged on to Math, not his best subject by far. Mr. Brown was a strict and unforgiving taskmaster, and homework was a daily drudge, but Jake was not alone in his misery. Most of the kids in his class struggled, so Jake was happy to earn a passing grade.

Mr. Brown had his little warm-up routines also. As each student entered the room, he would hand out a square of paper with two problems from the lesson the day before, and supposedly no two papers contained the same problems. He said it was to keep them honest and make them study.

"Here you go, Jake," he said as Jake entered the room.

"Thank you, Mr. Brown."

"You're welcome."

Jake dropped his backpack on the floor next to his desk and pulled out a pencil. Mr. Brown allowed five minutes to complete both problems. He didn't use a timer like Ms Landry. He just clapped his hands when the time was up. Then he'd call for the papers to be passed up. It was a daily grade, if you got both problems correct – ten points, one problem correct – five points. After every one passed in their papers, Mr. Brown would go over the homework.

When Mr. Brown worked out the problems that Jake had attempted on the board, he knew he had five out of ten points. Jake copied all of the problems into his notebook. They would certainly be on the weekly quiz on Friday, but no matter if Jake did well on the weekly quizzes, his daily efforts kept his Math grade looking like a flat line.

After Math, Jake headed on to Science, interesting reading but too much memorizing, most of the time, but today his teacher Ms Whitman had placed an empty pie plate with a small paper cup in the center on each table.

"Good morning, class," she said once everyone had settled in. "All you need is your notebook and pencil."

Jake pulled out his notebook and glanced around at the other three students who sat at the table with him, one girl and two boys. The girl smiled at him, and Jake smiled back.

Ms Whitman glanced around the room to make sure everyone was ready to begin. Then she drew a circle about a foot in diameter on the board.

"What's this?" she asked.

"A circle," several students said.

"Yes, but today this circle will represent something else. Today we will call it the core of the Earth, and it is solid," she said and wrote the word CORE in capital letters in the center of the circle and wrote the word 'solid' in smaller letters beneath it. "Draw this circle in your notebook and label it."

Then she drew another circle about 18 inches in diameter around the first one.

"Table 1, any idea what this is?" she asked and smiled.

"It must be the outer core, Ms Whitman," one student volunteered.

"Correct, but the outer core is not solid. It is liquid," she said and labeled it. She didn't have to tell them to draw this one.

"The next circle around the outer core is called the mantle, and it is solid," she said as she drew a larger circle and labeled it. "The temperature in the mantle is hot enough to melt rock, and that melted rock we call magma."

Ms Whitman drew a thinner circle around the mantle and labeled it the upper mantle.

"This is where magma is formed and since magma is lighter than rock, it rises, and as it gets closer to the Earth's surface, pressure decreases and the gases in the magma begin to expand, forcing it through openings in the Earth's surface or crust."

Ms Whitman drew one final circle around the last one and labeled it "the crust." She drew tiny cones in different parts of the last circle.

"Table 3, what do we call these?"

"Volcanoes," they answered in unison.

"Correct, and Table 2, what do we call the hot molten stuff that flows out of volcanoes?"

"Lava," they said.

"I thought it was magma," someone said.

"Table 4, can you answer that one?"

"It's called magma when it's under the surface and lava when it's outside," Jake offered when no one at his table showed signs of speaking up.

"Correct, Jake. Now I suppose you've noticed the pie plate and the paper cup on your tables. Would each table leader come to my desk and pick up your supplies. We're going to make a simple volcano with baking soda, liquid soap and vinegar."

The bell caught them in the middle of all the fun of bubbles flowing out of paper cups.

"Read pages 40 – 46 for tomorrow. You should be able to describe at least three types of volcanoes," Ms Whitman said as students packed up to leave.

It was lunchtime and Jake was hungry. As he dashed for the door, he tripped over someone's backpack, his head banging against the corner of the table as he fell.

"Are you okay, Jake?" Ms Whitman asked as she helped him up.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm all right."

"That's a nasty bump you have. You'd better have the school nurse take a look at that. Let me write you a pass."

"That's okay, Ms Whitman. I'm all right, really I am."

"Come on, I'll walk you there myself. You won't miss lunch, I promise you."

There was no getting around it. Ms Whitman grabbed Jake's backpack, and hooked her purse on her shoulder.

"Let's go, young man," she said and locked the door behind them. To Jake's relief, the hall was nearly empty.

***

I looked over what I had written and felt satisfied. Flash backs of my school years served me well. For the most part, I had had good teachers, interested in tapping into our adolescent minds and provoking our budding imaginations. I gazed at the clock on the laptop – 4:00 a.m. I wasn't tired, but I knew that if I didn't get some rest, I would destroy my pattern. I needed to keep up a staunch routine and couldn't allow sleeplessness to interfere, so I shut down the laptop, set the alarm on my cell phone and headed back to bed. The softness of my pillow welcomed me.

7

The Date

THE RAIN MUST have abated while I slept, for the morning, though still hot and humid, broke clear and blue, and the sky stretched endless beyond the clouds, but the sun seemed higher than usual so I leapt out of bed in a panic.

It took me no less than ten minutes to get ready for breakfast. I felt pressured from the atmosphere, so I rushed down the stairs and practically burst into the restaurant only to find that an elderly couple occupied my favorite table, and I was forced to sit at a table in the center, not my favorite position.

When the waiter arrived to take my order, I chose Number 2, 'Huevos rancheros' – not that I am partial to Mexican cuisine, but I wanted to try what the cook had to offer.

"Will you be having coffee or tea?" the waiter asked. He wasn't the same one from the night before.

"Coffee, no sugar, milk on the side," I said.

"Yes, sir," he answered. "Be right with you."

I felt rushed, probably from having awakened later than my usual time, but once the waiter brought my order, I forgot about my disorderly morning and concentrated on my culinary rejuvenation.

The feeling of being rushed had accompanied me throughout my life. Be ready for this, be ready for that, don't be late, it's important; we must meet the deadline... Who could object? I was a slave to the system, but this week was mine, and I would not give in to their demands. I would do what I wanted to do, and I would fulfill my goals, I would meet and conquer my challenge. The Huevos rancheros helped me to this end.

When I had finished, I called the waiter over.

"This was magnificent," I told him.

"Thank you, sir, I'll tell the chef," he said and picked up my empty plate.

Once I had paid the check, I decided to break my routine and head out for a stroll. I left the hotel and stepped off to the left in the direction of the bookstore, but I had no intention of stopping there. The streets were filled with people heading to work. They ambled distractedly, intent on determined directions. I had no destination. I needed to walk, that was all. I needed to think things through. I needed to decide which direction my life would take from here on in.

I strolled along, window-shopping when no one in his right mind would be window-shopping. Some of the shop windows already displayed mannequins in winter gear though the thermometer soared above 90 degrees, and some showed them in half-dress, waiting to be trussed up in the latest fashions. A window with a tiny doll caught my eye. Alongside the doll, there was a small card that read: Magic beyond the imagination.

Of course, this captured me and I had to know more so I entered the shop, the tinkling bell announced my arrival.

"Good morning, sir, how may I help you?" the clerk greeted me.

"The little doll," I said, "I was just wondering what is behind it all."

"Oh, there is nothing behind it, so to speak. It's simply a magical doll that goes beyond the human imagination," he said and smiled.

"Must one possess the doll to posses its powers?" I asked.

"Certainly," the clerk answered.

"And what does it cost?" I asked.

"It's not terribly expensive monetarily, but it can cost more than what you might be willing to pay in the long run," he said.

"I don't understand," I replied.

"It's not a complicated little doll, sir. If you wish to purchase it, it may cost you more than what you wish to pay, and then again, maybe not, that's all," he said and gave me a look that reproached me for my inquisitiveness.

"I'll take it," I said on impulse. "How much is it?"

"Thirteen dollars," he replied.

I placed the bills on the counter and received the tiny doll in a small paper bag with a thin rope handle. I looped my belt through the handle and left the shop, the bell tinkled its farewell.

I continued along West Main Street, the blue skies cheering me along. I walked until West Main became East Main. In the distance I could see the old concrete bridge that spans the river. On the other side of the river was the original town square, laid out in its 19th century design – church on one end, bank on the other, tiny park in between. The gazebo was still there among the big oaks that sheltered the park benches. I made my way to one of them and sat facing the church. I patted the little bag that hung from my belt and folded my arms.

How many Sundays had we spent there? I didn't want to count them, but there were many. The change from Latin to English didn't bother me as much as it had my parents, my mother especially. She claimed it took away part of the mystery of the Mass and it made going to church ordinary. Dad, I remember, had said that it made us too much like the Protestants, especially when the choir brought in the guitars. But the changes didn't stop us from going every Sunday, rain or shine. It was part of growing up. It was part of life.

I could see the old cemetery behind the church. The wrought iron fence, rusting in spots, protected its inhabitants, insured their rest. I stood and headed to the gate that lay ajar. When I entered the cemetery, I walked along the path through the head stones inscribed with family names of people I had heard of, some I had known. At the far corner of the cemetery, near the end of the path on the left, was where my parents were buried. The vault was a simple marble structure with two names engraved beneath a cross – Joseph Edward Binder, March 12, 1916 – June 2, 1978, and Mary Margaret Murphy Binder, November 10, 1917 – May 31, 1967. They seemed so young here. In real life, I remembered them older. I stood there a while; I even said a prayer, and as I prayed, a cloud covered the sun and the cemetery seemed less stark, more peaceful. I made the sign of the cross and said my good-byes to my parents. I needed to move on.

I retraced my steps back across the old bridge, back onto West Main and on to the Triangle Hotel. I thought about calling Margaret, but I wasn't ready, not yet at least, but I knew I would before I left.

It was well after ten o'clock in the morning when I entered my room, the package with the magical doll still looped on my belt. I sat at the table near the window and removed the bag from my belt and opened it. The doll had a miniature porcelain hand-painted head sewn to a stuffed little body; obviously it had been made for a little girl. She wore a tiny cream-colored lace bodice and skirt. Her arms and legs were porcelain also with perfectly manicured hands and small black boots. What had possessed me to buy this, I wondered. I rarely buy things on impulse, but I had been drawn by the message – magic beyond the imagination, what could that mean? I don't believe in magic, though I'd like to. I propped the doll against the windowsill, opened my laptop and began to write...

***

Chapter Zero Four

Ms Whitman accompanied Jake to the nurse's office and explained what had happened, and then she left him in her care.

The nurse examined the bump on his forehead and smiled.

"That's some bump you've got here, young man. Does it hurt?" she asked.

"No ma'am, not much."

"Well, that's good, but you sit still for a bit and hold this ice pack to your head while I call up your file and fill out a report." The nurse clicked on her computer and found Jake's file. Then she picked up the phone and called his mother.

After she hung up the phone, she asked, "Are you hungry?"

"Uh huh, yes ma'am. It's lunch time."

"Well, you still have a few minutes before the bell, but no running down the hall to get to the cafeteria, understood? And no gym today. Here's a note for Mr. Morgan. If you begin to feel dizzy, tell your teacher right away, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am, I will."

Jake handed her the ice pack and took the note. By the time he got to the cafeteria, most of his classmates were gone. He slid his tray along the rail and pointed to the burger and fries. Then he picked up a bottle of water near the cashier and looked around for a seat. The tables were filled with eighth graders, so he headed to a table near the wall where a girl with short, curly brown hair sat alone.

"Is it okay if I sit here?" he asked.

"Sure, go ahead," she said and looked down at her plate.

Jake hung his backpack on the back of the chair and sat down. He watched the girl pick at her salad for a moment. She ate one cherry tomato at a time. Jake took a bite of his hamburger and looked over at her. He took another bite and then ate a couple of fries. He felt compelled to say something.

"My name's Jake, what's yours?"

