 
SPIN THE PLATE

A Novel

Donna Anastasi
Copyright (c) 2013 by Donna Anastasi

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

Expanded and Revised

Smashwords Edition

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Spin the Plate: A Novel

Cover Design and Artwork by Tobias Allen

Referenced and credited music:

Neil Diamond – _Sweet Caroline_ – 1969

Billy Joel – _The Longest Time_ – 1984

Enrique Iglesias – _Hero_ – 2002
TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1: Ink Angel

CHAPTER 2: Dual Lives

CHAPTER 3: First Date

CHAPTER 4: Meet the Parents

CHAPTER 5: Crusades

CHAPTER 6: The Sentence

CHAPTER 7: Lazy Sundays

CHAPTER 8: Conversion

CHAPTER 9: Confession

CHAPTER 10: The Dream

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEGEMENTS
I am grateful for –

The Inspiration for this book;

Tom Anastasi, who filled in the blanks; and Ellen Bellini, Libby Hanna, and

Janet Morrow for sharing their stories.

# CHAPTER 1: Ink Angel

Jo boarded the Green Line subway train D at Newton Highlands, heading into Boston's Back Bay. With the lunchtime rush, seats were scarce. She spied the last two available and beat a man in a pressed suit by one step, taking them both. He stood, facing her. He grabbed the rail above him, sighed emphatically, and gazed over her head out the window. He let out another heavy sigh, and with a deepening frown, fixed a too-long stare in Jo's direction, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He was clearly tired of standing and even more clearly annoyed at having lost his seat to her.

_What a prick,_ she thought.

Without giving him a second thought, Jo shifted her attention to the rattling of metal wheels on metal track and the swaying of the train's car. A live conductor's voice and thick Boston accent announcing each upcoming stop had been replaced years before by a primetime anchorman-sounding recording. The recording sounded to Jo like a foreigner who used the proper pronunciation rather than the local dialect. She always thought of the station names the way she'd grown up hearing them. In her head she still imagined the stations being called out with the first syllable shouted and held for three beats and the "Rs" at the end of words replaced by "Ah." NEWton Centah, RESevwah, CHESTnut Hill...

"Next stop...LONGwood," boomed over the sound system. Just five more stops to Arlington Station. The train ground to a halt, but no one got off. Half a dozen newcomers entered, the doors closed, and the passengers found their spots as the train lurched forward. With no seats vacated, the man in the suit remained standing and shifted his weight from his right to his left leg.

"Dyke," he muttered just loud enough for Jo to hear.

In an instant she was up on her feet, transforming herself from some fat lady into a female version of an NFL linebacker: very big, extremely strong, and surprisingly fast. She weighed 257 pounds and stood 5' 11" in her Chippewa hikers. She wore a flannel shirt—burnt orange with black checks—and denim overalls. In an inner pocket, nestled in the slight dip at her right hip bone and easily accessible from the bib of her overalls, she carried a Beretta 9mm Classic with ten live rounds. The gun was always with her; she reached in and touched it.

"Fuck you," she said.

She stared into the man's widening eyes and watched him lower his gaze. He turned away, weaved through the crowd, and headed for the exit. Jo continued to glare in his direction and caught him as he furtively double-checked her size from the corner of his eye. The swift glance shot her way and the blush in his cheeks made her acutely aware of the emasculation he felt and filled Jo with the sensation of power over him. He quickened his pace toward his escape, brushing against the people in his path. The man reached the threshold and gripped the side pole until his knuckle blanched. He stood staring intently at the doors, waiting for them to open. The train stopped at Fenway Station, and as soon as the accordion doors began to unfold, he bolted through them. As the train pulled away, the man leaned against the tile wall. Jo saw his cheeks fill with air and watched his chest fall as he exhaled deeply, his eyes closed. It was a valuable lesson on keeping your mouth shut on the Boston T.

Jo grinned inside and enjoyed the rush of winning once again. Outwardly, though, she exhibited her "fuck off" look. She had long ago trained herself to show no emotion other than an unchanging, distant expression with a hint of menace. Surveying fellow passengers, she noticed with some satisfaction the lowered heads and averted eyes intent on newspapers or on some crud ground into the floor.

Jo was pleased; she'd pulled off both her "fat chick" and "psycho lesbian" personas in one interaction. She invested much energy in keeping men at bay, and those were two favorites in her repertoire. Though she was much more comfortable around women than men, she wasn't gay. Asexual would be a more accurate term. This little incident, like so many others, was orchestrated simply to hone her anti-social skills.