She looked up and two big brown eyes almost smiled at him.

"Melissa," she said, "my name's Melissa."

"Nice to meet you, Melissa."

"Nice to meet you, too, Jake."

"You like salads?" he asked as he watched her fork another tomato.

"Yes, I'm trying to be a vegetarian," she said, "but it's not easy."

"I don't think I could be a vegetarian, I like burgers too much, sorry," Jake said and gulped.

"That's okay. It's a choice I made. You don't have to be a vegetarian."

"Oh good, because I really like burgers, and I like hot dogs too, and pork and beans and fried chicken, and meatballs and spaghetti," he said.

Melissa wrinkled her nose and then picked up her bottle of water.

"Here's to burgers and fries!" she said.

"To burgers and fries, and to salads," Jake said and picked up his bottle and clicked Melissa's bottle.

"And to hot dogs, pork and beans, fried chicken, meatballs and spaghetti, too!" she said and smiled.

"And here's to tofu," Jake said and laughed.

The bell cut into their lunch.

"Oops, gotta go," Jake said.

"Yeah, me too, it was nice having lunch with you, Jake, even if you do like burgers!"

"Yeah, it was nice having lunch with you, too, Melissa, even if you do like salads," he said. "Maybe we can do it again sometime."

"Yeah, sure," she said.

Jake picked up his tray and grabbed his backpack off the back of the chair. Melissa did the same and they headed for their different classes.

***

I glanced at the clock on my laptop – a quarter to twelve, time for a break. I shut down my computer and left the room. I wondered what the special at the diner was today.

8

The Enchantment

I HURRIED OUT of the hotel in the direction of the diner. I wanted to be with people, to interact, to feel an atmosphere of human warmth and welcome. I pushed open the diner door to be greeted by Selma's smile, and to my great surprise to that of the two old geezers in their baseball caps. They waved at me, and I waved back in acknowledgement. I felt at home. The booth by the window was occupied, so I decided to sit on the stool next to one of my "diner buddies."

"May I?" I asked and pointed to the stool.

"Certainly, please join us, young fellow. Maybe you can settle an argument we've had for years," the old man in the red cap said.

"Well, I'm not sure about that, no one has ever likened me to Solomon," I said as I slid onto the stool.

"You don't need to be Solomon to know who's right in this argument, young man," said the old man in the blue cap. "You'll side with me, and that's all there is to it."

This would prove to be an interesting lunch, to say the least, but Selma broke the tension when she approached the counter.

"What'll it be today, hon?" she asked.

"Well, for the last couple of days you have steered me well. What's on the list for today?" I asked.

"We have the liver and onions, but you don't like liver, so maybe you'd like the chopped beef with rice and a salad on the side."

I looked over at my counter buddies, and they nodded their approval.

"Bring it on, and top it off with your best iced tea," I said.

All three of us received our orders almost at the same time, but each in succession.

"Here you go, boys," Selma said as she placed each plate before us. "I know you're going to enjoy this."

We had all ordered the special. The chopped beef, smothered in onions and green peppers, was tender, and the salad, though plain, complemented the beef. I was in heaven and so were my counter buddies.

"What do you think about the Phillies?" my red-capped buddy asked.

"They're pretty good," I commented.

"Pretty good? They're not just pretty good, young man, they're great!" he said.

"Uh, yeah, well, I suppose they are. They've been in the play-offs a lot. You're right. They are good," I agreed.

"Yeah, but not as many times as the Yankees," my buddy in the blue cap said. "There's no team like the Yanks!"

I felt like I was caught in the middle of a family feud. There was no way I could win or worm my way out of this without offending someone, but Selma saved me.

"Now you boys leave our young friend here alone. No one will ever convince either of you of the merit of the other team. So give it a rest and enjoy your meal before it gets cold!"

"Shamed into silence, all three of us dedicated ourselves to our chopped beef.

When it was time for me to depart, my buddy in the blue cap looked over to me and formed a Y with his forefinger and middle finger, and my buddy in the red cap pointed to the P on the front of his cap and winked.

I raised my hands in acquiescence.

"May the force be with both of you," I said. I waved at Selma and departed.

The sidewalk was filled with people hurrying along to work, a sign to me that I had better get back to my challenge. I didn't want the end of my stay to catch me wishing I had worked harder so I headed back to the hotel in time to hear the old grandfather clock gong one double gong – one o'clock. My plan was to write for two hours, take a five-minute stretch and then write for two more hours, take another short stretch and write until dinnertime.

When I entered my room, I gazed out the window at the park. It was empty. Just as well, I needed to get focused and stay at it if I was going to make any progress. I made sure my cell phone was in sleep mode and resisted the temptation to check emails, not because I didn't have any friends, but because I was afraid there might be an email from my real job, not a pleasant thought. Work was just that, it was work. I got paid to write insurance reports and other dry business information that I was sure no one who had a life ever looked at. The booklets were printed on thin weightless paper, the size of the letters barely big enough for an elf with bifocals to read. So many trees doomed to destruction. Hopefully, the reports were recycled and quickly.

I opened up my laptop and began to work...

***

Chapter Zero Five

After lunch, Jake headed quickly to his next class – Geography. He didn't want to be late. It was a big class, at least thirty students packed into wooden one-armed desks. Jake sat in the third desk on the row next to the wall. He would have preferred a window seat, but Mr. Randolph preferred otherwise. Their seats were assigned at random. On the very first day of class, as each student entered the room, Mr. Randolph instructed them to pull a paper from a basket he had on his desk. When Jake opened his, he read: Congratulations! You have chosen your seat for the first quarter! Please find Row 6, Seat 3 and get ready for class.

So for the rest of the quarter, he was stuck behind a big heavy guy. Maybe he'd have better luck next quarter, then again, maybe he wouldn't. At least he liked Geography, especially when they had to study maps, and his friend Sid sat right next to him.

Mr. Randolph checked roll with a seating chart. He could tell who was missing in an instant by looking at it. He would place a dot on the person's square for tardiness, and an X for being absent. Hardly anyone was ever late for his class, mainly because at the end of class Mr. Randolph handed out an obligatory assignment to all the tardy students. The assignment was due the next day and was averaged into the grade. Mr. Randolph didn't normally assign homework, and all work was done in class, so to get a tardy assignment was a nightmare, an infringement on one's freedom. Jake had gotten only one tardy assignment, and he swore that he'd never get another one.

Mr. Randolph put his seating chart on his desk and picked up a sheet of paper.

"Please open your notebooks to the next clean page," he said. "Let's see what you recall from yesterday, and no peeking at your notes."

"Did he say 'picking at your nose?'" the guy in Row 5, Seat 3 asked Jake.

"Shhhhh," Jake whispered, but then he started to giggle and so did Sid, his buddy in Row 5, Seat 3.

"Jake, do you want to share the joke with us? We could all use a good laugh," Mr. Randolph said.

"Uh, well, Mr. Randolph, it's, uh, no, nothing, really," Jake tried to answer without laughing.

"Come on, Jake, share it with us so we can get on with our work," Mr. Randolph commanded.

Jake cleared his throat.

"Yes, sir, it's that Sid asked if you had said 'picking at your nose', and that made me laugh. Sorry."

Mr. Randolph looked from one to the other, dead serious.

"That's quite clever, Sid. I applaud your humor, and thank you for sharing, Jake. Class, let's give these comedians a round of applause. They have made our day."

When the clapping was over, Mr. Randolph unfolded the sheet of paper.

"Number your paper from 1 – 5. When you've done that, look back at me. I'll know you're ready to begin when I see 59 eyes staring back at me."

It was Mr. Randolph's standard joke. He was so corny, but it was okay. No one felt threatened by him.

"I will ask the question once so listen carefully and just write the first answer that comes to mind. Number 1, what is the name of the imaginary parallel lines that run east and west around the Earth and measure distance north and south of the equator?"

Jake scribbled the word 'latitudes.'

"Number 2, what are the imaginary lines called meridians that run North and South around the earth, and each meridian runs through the North and South Poles?"

Another easy one, Jake thought. He wrote the word 'longitudes.'

"Number 3, what is the name of the area between the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn?"

Jake smiled and wrote 'The Tropics.'

"Number 4, what is the name of the imaginary line that circles the earth at its widest point?"

"Can you repeat that, Mr. Randolph?" a girl in Row 2, Seat 5 asked.

"No."

Jake looked at Sid and rolled his eyes. Then he wrote the word 'Equator' and looked up at Mr. Randolph.

"Number 5, draw a compass rose."

While everyone finished their drawings, Mr. Randolph walked through the rows.

"Now let's check our answers," he said and picked up a marker. He listed the five answers on the board and threw out the clincher, "Now you have five minutes to open your books and copy the definitions to each of these items. You will have them on your quiz on Friday, and Sid, you will not be able to peek at your notes."

When they had finished, Mr. Randolph handed a list of thirty cities around the globe to everyone.

"Do not write your name on this paper," he said. I do not want to know who you are, understood?"

Everyone knew the drill, but they nodded just the same.

"Good, now, Row 1, you will locate the first five cities, Row 2, you will locate the second group of six; Row 3 the third group of six, Row 4, the fourth group, Row 5, the fifth group and Row 6, the sixth group. You are to clearly write down the latitude and longitude of each city and its hemisphere. You have fifteen minutes to do this. If you finish early, turn your paper face down and read the notes on geographical history at the end of the chapter. Begin."

Jake finished early and flipped to the end of the chapter. He knew better than to look up any more than what he was assigned because he would get someone else's paper the next day, and so did everyone else. He had read the summary the day before so he flipped to the history notes and read until Mr. Randolph signaled that time was up.

"Pass your papers forward and open up your notebooks to the next clean page. Let's talk about how maps are made and why they are useful."

By the time class was over, Jake thought maybe he'd like to be a cartographer. The thought of traveling to far-off places to map the world intrigued him. It sounded interesting and might be something he could do.

He stopped by his locker on the way to his next class – Spanish. He fingered the bump on his head; it didn't hurt much and no one had noticed it during Geography class, mainly because his hair covered the bruise.

"Hi Jake," a girl's voice said.

Jake turned and saw Melissa's big brown eyes.

"Hi Melissa, you have class in this hall?" he asked.

"Yeah, French with Madame St. Martin."

"I have Spanish with señor Hernandez in Room 114."

"Really? My class is in Room 115, right across the hall," she said.

"Great, see you after class, then," he said.

"Yeah, great, see you then," Melissa said.

Jake watched her move down the hall and disappear into the French classroom. He grabbed his Spanish book and shut his locker.

"Why didn't I take French?" he mumbled to himself.

***

I glanced at the clock, right on target – time to stretch.

9

The Illustrations

THE LITTLE PORCELAIN doll sat stiffly on the windowsill, watching me. I stood up and twisted my torso back and forth and flexed my fingers, kneading imaginary dough. Then I dropped to the floor and did fifty sit-ups, all I could withstand with my back flattened by the hardwood floor.

When I stood up again, I noticed the lone chocolate in the basket from the day before, more brain food to keep me going. As I un-wrapped the candy, I looked back at the doll. Magic beyond the imagination, huh? We'll see about that, I thought, and sat down to write...

***

Chapter Zero Six

When Jake opened the door to his Spanish class, he entered a foreign world. He wasn't Jake anymore.

"Buenas tardes, Jaime," señor Hernandez greeted him.

"Buenas tardes, señor Hernandez," Jake said.

From the first day of class, everyone had a Latinized name. Señor Hernandez had given them a list and they had to choose their name for the rest of the year.

"Choose wisely," he warned them, "because you will have to carry this name with you until June."

His buddy Sid became Sancho because he thought it sounded smart. Jake had chosen Jaime for the same reason, but Sid thought otherwise.

"It sounds like I'm saying hi to myself."

"It means James," Jake informed him.

"I know that, but it still sounds funny."