Her cell phone rang. She looked at the display, and then answered.

"Hey Keisha," she said, "Yeah, I'm running late. I'll be at IA in about a half hour." She pushed the "End" button.

"Shit," she said, hoping to prolong the uneasiness of the commuters surrounding her.

Settling back into her seat, Jo glanced across the aisle and for the first time noticed a wiry man who looked youthful but was probably in his thirties sitting across from her. He had dark hazel eyes, olive skin, and curly hair the color of rich soil. The ridges of his sandy-toned corduroy pants were worn. His retro-Nike sneakers were white, scuffed leather with a green swish. Around his neck was a hemp string knotted every three inches with a three-inch simple wooden cross at the end. She pegged him for a graduate student because along with the Freegan appearance, he also had a copy of that day's _Wall Street Journal_. He probably attended Boston University or Brandeis.

With an amused look, the man searched her face. He seemed to see right through the façade, as if she wore a broad smile and he shared in the joke.

She glared at him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

His gaze and the hint of a smile remained steady.

"Jesus loves you, you know," he blurted.

She stared at him a little less fiercely, shaking her head slowly. She hoped he would dare to challenge her. She waited for him to question her faith, character, or morals or otherwise provoke her. She felt the blood rush to her extremities as she prepared to unleash a string of profanities that would knock the grin from his face and shock him to the core. His smile grew. He looked upward absently as if lost in a pleasant memory. Apparently he had nothing more to say.

The train groaned and settled to a halt. "Arlington" came over the loudspeaker. This was her stop.

_Jesus freak,_ Jo thought as she exited the train.

The walk from the station was the roughest stretch in Jo's day. Normally, she'd stick to the main thorough-fare for the distraction afforded by the jostling crowds: clumps of women in suits and lunch-hour sneakers, shoppers, theater-goers, and the occasional homeless guy. She'd take either Arlington or Charles Street to Beacon and then follow one of the "nut" side streets to get to work. But she was late, so instead she cut through the Public Garden right past the Swan Boats. The park was empty except for a small cluster of pre-school children, a few moms hovering nearby, and an older man on a bench nibbling a bologna sandwich.

Jo knew she must avoid downtime. When her mind was allowed to wander, it roamed to dangerous places. To distract herself she focused her thoughts on her physical strength, her weight, and the rigorous regimen she followed to maintain both. She cultivated a layer of fat, for protection, around a muscular build. She ate and trained following the practices of Sumo wrestlers. Loose-fitting clothing completed the illusion of obesity, though she was in top health and extremely strong.

She enjoyed using her power to hurt men who deserved it. The rush was all the better when it came with an element of surprise. She never tired of seeing that look of bewilderment mixed with pain when she smashed her fist into a man's face. They never saw it coming.

Jo found herself relaxing in the warmth of the approaching afternoon, surrounded by the smell of turning leaves in the air and the squeals of laughter from children in an impromptu game of tag. As her mind strayed, she wondered desperately, _Why can't I be like everyone else and be blessed with repressed memories?_ The images, the pain, every emotion was raw and fresh—time had done nothing to dull the wounds inflicted more than a dozen years before.

She could still recall each event as though it were a television series rerun. Today, episode 62 played in her head: _"The Dollhouse." This one starts out with a little girl sitting on her bed combing light caramel curls with a cherrywood-handled brush and comb and mirror set her Daddy had given her a few weeks before. She pulls down a banana curl with the brush and watches it bounce back up in the hand mirror. She examines her face critically, looking hard into her chocolate brown eyes framed by long lashes. She looks up from the mirror as Daddy strolls into her bedroom with a huge, bright pink dollhouse stretched across his open arms. He turns to balance it on one arm and a knee, locking the door behind him._

A moment later, Mommy raps on the door and says, "Juliana are you in there?"

He bellows at the closed door, "Do you want me to come out?" and Mommy scurries away. As he turns back around, a scowl melts into an excited grin. He sits on the floor and shows her all the features of the doll house. "See the closet door and the little dresser drawers that really open." She hopes faintly that he's come to play dolls with her. He says to her, "Daddy has given you a wonderful gift, and now..."

Jo finally reached work at 12:45—fifteen minutes before the upscale shop, where she worked as a tattoo artist, opened. It was a two-woman operation called Ink Angels, owned by Lakeisha Thomas, with whom Jo had worked for over five years. Lakeisha was a stunning black woman who barely reached five foot two in her three-inch heels. As one customer put it, "even her curves had curves." Jo wasn't sure what that meant, but the phrase always came to mind whenever she gazed at Lakeisha's large, shapely butt or boobs.