"Not as funny as Sancho," Jake said and laughed.

For the first few weeks, everyone wore nametags so they would know who was who, and they practiced saying buenas tardes to each other so they could learn each other's names. As they had moved along from the Spanish alphabet and the numbers, señor Hernandez hit them with the vocabulary. From Tuesday to Friday, they had three new words on the board each day, and next to each word was an illustration instead of a definition.

"You will remember them better if you draw what they mean," he told them. "Later on, you can look them up."

Señor Hernandez would read a paragraph with simple sentences that contained the words and as he pronounced one of the words, he would point to the illustration on the board. He would do this several times, making the students repeat what he said. Then he would flash the paragraph on the board and have them copy it into their notebooks.

The quizzes were always on Mondays, and they were always fill-in-the-blanks, but the odd part was that the word bank had only the twelve illustrations from the week before. You weren't allowed to draw a picture in the blank so you had to know the word.

That wasn't all they did in class. They listened to children's songs in Spanish and learned to sing along. Señor Hernandez insisted.

"If you can feel the rhythm of a culture's music, you can better understand the people," he told them.

Everyone sang. It was Jake's favorite part of the class.

"Buenas tardes, jóvenes," señor Hernandez said.

"Buenas tardes, señor Hernandez," the class greeted in unison.

"Hoy es lunes," he reminded them.

They cleared their desks and waited for the quiz.

"You have only ten minutes so I recommend that you write down the words that go with the illustrations, this will help you to remember them also," señor Hernandez advised.

The first time they had a quiz, someone had asked why they only had ten minutes.

"It is only a quiz," señor Hernandez had said, "and ten minutes is a long time."

To demonstrate this, he had everyone fold their hands and sit silently for ten whole minutes.

"If this were an examination, I would allow you more time."

No one complained again.

When Jake received his paper, twelve little drawings stared back at him. The trick now would be to remember the word it meant, write it down and then find the correct blank. It was the most challenging thing for Jake. Once he did that, he whispered the sentences to himself. By saying the sentences out loud, he could figure out which illustration went into the blank. He folded his paper in half about a minute before time. He wrote his name and the date on the upper right. Then he waited.

"Ya," said señor Hernandez, "pass your papers forward."

Once all the papers were in, señor Hernandez flashed the paragraph on the board with the illustrations, and then together they filled in each blank. When they finished, Jake knew he had missed only one. He felt good.

After the quiz, they had a grammar lesson. No one liked this part.

"By learning the rules, learning the language will be easier for you," señor Hernandez claimed.

"Which came first, the rules or the language?" Jake asked once.

"The language, of course," señor Hernandez answered, "but all languages follow certain patterns and for others to learn that language, they must learn its patterns, and some scholars have made it easy for everyone by writing the patterns down as rules. Imagine how difficult it would be if we had to figure out the patterns by ourselves."

So Jake was convinced about the need for learning the rules, and to a certain extent he was grateful, but he was not thrilled.

During the last part of the class señor Hernandez read a few pages of a novel. He did this every day. He said that if at first they didn't understand what he was saying, it was okay because eventually they would, and by listening, the sound of Spanish would become part of them and they would be able to recognize how it was supposed to sound.

About a minute before the bell, señor Hernandez stopped reading. He placed a bookmark between the pages and closed the book.

"Hasta mañana, jóvenes," he said.

"Hasta mañana, señor Hernandez," they responded.

Jake filed out of the room with the rest of the students, back into a familiar world. His next class was gym. He hurried over to Room 115 just as Melissa came into the hallway.

"À bientôt, madame," he heard her say.

"Hey, that sounds pretty good," he said.

"I love French," she said. "Some day I'm going to France."

"Spanish is pretty good, too. Maybe I'll go to Spain some day, but now I have to go to gym," he said and pointed to the exit, "that way."

***

I looked up at the clock on my computer. It was two minutes shy of five o'clock, time for another stretch. I went through my routine again, but in reverse, first another fifty sit-ups and then the torso twists.

The porcelain doll remained in the same position it had been since I had placed it there the day before. What would it be like to sit for hours on end without moving a muscle, I wondered. How do prisoners confined in solitary or those chained in place stand the torture, being held against their will, four close walls, no windows and the only exit locked shut? I looked around my hotel room, it wasn't very big, but its redeeming factor was the window that gave out onto the park. I glanced out the window and felt compelled to go outside. I looked back at my computer and grimaced. I needed a longer break so I shut it down. As I was heading out the door, the book of verses on the nightstand caught my eye. I picked it up and left the confines of my room for a stroll through the park.

I found an empty bench near the swings and settled in to read some more. I opened the book at random, Coleoptera...

Beetles

Bark, blister, bombardier,

Carrion, cockchafer, and diving

Cowpea, fiddler, flour, rove and ground,

Ladybug, scarab, and telephone pole are some.

But there's also mungbean,

Potato, stag and

Dung.

I laughed out loud and turned the page, Bubbles...

Globular globes

Filled with air

Wet balloons

Without a care.

My mother must have been nuts or else bored out of her mind. Who would focus on such things, much less, spend time writing them down? Though I had to admit they made me smile. Her lines were light and carefree. They appeared to be deceivingly easy to write, but I knew they weren't. Writing reveals the soul, and these pages obviously exposed my mother's thoughts and hopes, her outlook on life. By putting her mind in print, her feelings could be scrutinized and perhaps misinterpreted and misunderstood. It was a brave thing to do. Maybe she wanted to protect me from that.

"Ahem," someone interrupted my thoughts.

I looked up to find my tattered little friend standing in front of the bench.

"So, are there any more funny ones?" he asked.

"Well, hello, as a matter of fact, there are. Here let me read them to you," I said.

He listened intently as I read through the last two poems.

"I like the one about the bubbles," he said, "but I still prefer the one about the watermelon."

"Me too, but I must confess that I didn't realize there were so many names for beetles."

"I don't think I'd want to be a dung beetle," he said.

"Me either! In fact, I don't think I'd want to be a beetle at all. Life is complicated enough being a human."

"That's for sure," he said.

I had noticed that he wore the same ragged shirt, jeans and muddy sneakers. I wondered what his life was like at home. Did he have a home? Where did he live? I didn't ask him because I didn't want to pry.

"I'd better get going," I said.

"Got lots of work to do?" he asked.

"Yes, quite a bit, but I'm making progress."

"That's good. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow then," he said and raced off toward the wooded area.

"Yeah, sure, tomorrow. See ya."

"See ya," he yelled without looking back.

I waited until he disappeared through the trees. Then I headed back to the hotel, back to the confines of my room.

As I climbed the stairs, the old grandfather clock double-gonged six times. I had been gone an hour, so much for a short break. When I opened the door to my room, the little porcelain doll stared at me as if in reproach so I booted up the laptop and began to write again. I would write until dinnertime.

***

The grandfather clock saluted me with seven double-gongs as I made my way to the restaurant. Tonight the tablecloths were beige again, and a tiny vase with a single hibiscus adorned each table. The table by the window was vacant, but I decided to sit in another spot across the room, facing the door.

"What will it be tonight, sir?" the waiter from the night before asked as he handed me a menu.

"Please bring me a glass of the house red while I make up my mind."

"Very well, sir, take your time."

So far I had had the Veal Scaloppini and the Fish Court bouillon; tonight I would try the chicken.

When the waiter returned with my wine, I was ready to order.

"I'll have the Braised Chicken Breasts in Mustard Sauce with scalloped potatoes."

By the time my order arrived, a loud group of six couples invaded the quiet little restaurant. Twelve people can make a lot of noise. They had the waiter pull three tables together and rearrange the chairs, and once they were seated, the ordering began – the bottles of wine, the appetizers, and then the main courses.

Before I finished my meal, the place grew boisterous with laughter. One of the men called over the waiter and whispered something. A few minutes later, the waiter brought out a tiny cupcake with a lighted candle in the center and placed it before one of the women, and the group burst into song. Her name was Suzanne, and friendship, good will, and thoughtfulness accompanied her.

When I opened the door to my room, the walls seemed closer. I would not write anymore this night.

10

The Dawn

MORNING CAUGHT ME lazy, disheartened. I felt I had set my goals too high. I needed consolation, encouragement, most of all encouragement, but I had no one to talk to, no shoulder to lean on, no advice to listen to and possibly reject. I was alone. I stared at the ceiling and allowed my eyes to study the beams, solid, supportive, dependable. Was I any of these things? I functioned on a different plane than most people. I seemed to be on the outside looking in, a portrait on a wall, a lifeless decoration. I needed purpose in my life, a reason for being, a meaning to my existence.

I had to shake off this lethargy so I dragged myself out of bed and checked the time. It was eight o'clock, but I felt unrushed. I would take my time and have a leisurely breakfast, and then I would make up my mind on whether to return to this room or go for a walk.

When I entered the restaurant, it was 8:30, and the place was full, all the tables were occupied. So I decided to break my routine and have breakfast at the diner instead. It was the best decision I could have made. Once outside the hotel, a slight morning breeze greeted me, and though the diner wasn't far, the walk did me good. The weather was changing and soon the air would grow crisp and invigorating, the kind of weather that inspired me. I work better when the air is cool.

As I opened the door to the diner, Selma waved at me from behind the counter. I sat at the only empty stool along the bar and studied the laminated menu next to the napkins.

"Good morning, hon, and what brings you here so early?" Selma asked.

"Breakfast," I said.

"Well, then what'll it be?" she asked.

"I'll have a triple stack of pancakes, sausages, coffee, milk on the side, no sugar, and a glass of orange juice."

"The man's hungry today," she said. "I'll get right on it."

While I waited for my meal, I glanced at the clientele through the mirror behind the counter. I didn't recognize anyone.

Selma brought my coffee.

"Here you go, milk on the side, no sugar."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said and moved down the bar to serve more coffee to the other customers.

When the pancakes arrived, the aroma of hot maple syrup and melted butter made my mouth water. I was hungry, and when I finished eating, I felt refreshed, energized.

"This was great, Selma."

"I'll tell the cook he doesn't have to wash this plate," she said.

As I stepped out the door, I bumped into the little redhead from the art gallery. She did a double take and stopped on the sidewalk.

"You're the guy that liked the water lilies, right?" she asked.

"Yes, you have a good memory."

"Don't forget the presentation. It's tomorrow at 7:00. There'll be wine and cheese. It's free and you don't have to buy anything. It'll be fun. Please come."

"I might just do that," I said.

"Good, I hope so," she said and turned to open the gallery. The little butterflies jingled as she went inside.

On my way back to the hotel, I decided to pick up a newspaper at the bookstore. I hadn't turned on the television in the room since I had arrived, but I felt I needed to know what was happening in the world, so I would read about it instead. I could skip over the bad parts and my sense of hearing wouldn't be damaged with commercials.

The bell on the door announced my entrance. The man with the bifocals looked up and smiled.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," I said and picked up a copy of the local paper.

He rang up my purchase and asked, "How's that little book of verses?"

"It's cute and though somewhat juvenile, some of the verses are rather inspiring," I said, amazed that he would remember me and my purchase.

"Yes, I thought so, too."

"Uh, would you happen to have any more books by that author?" I asked.

"Hmm, no, unfortunately I don't. That may have been her only publication I think. I do know that she was a local woman though."

"Really?" I said, feigning ignorance.

"Yes, in fact her daughter still lives here. I met her when I first moved here a couple of years ago. She bought a copy of the book, too."

"Oh, that's interesting. Well, thank you," I said and folded the paper beneath my arm. "I need to get back to work, but I'll come again to browse later."

"Well, thank you. Have a good day."

"Yes, you too," I said and left the store, the bell ringing its good-bye.

So, Margaret knew about the book. She bought a copy. I'm sure it was her. How did she find out about it? How did she find it? I needed to speak to her, but I would wait to call her later. First I had to write before the spirit left me.

By the time I entered my room, it was after ten o'clock. The sun etched its way between the clouds over the park. I opened the laptop and stared at its dark screen. I pressed the button that resembled a cat's eye and watched as the computer came to life. The little porcelain doll seemed to smile at me in approval. I smiled back and started to write...

***

Chapter Zero Seven

Jake practically floated to gym class. Butterflies tickled his stomach as he pushed open the handle on the double doors and headed to the locker room. His head didn't hurt at all anymore so he didn't bother to give the nurse's excuse to Coach Wiley. They were starting basketball, and he didn't want to miss any part of the game.

After he had dressed out, he walked out across the court, his sneakers squeaking along the hard wood floor. He climbed a couple of rows on the bleachers and sat with the rest of the class. His friend Sid waved at him from the other end. They waited expectantly as Coach Wiley called out the role. No one was absent.

"Okay, class, this is the way we will begin each day of basketball. After role call, we'll warm up for five minutes and then we'll play for thirty. Then we'll stretch and hit the showers. Anyone who doesn't dress out must have a note from the nurse stating why that person cannot play. Is that understood?"

Some of the students nodded.

"I didn't hear an answer."

"Yes, Coach," a few said.

"Is it clear to all of you?" he asked.

"Yes, Coach," everyone said in unison.

"Okay, I'm going to point to five of you, and you five will stand one behind the other in a row right there at the free-throw line. The first boy I point to will be the first in line, and then the second will stand behind him and so on. Then I'll point to another five and you will do the same. Is that clear?" he asked.

"Yes, Coach," everyone said.

"Good, now let's begin."

When the coach pointed at Jake, he hopped off the bleachers and lined up. He was the fourth person in the third row. There were six rows in all. Once everyone was on the court, Coach Wiley demonstrated the first exercise, then he blew his whistle and everyone began. Then the coach blew his whistle again, and everyone stopped. They had done jumping jacks, knee bends and stretches.

"Now we're going to jog two laps around the court. No racing, just a slow jog. When you stop, you must line up again in the order you are right now, so remember your place in line," he said. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Coach," everyone yelled.

Coach Wiley blew his whistle and the jogging began. When they had done two laps, the boys lined up again.

"Good, now I know most of you boys are ready for the pros, but for those of us who aren't, we're all going to start with learning how to pass and dribble," he said and bounced a basketball up and down several times. "Controlling the ball is the key. First we're going to pass the ball to each other back and forth, and then we'll do dribble relays, so Rows one and two turn and face each other, stand about six feet apart. Rows three and four move to the center of the gym and do the same, and Rows five and six move to the other end of the gym and face each other."

He handed a ball to each group and blew his whistle, and for the next few minutes, balls flew back and forth along the lines. After a few minutes, Coach Wiley blew his whistle, and the balls stopped.

"Step back six more feet, and be sure to use both hands when you throw the ball," he said and he blew his whistle again.

This time the drill was less orderly. Some of the boys lacked the strength to throw the ball across the new distance, and it would bounce away from the intended receiver. Once, Jake had to jump to catch a run-away bounce, and when he landed on his feet, he saw the coach watching his group. Then Coach Wiley blew the whistle.

"Okay, let's practice a one-bounce pass. This is how you do it," he said and pointed to Jake. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," Jake said and nodded.

The ball arced, bounced once and arced again straight into Jake's open hands.

"Good catch," the coach said. "Now you do it. Throw it back to me."

Jake's throw was not as good as the coach's, but it was passable.

"Now you know what to do," he said and moved on to the other groups.

By the end of class, the boys had, for the most part, dominated the one-bounce pass and were enthusiastic to continue, however the coach's whistle alerted them to the approaching dismissal bell.

"We'll work on the dribble tomorrow," Coach Wiley said as they headed off to the showers and then on to the busses and home.

Jake was euphoric. Basketball was fun and he loved it, and he knew in his heart of hearts that he could excel at basketball.

***

It was noon when I put an end to this narrative. I felt exhilarated, but I felt inspired. There was a muse helping me along. Maybe somebody else was writing this story, but for now I had to depend on myself and on my own insight. Who was to say but that maybe I myself wasn't writing the script, and that other spirits inside me assisted my inspiration, but I could not allow myself to fall into that abyss and I had to continue with or without their guidance. I knew that writing was inspiration and though I felt that it was holy, I wasn't going to question its source. I had a message to impart, and I would allow myself to be guided only by the powers from above.

And from above they came, a deluge of thoughts and inspirations beyond the imagination, more powerful than man's finite intelligence, too powerful to note on paper, so I wrote as fast as my limited human abilities allowed, and the rewards were immense. I wrote as inspired. Letters fell onto the page as manna on the dessert, food for thought, food for inspiration. When my fingers began to flag, I stopped only for a moment and then continued, refreshed. My fingers couldn't let go of the keyboard, as if they were magnetized to the keys, so I typed along, my fingers flying as I wrote. I knew it was time for lunch, but I couldn't stop. I wanted to fulfill my destiny. I wanted to meet my challenge. It was written...

11

The Pact

BY FOUR O'CLOCK I was still writing. I didn't want to take a break, but I needed one desperately. I could tell that my fingers were slowing down and so was my brain. I had skipped lunch and felt queasy and fatigued so I decided to stop for a bit and go to the little greengrocer nearby to pick up some fruit to kill my hunger until dinnertime. I checked the weather from my window. Giant cotton balls filled the sky. They would probably turn grey by day's end, so much for my optimistic side.

As I headed through the lobby, I hedged my way around suitcases and new arrivals. The hotel restaurant would most likely be filled tonight so it would probably behoove me to get there early or dine somewhere else.

Outside the air had grown muggy again, and sure enough as I looked down West Main toward the bridge, which was not visible from my window, the sky was dark and foreboding. I would stay in this night.

The greengrocer was only a few steps from the hotel. Baskets filled with colorful legumes lined the shelves from the open entrance, along both walls and down the center of the store. I picked up a few bananas, a couple of apples and a large bottle of water. I just needed something to hold me over until dinnertime.

I paid the clerk and left with the intention of going straight back to my room, but I looked over at the park across the street and decided to stop a little while. I wouldn't stay long. I found a bench that faced the hotel and took a seat. I stretched my legs and crossed them at the ankles. I took a banana out of the bag and peeled it. Such a perfect fruit, it comes with its own easy-to-peel wrapper. It needs no washing like the apple and no seeds to spit like so many other fruit. Ah the good life, I thought, and gazed at the hotel.

From this perspective the hotel looked ageless, though I knew it had been built during the late 19th century, it had withstood time – time, an ephemeral entity, without roots, with a limited future. However, this hotel looked like it would be here forever. I knew that I had to return to my work, but laziness overwhelmed me, so I forced myself off the bench and trudged back to the hotel.

As I entered the lobby, the old grandfather clock greeted me with five double gongs, five o'clock. I would have two more hours to dedicate to my task. If I wrote diligently, I could put a huge dent in my challenge.

Room 204 seemed stark and unwelcoming, as if to say, who are you to invade this inner sanctum? I didn't reply to the question, all I did was open my laptop and fire it up. The rest of the afternoon would determine the story.

***

Chapter Zero Eight

Jake headed for the buses lined up along the school entry way, they sat parked fender to fender, their bumpers kissing each other so as not to allow anyone in between the big yellow transports. Hundreds of students milled about, book bags in tow, each in search of a ride home.

Jake's bus was third in line, close to the far end of the entryway. His would be one of the first to pull out. He climbed on board and found a seat close to the front and sat down near the window. He could see Marty and his buddies on the back seat. Though his bus was one of the first to leave school, Jake was one of the last to get off. In the mornings it was the opposite. Jake was one of the first to be picked up so he spent lots of time on the bus. They weren't allowed to save seats for their friends so you never knew who would be sitting next to you for the ride. That was how he had met Marty, on the bus. Marty was in the eighth grade, but it was his second time around so he was bigger than the rest. Today Jake's seatmate was a skinny kid with a book bag bursting at the seams.

"Got lots of homework?" Jake asked.

"Yeah, in every subject, they pile it on every Monday, and every Friday we have quizzes, my teachers have no mercy" he said. "What about you?"

"Nah, not too much. We do lots of work in class though. No horsing around, that's for sure."

"Lucky."

"Yeah, I guess I am," he said.

Every few blocks the bus would stop and the students would shuffle out and disperse along the sidewalk, like ants on a mission. At the fourth stop, his seatmate hopped up.

"Well, this is where I get off," he said and hefted his bulging book bag and bumped along between the seats.

Jake smiled and slid closer to the window. He leaned his face against the pane, and the bus lurched off again. He closed his eyes as houses began to slide by. He wondered about his dad, what he was doing, why he had left. His mom didn't say much; she just said he had to go find himself. That was two years ago. One morning he was there, and the next he was gone. Every once in a while, they got a letter or a post card, but that was it. Then he thought about Melissa...

"Hey, Jake, wake up," someone said. "It's our stop."

Jake opened his eyes and sat up.

"Come on, man, let's go," Sid said.

The two boys hopped off the bus and headed for home. Sid lived in an apartment in a small brownstone a couple of blocks from Jake's house. They had become good friends when Jake and his mother had moved to the neighborhood after his father had left.

"Hey, you want to shoot a few hoops?" Sid asked when they reached his apartment building.

"Nah, I can't today. I gotta do some heavy reading," he lied.

"Okay, man, see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see you tomorrow," Jake said.

He felt bad about lying to Sid, but he didn't know how to tell him that he wanted to be alone. As he turned the corner, he thought he saw Marty and two of his buddies entering a building across the street. How did they get ahead? Jake wondered. He and Sid had gotten off the bus before they did. Butterflies flitted about in his stomach. He didn't trust Marty, and he didn't want to meet up with them so he hurried along. When he reached his house, he quickly went inside and locked the door. His mom wasn't home from work yet so he fixed himself a sandwich and closed himself up in his room.

***

I stopped typing a few minutes before seven o'clock, pleased with what I had written so far, but I still had a long way to go before the end. The rain had come and pelted the windowpane. So I got cleaned up and headed down to the restaurant before the crowd presumably would take over the place. I grabbed the table by the patio again. The window gave me comfort. I saw the waiter pick up a menu and head my way.

"What will you have tonight, sir?"

"Ah, let's see. I'll have a glass of Rioja and the paella for one," I said and handed him back the menu.

"Very well, sir. I'll be back with your wine in a minute. The paella may take a few minutes."

"That's fine," I said and watched the raindrops splatter the ferns. I wondered how many raindrops must have fallen on that patio, on those ferns, indeed how many had fallen on the Earth since time began? – Too many in some places and not enough in others.

The waiter arrived with my wine, the velvety liquid reminding me of my promise, made many years before, a pact actually to stay in touch.

After my graduation, three of us had driven up to Cape Cod, where we stayed in an old three-story house that had been converted into a lodge, not too far from Falmouth. We rented bikes and pedaled around for nearly three weeks. Our room in the attic had no view, but we could hear the pounding surf and smell the salt on the wind. It was a time of freedom, of liberation. On the last evening, we had splurged and gone to a fancy restaurant. I pretended that I knew wines and ordered a bottle of Rioja because the name reminded me of my Spanish class in grade school. By the third bottle, we were toasting to Rioja and to Spain and to anything else we could say in Spanish. In our cups, we had promised to meet again in Spain when we were wealthy, but that we would stay in touch forever. The next morning, we piled into the car with our backpacks and hangovers and drove back to our destiny – finding gainful employment. As for the pact, world events determined its fate.

A steaming pan of paella brought me out of my reverie.

"Would you like some more wine, sir?" the waiter asked.

"Yes, please."

He brought the bottle and filled my glass."

"Leave the bottle, please," I said.

"Certainly, sir," he said and placed the bottle on the other end of the table within easy reach. After he left, I raised my glass.

"Viva la Rioja!" I said.

It was eight o'clock when I finished my dinner and the bottle of Rioja, but I didn't want to return to my room. The rain had stopped so I left the hotel and strolled along West Main toward the bridge. I leaned on the guardrail and watched the slow water etch its way to the gulf; the street lights sparkled on the dark surface.

By the time I got back to my room, it was almost nine. I looked over at the porcelain doll, her tiny face fixed on mine. I sat down at the table, folded my arms and leaned back in the chair.

I would have kept my promise, I thought, but they couldn't keep theirs. Maybe I should sell the house on the lake. I never liked going there, and once it became mine, I had handed it over to a real estate agency and leased it. If I sold the property, I could go to Spain and stay there for a while. Margaret, on the other hand, had moved into the main house as soon as she could and had no plans to move away. We were so different.

Margaret, how was she? I wondered, and a pang of guilt crossed my heart. Perhaps I should have called her as soon as I got here, now I had only a couple of days left before I had to return to my regular job. But maybe that was all we needed to catch up on from where we had left off the last time we saw each other. I knew she wasn't married, at least not to a human being. She was married to the business. I hadn't married either, not because of the business, however, but because I fell into a routine and it seemed too much of an effort to break it. I knew I should, but I wasn't sure where to start.

I glanced back at the porcelain doll; its little glass arms limp by its side, its painted eyes watching me. Magic beyond the imagination, I thought. I could do with a bit of magic in my life. One thing was for certain; I wanted change. I wanted to point my life in a new direction. I wanted my existence to make a difference in this world even it was a tiny one. I would have to figure it out, but not tonight. Tonight I would sleep on it and see what the morning would bring.

12

The Lilies

WATER LILIES FLOAT in still waters, their roots a tangled mass beneath, clogged together and fighting for the nutrients that nature offers. Dark green pads spread across the ponds invasively, and pink or violet, orange or white blossoms rise from the surface.

The sunlight caught me dwelling on flowers, thinking about the stained glass I had seen in the gallery a few days earlier. I felt it was a sign of new life, a sign that was true, good and beautiful – a sign of good fortune, peace and enlightenment, life in all its essence, out of the mud to something of great beauty, and that is what I wanted to become, an instrument of great beauty.

I got out of bed to face the day. When I entered the lobby, the old grandfather clock gonged its double gong seven times. I left my key at the desk and exited the regular door that opened onto the street. The sun beamed happily, vibrant across the sky, minimizing the puffs of white smoke that dotted its blue depth.

I paced happily down West Main toward the diner, knowing I would receive a cheerful welcome there. As I entered, I spied my two old baseball buddies at the counter and ensconced myself next to them.

"Good morning," I said.

"Good morning, young fellow," they replied in unison.

Selma caught my eye from the other end of the counter and waved. I felt at home, wanted.

"Did you see the fight last night?" my friend in the blue cap asked.

"I'm afraid not," I said. "I was working late."

"Too bad," my friend in the red cap said. "It was the fight to end all fights!"

"Sorry I missed it," I said, deflated.

"Ah, not to worry, young man, fights come and go," my blue-capped friend said.

"What'll it be this morning, hon?" Selma asked.

"Oh gosh, I think I'm ready for two fried eggs, once over, with two strips of bacon extra crispy, toast, orange juice and coffee with milk and no sugar," I said.

"Coming right up," Selma said and headed off to place the order in the kitchen window.

Being here I felt invigorated, part of something. I knew that it wasn't just eating at a diner, but knowing the people who ate there, knowing something about them, becoming part of their lives. This is what I wanted for myself, for my life. I wanted to be part of something. I wanted to belong to a community. I wanted people to know who I was and what I was capable of doing. I wanted them to know me, and this gave me strength to go on.

By the time I finished my breakfast, it was eight o'clock, time to get back to work. I knew now that I would finish on time, at least on the deadline that I had set for myself before I left my regular job, so I headed back to the hotel.

My room welcomed me in brightness. I opened my laptop and hit the keyboard enthusiastically, its familiar bells greeting me cheerfully.

Except for the occasional trip-ups, life truly was not difficult. I would not complain.

***

Chapter Zero Nine

Jake heard the front door open and close and the double bolt slip into place. His mom was home. He knew her routine. She would put down her purse on the side table, take off her shoes and slip on her flip-flops. Then she'd knock on his door to say hello. The knock came...

"Jake? Are you okay?" she invariably asked.

"Yes, mom, I'm fine. Just doing some reading, that's all."

"How's your head? The nurse called and said you fell and bumped your head," a touch of worry trembled in her voice.

"My head's fine, mom, don't worry I'd tell you if it hurt."

"Are you sure?" she asked from the other side of the door.

"Yes, mom, I'm okay. I had a great day."

"Oh good, I'll have supper ready in a few minutes. I stopped at the super on my way home. How does spaghetti and meatballs sound to you?"

"Delicious, mom, do you need some help?"

"No, I got it. Finish your homework; I'll let you know when it's ready."

"Okay, thanks, mom."

All their conversations at the end of the day were through the door. Jake would eventually come out of his room and help her set the table for two. While they ate, they would chat about the day, and then Jake would help her clear the table and wash the dishes. His mom would dry them and put them away. She liked having the kitchen neat and things ready for the morning so she wouldn't have to rush.

When he came into the kitchen, his mom turned from the counter and smiled at him, her red curly hair pulled back behind her ears made her look like a pixie.

"Let me see that bump," she said.

"Oh, mom, it's okay, really."

"Whoa, did you break the table?" she asked.

"Yeah, it was smashed to pieces by my hard head, and I'll have to work nights to pay for a new one the teacher said."

"Well that's a relief. It's a lot easier to replace a table, believe me," she said and smiled again.

"So tell me about your day," she said.

"There's not too much to tell, really," Jake answered.

"You said you had a great day, so what was so great about it?" she asked.

"Okay, let me see. In English class I wrote a silly poem about my sneakers."

"Yes, and?"

"Math was just that, Math; Science was fun, we built bubbling volcanoes. That's when I bumped my head and destroyed the table. Then Ms Whitman brought me to the nurse. Then I was late for lunch so I sat with a girl because all the tables were full except for that one."

"You sat with a girl? What's her name?"

"She's just a girl, mom. No big deal," Jake said. He thought of Melissa's big brown eyes, and he felt his face grow hot.

"Well, that was very gentlemanly of you. Then what did you do?"

"Then I went to Geography, and Sid thought Mr. Randolph had said for us not to pick in our noses, but he really said not to peek at our notes."

"Leave it to Sid for comic relief," she said.

"Yeah, he's a funny guy. He wants to be a stand-up comedian."

"Well, he's on the right road. Did you go to gym class?"

"Yeah, we started basketball today. We practiced passing the ball, and tomorrow we'll probably work on dribbling. Coach Wiley says we need to learn how to control the ball before we can become pros."

"Well, I'm sure he's right."

"How was your day? Make a bunch of sales at the gallery?"

"No, but one person came in and looked at the stained glass. He liked the water lilies. I invited him to the presentation on Friday."

"What's his name?" Jake asked, a tinge of jealousy colored his voice.

"I don't know. He didn't say, and I didn't ask."

"Do you think he'll go to the presentation?"

"I hope so. I hope lots of people go, and I hope lots of people buy something."

"I hope so too. Say, this spaghetti was real good. Thanks," Jake said and stood up to clear the table.

"I bought some ice cream sandwiches, with crunchy things in the ice cream. Would you like one?"

"After the dishes," he said and picked up the plates and stacked them in the sink. "Why don't you go see what's on television, I'll get this."

"You know, I might just let you do that tonight. Thanks, Jake. I'll call you if something important comes on."

Important, Jake thought. His mom's idea of important television was whatever happened in the News.

"Call me when the Sports report comes on!" he yelled from the kitchen.

"Will do!" she yelled back.

Jake wondered about his dad, whether or not he had found himself. I wish he'd find his way back to us, he thought.

***

The day had remained bright, deep blue skies. Cooler weather was certainly on its way. The park, with its lush greenery, invited me to a bench. I looked over at the porcelain doll, and she seemed to be smiling at me, her painted eyes crinkling at the corners. I glanced back at my laptop. Decisions... I shut off the computer, grabbed a banana and the book of verses and stepped out into the real world.

There were only a few moms or nannies pushing strollers or with tots in tow, so I grabbed the nearest bench, peeled my banana and people-watched for a while. Had we all been that small? What goes through the mind of a two-year-old? Do they have formative thoughts? Do they really think? What guides their actions? Where do they get the energy? I watched as one ran around and around the merry-go-round, no obvious destination in mind. Another one twirled in circles until he fell to the ground dizzily. I remembered that game, but I was much older when I played it. What drove these little machines?

I opened the book of verses to a random page – Life...

Life is a waterfall, flowing through the mist,

It pushes pebbles swiftly along,

And it bangs and crashes heavier stones,

But the boulders just resist.

Was I a pebble? Was I a stone? Or was I a boulder? If I were a boulder, could I become a stone or a pebble? Would I want to be one? I wasn't sure. I had a feeling there was more to this little metaphoric simile than meets the eye. How difficult would it be to make an attitude change, I wondered. I'd have to work on that. I turned the page and read – Rocker... now this might explain things to me.

Back and forth I rock,

Going nowhere but back and forth

Against the clock, I rock,

Back and forth.

I hadn't thought about rockers in quite that way before. I closed the book and glanced up.

"Is it any good?" my tattered little friend asked. I hadn't noticed him arrive.

"Yes, actually, it makes sense. Would you like to hear it?"

"Okay, read on," he said.

After I had read Rocker to him, he smiled.

"Yeah, it does make sense," he said. "I like to rock, do you?"

"I did, but now I'm not sure I want to rock too much anymore. It's sort of a nowhere game, don't you think?"

"Yes, but sometimes you need to rock so you can think. You can put your thoughts in order and then you can stop rocking and move on."

"That's deep," I commented.

"I know," he said.

Well, I have to get back to work, I just stopped to 'rock' for a little while," I said.

"Yeah, okay, see ya," he said and turned toward the wooded area.

"See ya," I said and got up to go back to my room.

When I entered the hotel, the old grandfather clock ticked along. It was ten-forty. I grabbed my key and headed for the stairs.

"Oh, sir," the desk clerk said, "the elevators are working now."

"Thanks, but I prefer to climb," I said and began my ascent to my other world.

When I opened the door, the little porcelain doll greeted me with a painted smile. Magic, I thought, magic beyond the imagination. I sat down and opened up the laptop and waited for its notice that it was ready. Once it dinged, I placed my fingers on the keyboard. My old friends a, s, d, f, j, k, l, and ; were eager for me to work.

13

The Beginning

MY FINGERS FLEW across the keyboard, making cheerful clicking sounds as I typed away. The muse was with me, whispering in my ear – Write, write, write... so I wrote...

***

Chapter Zero Ten

At lunch the next day, Jake raced for the cafeteria before Sid could find him. He scanned the tables for the girl with the curly hair and big brown eyes. He felt a butterfly flip in his stomach when he saw her. He waved and headed her way.

"Is it okay if I sit here?" he asked, feeling the heat rise around his ears.

"Sure, Burger Boy, if you promise not to ask me to eat a hamburger," Melissa said.

"Don't worry, Salad Girl, I wouldn't dare."

Jake hung his backpack on the chair and sat down. His plate was filled with fries.

"Where's the burger?" she asked.

"Under here," Jake said as he pushed away a bunch of fries.

"Today it's actually a chicken burger," he said.

"It's still a burger," she said.

"Hey, Jake, where'd you go, man? I looked for you at the lockers," Sid's voice cut in. He looked over at Melissa and then back at Jake and paused expectantly. "Can I sit down?"

"Uh, hi, Sid. Yeah, sure, Sit down," Jake said and looked at Melissa, who was looking at Sid.

"Melissa, this is Sid; Sid, Melissa. She's a vegetarian."

"A what?" Sid asked.

"A vegetarian, Sid. You know, eats vegetables."

"My mom makes me eat vegetables, does that mean I'm a vegetarian?" he asked.

Jake rolled his eyes.

"Hi, Sid, it's nice to meet you," Melissa said and smiled, crinkling her big brown eyes.

"Nice to meet you too," he said. "So, you like vegetables?"

"Yes, it's a life choice," she said.

"Do the vegetables have a say in this?" he asked.

Melissa looked at Jake.

"Funny guy," she said.

"He tries to be," Jake said.

"I am funny," Sid said and made a face no one would wish for.

"Help him, please, someone help this guy!" Jake said, pointing at Sid.

"It's true, man; I'm gonna be a stand-up comedian when I grow up."

"Right, Sancho," Jake said and laughed.

"Sancho?" Melissa asked.

"Yeah, that's my stage name," Sid said. "My side-kick here is Jaime."

Melissa looked at Jake.

"Hiney?" she asked.

"No," Jake said. "HI ME. It's my name in Spanish class."

"Oh, that's a relief. I wouldn't want to have to call you Hiney in public," she said and laughed.

"Hey, she's pretty good, almost as good as me," said Sid.

"She takes French," said Jake.

"French? Ooh la la, a French chick, huh? Do you have a French name in your class?" Sid asked.

"Oui, je m'appelle Claudette," Melissa replied.

"Claudette? Why Claudette?" Jake asked.

"I just like the name," she said.

"That's as good a reason as any, I guess," said Jake.

"Well, the teacher said to pick a name we liked, and I picked Claudette. It sounds nicer than Melissa."

"Yeah, Melissa sounds like molasses," said Sid.

"Thanks, Sancho," said Melissa.

"You're welcome, Claudette."

When they had finished their lunch, Sid stood up and looked at the clock on the wall.

"Oh man, look at the time! Come on, Jake, we better get going. You don't want to get a dot, do you?"

"Heck no!"

Both boys grabbed their backpacks and stood up.

"A dot?" Melissa looked from one to the other.

"It's a long story; I'll explain it to you later," Jake said and raced out of the cafeteria with Sid.

***

I wrote all the way till one o'clock. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw the time. I glanced back at what I had written. I was impressed, it was impressive, but I didn't want to fall into the editing trap; I'd leave that for later, for someone else, but I knew it was good. I guess my little tattered friend was right, rocking, no matter which form it takes, helps us get our thoughts in order. I'd have to remind myself to rock every once in a while. I stood up and stretched. Then I decided to go to the diner. I wouldn't order anything too heavy, but I needed to feed my brain, so out I went.

The sky was a gorgeous cobalt blue with wisps of angel hair floating in the depths. Yes, the weather would be changing soon. I made it to the diner in no time flat. My baseball buddies had already left or perhaps they hadn't come for lunch, but I still grabbed a stool at the counter.

"What'll it be, hon?" Selma asked.

"I'll have a burger and a glass of iced tea," I said.

"You want fries with that?"

"Sure, why not, bring on the fries!"

Selma brought my tea.

"That burger will be right up," she said.

In a few minutes, she brought an oblong platter with an open-faced burger. On top of the burger was a big slice of onion and on the other side of the bun was some lettuce, a thick slice of tomato and a dill pickle. The fries were thin and crispy, just like I like them.

"Oh, boy, Selma, this is heaven," I said.

"If it isn't, it's close to it," she said and moved on to another customer.

By the time I finished my lunch, I was ready to go back and pound the keyboard. I asked for the bill, paid it, said my good-byes to Selma and crew and headed out the door.

Writing was so much a part of my life; I wondered how I could leave it, if indeed leaving it was possible. This I doubted. I would always write. It was the way I communicated with the world, whether or not the world responded was irrelevant. I needed to send out my message, and I hoped against hope that the world would receive it.

I reached the hotel in minutes and climbed the stairs to my room. Its four walls welcomed me cheerfully, knowing my purpose, aware of my challenge. So I sat and opened my laptop. Task at hand, I clicked on the cat's eye icon and waited. Soon the music that accompanies all laptops greeted me, and I knew I was ready to meet my challenge so I sat down to continue my literary journey, and the muse commanded me to write...

***

Chapter Zero Eleven

Jake and Sid ran down the halls till they reached Geography class, just before the last bell. They found their seats and breathed sighs of relief when they realized they had arrived on time and would not receive a dot.

Jake looked over at Sid on Row 5, Seat 3, and smiled. Sid smiled back.

"Claudette's a nice chick," he whispered.

"Yeah, I know," Jake answered.

He was only reiterating what he knew already, that Melissa was a nice person. He knew that. It was evident in the way she handled herself. All Jake wanted was to have a new friend, a friend that didn't come with too much baggage, one that liked him for who he was.

"When did you meet her?" Sid whispered.

"Yesterday, in the cafeteria," Jake whispered back.

"Yesterday?" Sid said louder than he should have.

Mr. Randolph's eyebrows got closer together and he wasn't smiling.

"Let's begin with a quick review of yesterday's terms," he said, eying Sid and Jake. "Sid, give us a definition of equator, please."

"Yes, sir, the equator is the big belt around the Earth."

"Does it have a buckle?" Mr. Randolph asked.

"No sir, it's an expandable waistband, it stretches over mountains and valleys, deserts and oceans."

"Is it horizontal or vertical?"

"Oh, it's horizontal, sir. If it were vertical, it'd be a suspender."

Mr. Randolph did not laugh, but the class did, so he let it pass.

"You don't say, and what would be the correct term for an earth's suspender then?"

"Oh, that'd be either a longitude or a meridian," Sid answered confidently.

"Well, which is it, longitude or meridian?" Mr. Randolph continued.

"They're pretty much the same thing, I think, but the main suspender is called the Prime Meridian."

"Let me ask you one more question, Sid."

"I'm ready, sir."

"Good, now given that there are many longitudes or meridians or suspenders like you call them, does the Earth have more belts, and if it does, what are they called?"

"Oh yes, sir, the Earth has more belts. They're actually like a bunch of bracelets up and down, above and below the big belt. They're called latitudes."

"Thank you, Sid, for your interesting insight on Geography. Your answers are a bit off the wall, but you obviously paid attention yesterday. Good."

Jake looked over at his friend and gave him a thumbs-up.

Sid put his right index finger in his right nostril and gave the victory sign with his other hand.

Jake had to bite his lips shut so as not to laugh out loud.

After the review, Mr. Randolph handed out the list of cities, this time each row got some other row's group of papers.

"For the next few minutes, you are going to double check the answers that are already there. If you find an incorrect answer, write the correct latitude and longitude and hemisphere on the same line next to the original answer. Do not cross out the incorrect one. When you finish checking and making any needed corrections, you will do the next set. Understood?"

Mr. Randolph was a creature of habit, so everyone nodded, and then he re-assigned new groups of cities to each row. He raised his right forefinger in the air and glanced around the classroom.

Jake saw Sid raise his right forefinger and point to his nose. Then Mr. Randolph lowered his finger.

"You may begin," he said.

Jake worked diligently. He had to correct two answers. Someone had gotten a longitude wrong on one answer and the hemisphere on another. How could anyone get the hemisphere wrong, Jake wondered. When he finished that part, he moved on to finding the locations of his assigned cities. He enjoyed the search. He finished before time and flipped through the pages of his book to look at the pictures in the history section. There was a drawing of how the Earth was made, or at least of how scientists thought the Earth was made. I wonder how they figured that out, Jake thought. Yes, he would like to be a geographer and travel the world. Then he thought about Sid's 'belt and suspender' theory and smiled to himself. Sid would be a great stand-up comedian, that's for sure.

Mr. Randolph called for their papers. Then he handed out sheets of paper that had little squares on them.

"Draw a simple compass rose on the bottom right of the page."

Once everyone had drawn the compass, Mr. Randolph instructed them to trace a dark line from north to south along the center of the page. Then they were to count over four squares and trace another line in the same direction.

"You have just drawn the street where you live. In your neatest handwriting, write the name of your street within the confines of the lines."

He waited till everyone looked up.

"Your assignment for tomorrow is..." he started to say.

Everyone groaned.

"Your assignment for tomorrow is to draw a rough map of the street where you live. Trace squares to represent buildings and label them. Work in pencil so you can erase if you have to. Anyone without a map tomorrow, gets a dot. Understood?"

The bell rang and Jake and Sid filed out of Geography class with the rest of the students. When they reached Spanish class, Melissa was waiting in the hall.

"Oh look, Hiney, there's Claudette!" Sid said and slapped his buddy on the back.

14

The Discovery

WHEN I STOPPED writing, it was five o'clock. I wanted to stop, but the muses wouldn't let me. I had to keep writing at all costs, but first I stretched my legs a bit. I paced around the room and did some squats and some push-always from the wall. Then I sat back down and resumed my task.

***

Chapter Zero Twelve

Jake couldn't believe what was happening. He raced to the bus stop after gym class. He knew that he was in love, but he didn't know what to do. The day had presented so many strange obstacles. It began with Sid in the cafeteria. Jake was jealous of the ease with which Sid had sat at the table and made himself comfortable. Though he knew that Sid understood that he liked Melissa, he wasn't sure if his friend considered her off limits. And Melissa's attitude troubled him also. She seemed to like Sid, to accept his weirdness. How could he compete with Sid, who was so funny, so humorous?

When he reached the line of buses, he found his and hopped on. Sid was sitting in a seat alone a few rows down the aisle. Jake knew he had to sit there. He slid into the seat and dumped his backpack on the floor.

"Long day," Jake commented.

"Yeah, longer than spaghetti," said Sid.

Jake laughed to himself. That was Sid, always funny, always looking for something weird to say.

They rode along in silence for a while until Sid shattered it with an observation.

"Claudette is a cute girl, but she's not my type," he said.

Jake looked over at his friend and smiled lamely.

"Whew, I'm glad," he said.

"But she's really funny!" Sid added.

"I know," Jake said.

"And she's pretty," added Sid.

"I know that too," said Jake.

"Good, I'm glad we got that cleared up," said Sid.

"Me too," said Jake.

By the time the boys reached their neighborhood, the air of friendship had covered them again, and nothing could destroy that atmosphere.

When the bus arrived at their stop, the two boys hopped off and headed for home.

"You want to shoot some hoops today?" Sid asked.

"Okay, maybe a few, but I can't stay too late. My mom's expecting me to be home early."

"Not to worry; the afternoon is young," said Sid and ran up the steps to his apartment to get the ball. They played until the sun had set and the streetlights pretended to be moonlight.

When Jake entered the house, his mom hadn't arrived yet so he locked the door behind him and dropped his backpack on the sofa. Then he went to the kitchen to check the fridge. There was a note on the container of left over spaghetti sauce – Don't touch the sauce! It's doomed to be lasagna tomorrow! The Fridge Fairy left you a sandwich on the second shelf, eat that instead!

Jake grabbed the sandwich – ham and cheese. He couldn't complain about that. His mom knew what he liked. Ham and cheese was his favorite kind of sandwich, especially if it had mayo and a slice of tomato next to the mayo side of the bread, and this one did. He poured himself a glass of milk and carried it all to the sofa. He switched on the television and flipped the channels until he found the Sports news.

He heard his mom's footsteps on the sidewalk and then on the porch. He hopped off the sofa and opened the door before she could put the key in the lock.

"Hi mom," he said and took the bag she was carrying and brought it to the kitchen.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked as she took off her shoes and put on her flip-flops.

"It's the way you walk," he said. "Hey, thanks for the sandwich."

"You're welcome, but it's not me you have to thank. The Fridge Fairy likes you so you ought to thank her."

"I just did," he said and started to unpack the bag.

"Do you have a lot of homework?"

"Nah, I have to draw a map of a street for Geography. I'll do it in a minute."

"That sounds like fun," she said and pulled out lettuce and a tomato to make a salad.

"What did you have for lunch at school?"

"A burger, it was pretty good for being a chicken burger. What did you have?"

"Hmm, let me see... I had a banana and some yogurt."

"No wonder you're so skinny, mom. You gotta eat real food."

"A banana is real food and so is yogurt, young man."

Jake grimaced.

"Don't make a face. Yogurt is good for you."

Then he crossed his eyes and grimaced.

"The North wind will blow and you will stay that way forever," she warned.

"Mom, the North wind doesn't blow around here."

"It doesn't?" she asked.

"All we get in this town is a lot of hot air and rain."

"I like the rain, don't you?"

"Mom, you like everything. I'm not too fond of the rain. It makes mud."

"Mud is not bad," she said, "especially if it's served as a pie."

"See what I mean?"

"I can see that this conversation is going nowhere. Why don't you draw that map?"

"Okay," Jake said and retrieved his backpack from the sofa. He pulled out the page with the squares and sat at the kitchen table. As he worked, he went beyond the simple instructions that Mr. Randolph had given them. He drew side streets and alleyways and street signs. His buildings weren't just traced squares either. He gave them depth, height and perspective. When he finished, he put his pencil down.

"Can I see it?" his mom asked.

"Sure," he said and slid the paper over to her side of the table.

"Whoa, Jake, that is really nice. Can you add color?"

"No, Mr. Randolph said to use pencil only."

"Well, it's really nice. I'd like to live on a street like that."

"You do."

"I do? Is this our street? But where's the mud?"

"I could add some rain and some puddles," he said and picked up his pencil.

"No, don't do that. I like it just the way it is," she said and smiled.

"I hope Mr. Randolph does."

***

When I looked up, it was almost seven o'clock. I wasn't terribly hungry, the burger and fries at the diner had taken care of that, but I needed a break. I'd take a chance and go to the art presentation at the gallery. Wine and cheese and chitchat among strangers – why not? I checked my decision with the little porcelain doll. She seemed to nod at me from her seat on the windowsill, so I saved my work and shut down the laptop.

The little butterflies on the gallery door greeted me, and I entered the world of art, at least what some people call art. It was elbowroom only. I saw the skinny redhead talking to someone next to the water lilies. When she saw me, she waved and smiled. I painted a smile on my face and waved back. I milled about between the patrons. A boy about thirteen passed by carrying a tray with hors d'oeuvres. He stopped and offered it to me.

"Thank you," I said.

"The ones with the sausage in the middle are the best," he said.

"Really? Well, I guess I better try one then," I said and popped one in my mouth.

He stood there and waited till I finished chewing.

"Well, how was it?" he asked.

"Pretty good."

"Yeah, they're my favorites, but the ham and cheese ones aren't bad either."

I picked up a couple of ham and cheeses and another sausage.

"Thanks," I said.

"You're welcome," he said and moved on through the crowd.

Then an older waiter passed with a tray of glasses filled with red or white wine and some with sodas.

"Would you like something to drink, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you," I said and picked up a glass of red wine.

"You made it!" the redhead said from behind. "I'm so glad you decided to come."

She sounded sincere.

"Yeah, well, it sure looks like this is the place to be. Nice turnout."

"Don't tell anyone, but I think they're here for the food," she said and winked.

"Let's hope not, but if I'd have known about those sausage rolls, I wouldn't have had such a big lunch."

"Yes, those are my son Jake's favorite."

"Your son?" I asked.

"The redhead with the tray of food. He and his buddy Sid begged me to play waiters tonight. They're the ones here for the food."

"I thought he looked a bit young to be a waiter."

"Yes, he's thirteen, going on forty."

"Well, he did give me good advice about the sausage," I said.

"That's his friend Sid over there, the one with the dark hair."

I glanced in the direction she pointed. A brown head floated among the guests.

"You're lucky to have such enthusiastic help," I said.

"Yes, I know."

"Excuse me, but could you come over for a minute? I'd like you to explain the glass technique to my friend over there," an older woman asked.

"Oh, certainly, I'll be right there," she said and looked at me apologetically.

"Go, I'll keep my fingers crossed that she buys something."

"Thanks, look, I'm really glad you came, please enjoy yourself. If you need anything, talk to Jake or Sid," she said and weaved her way to the couple by the water lilies.

"Yes, of course, I will, thank you."

I watched her from afar. As she spoke, she moved her hands expressively, and her face glowed with enthusiasm. That's when it dawned on me that she was the stained glass artist. I tried to recall what she had said when I left the gallery on Monday. I had come into the gallery on a lark, and then the rainstorm kept me there longer than I would have stayed. When I left she had invited me to the presentation and given me a card. Then she said something like 'the artist will be here.' So now I knew – she was the artist. She had done the water lilies. I felt a rock of relief roll away from my mind. I had said that the water lilies were my favorite. I hadn't lied; it was by far the best piece in the gallery. There were other artists present, but their work paled in comparison.

"Would you like some more wine, sir?" the older waiter asked me.

"Yes, thanks," I said and placed my empty glass on his tray.

As he poured the wine, I saw someone put a red dot on the card next to the lilies. It had sold. Someone had bought it. Of course, I was glad for the redhead, but at the same time I felt sorry that I hadn't done so. I didn't even know her name to be able to say congratulations.

I tarried a bit longer and decided it was time to leave. Though the sausage rolls were tasty, I didn't want to be the last one out the door. I caught her eye and waved good-bye. Then I gave a thumbs-up and mouthed the word congratulations. She smiled back and said thank you.

The little butterflies on the gallery door jingled a merry good-bye as I stepped out into the cool night air. When I entered the hotel, the old grandfather clock in the lobby double gonged nine o'clock. Early for a Friday night, I felt like going back out for a stroll, but I resisted the temptation and headed up to my room. The porcelain doll looked pleased that I was back. I nodded to her in salute. I wasn't tired so I sat down to write a bit more.

I'd call Margaret in the morning and invite her out to lunch at the diner.

15

The Meeting

THOUGH I HAD typed late into the night, the sun was barely in the sky when I awoke, and on the other end the moon faded into the bluing dawn. I had once read that seeing both the sun and the moon in the sky was a good portent. I glanced at the porcelain doll. Magic beyond the imagination, well, little friend, I thought, let's see what today brings.

It was too early for breakfast, so I decided to take a walk through the park until the restaurant opened at seven. I brought the little book of verses with me. It had become my reading companion this week.

As I left the hotel, I breathed in the crisp morning air. The park was deserted so I could pick any bench I wanted. I chose one near the merry-go-round. I leaned back onto its cool, damp cement and opened the little tome.

Letters

Twenty-six scribbles

Assorted on a page

Multiplied a thousand times

Can last for an age.

This was all I needed to read. It's not about putting letters on a page at random; but rather it's how you put them together, all implied in the three-letter word CAN. I wanted to write something that would last for an age, that would endure, something that would touch people's hearts.

I turned back to the title page and read the inscription again – E = M3. When I had first read it, I thought it was only a young girl's parody on Einstein's theory of relativity, but now I wasn't so sure. What did the E stand for? Or perhaps who did it stand for? My father's middle name was Edward. Could it have been him? Or did it represent a word? I would never know.

The next poem was entitled Challenge...

Challenge,

Rungless ladder in the middle,

No easy climb

To figure out the riddle.

Well, I couldn't agree with her more. Easy come; easy go. If it's too easy, it's no challenge. How many times had I heard her say that?

"Is it any good?" the all too familiar voice of my tattered friend intruded into my thoughts.

"Actually, yes it is, but it's not funny."

"You mean it's not like Watermelon and Beetles?" he asked.

"No, it's pretty serious stuff."

"Can I hear it?" he asked.

I read the four simple lines to him.

"What's a rungless ladder?" he asked.

"It's in the word challenge; the double l's look like a ladder, but without rungs."

"Oh, I see. Hmph, that's pretty clever, but you're right; it's not funny."

"Yes, I agree." I said and closed the book.

"You're not going to read anymore?" he asked.

"No, not right now. I have to..."

"Yeah, I know, you have work to do, right?"

"Actually, I was going to say that I have some loose ends to tie up."

"Will you be here later?"

"Maybe, I'm not sure."

"Okay, well, if you do come back, bring your little book. I'd like to hear some more poems," he said and walked toward the wooded area without saying good-bye.

"See ya," I said.

He didn't answer as he disappeared among the trees.

So he wanted to hear some more poems, I thought. I guess the little verses weren't so lame. Even if you reach just one person, the effects can ripple through the universe and ripple back to you.

I left the park and headed back to the hotel. It was nearly seven o'clock so I sat in the lobby for a few minutes and read through a copy of the local weekly paper that someone had left on the coffee table. Old news, I thought, more like history already. I flipped through the sections; there were only three. My eyes skimmed the photographs to see if there were any familiar faces I might recognize. In the cultural section, there was a brief interview of the redhead at the art gallery. I would never have guessed that her name was Louise! I wondered if she liked her name. Then I flipped to the classifieds. There were several autos for sale, quite a few apartments available, one in a neighborhood near where I had grown up. Then my eyes fell on the Help Wanted list, and that's when I spotted it. A black rectangle about twice the size of a business card announced a position for an editor of a local news magazine – The Carousel. According to the qualifications, I was a perfect fit. I had the experience and the know-how. There was an email for sending in your résumé. I was tempted. Was this the change I was looking for? Was this the challenge I needed? It certainly wouldn't be like writing technical financial reports, that's for sure.

The grandfather clock double gonged seven o'clock. I decided I would think about it over breakfast and stood up and folded the newspaper under my arm.

I was the first person to enter the hotel restaurant and took a seat at the table by the patio window. I placed the newspaper and the book of verses on the chair next to me. I would eat light this morning. I felt nervous; butterflies battled in my stomach. Why was I nervous? I had promised myself that I would call Margaret, and I would do that, but this feeling was more than just an encounter with my sister, though that could be a daunting task. No, it was the thrill of applying for a new job. If I didn't get it, I still had my old boring one with the financial magazine. But what if I did get the job? I'd have to move back here, and that was the crux of my emotional tremors. Could I move back? Did I want to move back? I'd send the email and let fate decide.

"Good morning, sir. Would you like some coffee?" the waiter brought me back to the present.

"Yes, please, cream on the side, no sugar."

When he returned with the coffee, I ordered.

"I'll have the eggs and bacon this morning with the whole wheat toast."

"Very good, sir. How would you like your eggs?"

"Fried crispy, once over lightly."

The waiter left to place the order, and I gazed out the window. The patio had taken on a new look. The ferns seemed healthier, probably because of all the rain during the week. I wondered how they would fair through the winter. Perhaps I could pass by and check on them if I got that job, I thought, and the butterflies did battle again. When the waiter brought my breakfast, I welcomed the distraction.

It was seven-thirty when I finished eating, still too early to call Margaret, I thought, so I climbed the stairs to my room. The little porcelain doll greeted me from the windowsill. Magic, I thought, magic beyond the imagination. I'd write my résumé and send it to the magazine. So I opened up the laptop and hit the 'on' button.

Twenty minutes later, the résumé was complete, or as complete as I wanted it to be – one page reflected my life and projected my hope for change. I knew that if I tarried too long, I wouldn't send it, so I logged on and filled in the email address. I filled in the subject bar, wrote a brief message, attached my résumé and paused – one quick review for a type-o before I hit send. I opened up my résumé and checked that again for any errors. I started from the bottom and moved my eyes up line-by-line and read backward, letter-by-letter, and word-by-word. Then I read it from the top to the bottom the same way – all part of the work of an editor. Then I looked over at the porcelain doll.

"Here's to magic," I said and hit the send button, and my résumé flew like a paper airplane on the wind. It was gone.

It was still a bit early to call Margaret, but this might be my last chance to see her before I left the next day. So I turned on my cell phone and marked her number before I talked myself out of calling her all together.

"Hello Margaret? ... Yes, it's me... Did I wake you?... Oh good... Yes, I know it's a miracle, but I just wanted to hear your voice... No, I'm not on drugs... Really, actually, I just got into town, but I leave tomorrow, and I'd like to take you out to lunch. Are you free? Can you meet me?... Oh great! Yes, well, look there's this little diner on West Main, right across from the park... Oh, you know it?... Can you meet me there?... Great, say around 11:30 then. I'll save a booth for us. See you then.... Right, bye-bye."

I felt a warm sense of relief, and a burden lifted from my shoulders. Margaret actually sounded happy to hear my voice. She was my younger sister and the only real family I had. I found myself looking forward to seeing her again. What would I tell her? I decided I'd play that by ear. In the meantime, there were three hours to fill, and I would fill them by writing.

***

Chapter Zero Thirteen

Louise unlocked the front door and stepped aside for Jake to enter the house. He carried the box with the leftover hors-d'oeuvres and placed it on the kitchen table.

"You and Sid did a super job tonight, Jake. I'm so proud of you."

"You told me that about a gajillion times already, mom."

"I know, Jake, but it's true. I couldn't have done it without you and Sid, even if you did eat most of the sausage rolls," she said and laughed.

"I don't think those people were there for the food, Mom."

"You'd be surprised, but at least some people ate and bought. I can't believe I sold the big one – the Water Lilies."

"Why not? It's a pretty picture, even if it is in glass."

"Yes, it is," she sighed. "Now it's time for us to get some shut-eye, young man."

"I'm glad tomorrow is Saturday," he said.

Go on, now, I'll put this away," she said and kissed her son on the forehead.

***

I read over what I had written and realized that this was not exactly the way I had envisioned the plot of Jake's story. All of a sudden, I was focused on his mother. She had captured my attention. She had the creative spirit of an artist and the heart of an angel, and I wanted someone like her in my life. I wondered, however, about her absent husband. Would he return to claim his kingdom? If Jake had his way, he would; but I wasn't sure about how Louise felt about it. She needed to succeed, and if I could help her do that, I would, come Hell or high water. And if Jake's father returned, I might be out of the picture – not a happy thought, but what could I do to remedy the dilemma?

I looked at the clock on my laptop. It was ten-fifteen. Could I fix things before eleven-thirty? I glanced at the porcelain doll, and she seemed to nod at me in approval, so I launched headlong into the task at hand. My future depended on what I wrote.

***

Chapter Zero Thirteen continued

The sun blazed into Jake's room on Saturday morning. It was either get up or fry, so Jake got up. He had slept heavily, knowing that today brought no worries, but he didn't want to lose any part of this day. He felt that he was alive, that it didn't matter whether his father found himself. He knew that he, Jake, knew who he was and where he was going, and that if his dad wanted to be part of his future, then he would have to adhere to his mom's and his agenda. If not, well, then that would be his dad's choice.

16

The Face Off

WHEN I STOPPED writing, it was a quarter past eleven in the morning, but before I shut down everything, I checked my emails to see if I had received a response from the local magazine. There was nothing yet so I turned off my laptop. I picked up the book of verses, and then I looked over at the porcelain doll. She seemed to beg me to take her along, so I packed her in the little bag with the rope strings and slipped the bag along my wrist.

The streets were crowded with Saturday shoppers, but I made it to the diner quickly. When I entered, Selma waved to me from behind the counter. I pointed to the booth near the window, and she smiled and nodded back. I slipped into the booth and waited. It was 11:25. The little bells on the diner door sounded and I looked up to see a younger version of my mother. I smiled and waved to Margaret. We hugged, the human touch, the feeling of belonging to something that is greater than our tiny world swept over me.

"How are you, Margaret? You look great," I said as we slipped back into the booth.

"I'm just fine, what about you, Mr. Tough Guy?" she asked and leaned over and pinched my arm. "What brought you here? Why such a short visit? Can't you stay longer?"

I looked into my sister's eyes. I saw no mockery in them and decided to tell her the truth. That would be easier to remember than building a fib whose details I probably would forget and confuse. And Margaret would know that I was lying.

"Actually, Margaret, I took a week's vacation and came here to get away from the humdrum of my job."

Her face revealed only a moment's surprise.

"You've been here a week, and you only called me this morning? Thanks for fitting me into your tight schedule," she chided.

"It's not like I haven't wanted to call you, I have. It's just that I needed time to think and get my head on straight."

At that moment, Selma approached.

"Would you like to order, hon?" she asked in her sweetest tone. She looked over at Margaret questioningly.

"Yes, let me see," Margaret said and picked up the menu card.

"I can vouch for the lentil soup," I offered.

"I'll have a club sandwich and a glass of iced tea," said Margaret.

"And you, hon?" she asked me.

"I'll have the same," I said.

"I'll have that for you in a jiffy," Selma said and departed.

"What's wrong with your job?" Margaret asked once Selma was out of range. "I thought you were doing what you always wanted to do – write."

"Yes, I am writing, but it's not the kind of writing I love to do," I admitted.

"Then why are you doing it?" she asked.

"Because it pays the bills," I said.

"You've been writing for that magazine a long time," she said.

"Yes, too long. I could write those reports in my sleep. In fact, I think I do!" I said and laughed.

"So what have you decided to do?" she asked.

"I'm thinking of quitting, and..." I paused, trying to decide just how much I should tell Margaret.

"And?" she asked.

"And I've applied for a job here," I said, almost in a whisper.

"What? Here? Where? Doing what?" she asked.

"Yes, here, it's an editor's position for a local magazine, The Carousel."

"You're kidding," she said.

"I couldn't be more serious."

"You'd move back?" she asked. "I thought this place was too small for you."

"I would, if I get the job, but I only applied for it a couple of hours ago, so hopefully I'll hear something soon."

"But you're still leaving tomorrow?"

"Oh yes, I have to. I can't burn my bridges, just in case."

"This is so unlike you," Margaret said.

"Yes, I know, but I feel I need a change in my life. I've been unhappy in my job for a long time, but lethargy has kept me from doing anything about it."

Margaret smiled.

"I hope you get the job," she said and put her hand over mine.

"Me too," I said and smiled back.

Selma arrived with our iced tea and headed back to the counter to pick up our sandwiches.

"Here you go," she said as she placed the platters in front of us.

"Oh, this looks good," I said.

"If you need anything else, just holler."

"Will do," I said.

Once she had left, I turned back to face Margaret.

"Now that we know all about my life change, what about you?" I asked.

"Well, since we're confessing, I might as well tell you my big secret, too."

"What secret?" I asked.

"I was going to send you an invitation."

"An invitation?"

"To my wedding," she said.

"You're getting married?"

"Don't look so shocked," she said.

"Oh, I'm not shocked, just surprised. Who's the lucky guy?"

"His name is Bill. He's a widower. He moved here a couple of years ago. He runs a small bookstore on West Main – Books and Treasures."

"I've been in that bookstore," I said.

"You have?"

"Yes, does Bill have grey hair and wear bifocals on the end of his nose?"

"Yes, he does," she said and laughed.

"How did you meet him?"

"When the store first opened, he hosted a reception, and I attended. I won't say it was love at first sight, but we went out a few times for coffee, and one thing led to another."

"That's really great, Margaret. I'm happy for you. When are you getting married?"

"In November – November 30, to be exact, nothing fancy, just a civil ceremony, but I would so like for you to be there."

"I'll make it a top priority."

"What's in the little bag?" she asked.

"Oh, just a curious little porcelain doll I bought in a shop nearby. Normally I wouldn't do such a thing, but the card on her wrist caught my eye," I said and gently took the doll out of the bag and handed it to Margaret.

"What a beautiful doll," she said.

"Read the card."

"Magic beyond the imagination," she read and looked at me curiously.

"I know, it's not like me at all, but truly, this whole week has been an odd one. I've done so many things that I wouldn't normally do, and some strange things have happened, and I don't think they were coincidental either."

"Like what?" she asked.

"Like when I visited the bookstore, I found a tiny book of verses. I think it was written by mom," I said and placed my copy on the table.

Margaret sat silent for a moment. When she spoke, her voice trembled.

"A few weeks ago, during one of my visits to the store, Bill showed me a tiny book of verses he had acquired at a closing," she whispered. "I should have told you about it right away, but I got busy and forgot about it. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Don't worry about it."

"I had no idea she wrote."

"Nor I, but why didn't she tell us? Why the big secret? And why on earth didn't she want me to be a writer?"

"I don't know, but is that important anymore? At least we both have become what we wanted to be," she said.

"I suppose you're right, and we'll never know for certain how different things could have been. Perhaps if she had encouraged me to be a writer, I wouldn't have been so determined."

"And you would have been miserable for the rest of your life," she said and handed the doll back to me.

"No, you keep her. If I need her magic, I'll go visit you."

"Thank you. I will treasure her."

Selma came to the table.

"Everything okay here, hon?" she asked. "Can I get you something else?"

"Nothing for me," said Margaret. "The sandwich was delicious."

"Nothing for me either. Thanks, Selma."

"You're welcome, hon," she said and smiled at Margaret.

I paid the bill and we left the diner.

"Do you have time to visit the bookstore? I'd like to introduce you to Bill, officially."

"Of course," I said, "I'd like that."

As we walked along West Main, I glanced toward the park. It was filled with children. Their innocent laughter carried me along, and I was light of heart. Later I would finish that challenge.

When Margaret and I entered the bookstore, Bill came around the counter to meet her. A light of recognition fell across his eyes when he looked from her to me.

"Bill, this is my brother. The 'tough guy' I told you about."

"Nice to meet you at last. Margaret has told me so much about you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," I said.

"All good, I assure you."

"Yes, I bet," I said and winked at Margaret.

We chatted for a while, and I left them to return to my task, but we agreed to have dinner later that evening.

When I reached the hotel, the grandfather clock double gonged three o'clock. I would write until seven and meet them at a restaurant downtown.

I glanced out the window. The park beckoned me, but first I would finish my task. I fired up my laptop, and my fingers began to fly across the keyboard. My life and my future depended solely on what I wrote...

Fin

The Author

PAT ALVARADO is a native of Abbeville, Louisiana, where swamps and bayous reign; but it is in Panama, the tropical paradise, where she lives with her husband and her cat.

Connect with me online:

Other Works by Pat Alvarado

Convicted at Six

Lost in Cognito

Recess Revolution

Albert the Harpy Eagle

Babble On

Candy the Generous Cockroach

Early Birders

Enrico the Barnyard Alarm Clock

Epic Flight

First and Fast!

Freddy Swims Like a Fish

Ho Choy Finds a Treasure

It's My House!

Pablo Parakeet and His Friends

Petal and the Pot

Plagon the Dragon

Pot Luck

Proud to be a Toad

Sam Sees the Light

The Iron Necklace

The Little Rainbow Princess

The Shadeless Kingdom

The Ship that Opened the Panama Canal

The Tragedy of Little Plastic Cup

Timothy Trashcan

The Adventures of William Worm Series

William Worm and the Great Flood

William Worm goes fishing

William Worm and the War of a Thousand Leaves

William Worm - Earthnaut

William Worm falls in love

William Worm meets the virus

William Worm meets the crow

William Worm takes a day off

William Worm goes to the beach

William Worm meets the cricket

William Worm saves the Canal

William Worm - Unplugged!

William Worm Hits Pay Dirt

The Adventures of William Worm Comic