Keisha got Jo. The two women had clicked from the moment Jo wandered into the shop years before in response to a sign in the window advertising help wanted doing clean up and prep.

Keisha had three lumbering sons at home. Her husband worked the night shift at Boston Memorial for 12 hours every evening. So it was up to her to make sure homework and household chores got done and to keep their boys in line and out of trouble. Though Jo was a woman in her twenties, her outward display of bravado with any sign of vulnerability kept tightly under wraps sometimes prompted Keisha to tell her, "You make me feel right at home." To which Jo would stomp away in a huff making Keisha smile with her eyes.

Keisha was already inside. Jo tried the door; it was locked, so she opened it with her key. Jo walked in, still fueled with adrenaline over the train incident and agitated over the memory that had invaded her thoughts in the park.

"Good morning," Keisha greeted her.

"Fucking prick," Jo blurted out.

"Go on," Keisha said.

"This goddamn clone called me a dyke on the train," Jo complained.

"You know you wanted him to think that," Keisha returned.

Jo tried her bad look on Keisha. Keisha would have none of it.

"No, no, no. You're not going to give me your 'fuck off' look. Not today, sweetie. Now you go back outside and let's try this again. I don't have time for the 'I hate the world' shit today. Yea, he was a prick for noticing how butch you decided to get, but give me a break. We've got a lot of customers today, and I do not have time for this. So go."

Jo relented, but only because it was Keisha, plus it gave her permission to end the adrenaline rush. Jo went outside, gulped three deep breathes, and then a fourth, before going back in.

"Good morning," Keisha said glowingly.

Silence.

"Good morning, Jo," Keisha repeated with renewed enthusiasm, "And how are you this wonderful day?"

"Fine," Jo returned.

"Okay then. Your first client is coming in right at one," Keisha informed her, shifting into business mode. "She wants a tramp stamp."

Jo calculated. "Should take about an hour and a half. Is she a virgin?" Virgin was tattoo shop talk for someone getting a first tattoo.

"Let me check," Keisha flipped open the appointment book. "I don't know. Her name is Lauren Greene. A white girl from the suburbs."

Jo went to the treatment area and arranged her ink and needles. The shop had a public waiting area and a more private back room where the tattoos were inked. There was also what Keisha called the employee break room, which was the size of a walk-in closet and windowless. The public area had walls lined with different designs. The left side was geared toward men, the right to women, and in the center were gender-neutral options. On the counter there was a cash register and credit card machine, as well as several books displaying more designs and a photo album of smiling, wet-eyed Ink Angels clients showing off their new looks.

Behind the counter were framed copies of their state licenses and a sign that read, "You must be 18. No exceptions. State-issued Driver's License, Passport, or Military ID needed."

The ringing bells on the door could be heard from the back room. Two women walked in. One introduced herself to Keisha as Lauren; Jo recognized the voice of the other woman. It was Deidra, one of her regular customers. Jo could hear Lauren as she proudly showed-off a small seagull tattoo and told Keisha she wanted a more elaborate design on her lower back. Keisha sent the two women into the back room.

"Hey, Jo," Deidra said.

Jo gave a neutral look.

Deidra was a talker. Jo knew, among other things, that the woman was thirty-seven years old and worked as an office manager at Fidelity Investment Services in the financial district near the sixty-story, antennae-topped landmark Hancock Center. Her co-workers considered her to be straight-laced. They had no idea that she frequented bars in Framingham, an urban suburb west of Boston, and hooked up with whatever guy looked tempting. After allowing the man de jour to buy her a few drinks, she would get herself invited to his apartment and generally make a break by dawn. Sometimes she'd hang around until breakfast, and every now and then, in a weak moment, she would acquiesce to a second date.

"Deidra," Jo said, attempting to sound friendly, "How's the tat?"

"Love it."

Deidra unbuttoned her shirt and pulled over enough of her bra to expose the top of her left breast. A blue and yellow long-tailed lizard curled across it, starting from the two o'clock section above her nipple. From a distance it looked to be a cute gecko, but up-close it appeared more serpent-like, venomous.

"I didn't know you got that," Lauren said, "Who's going to see it?"

"Very fortunate men," Deidra laughed, as she re-buttoned her shirt.

Lauren also was an employee at Fidelity; she worked in the call center. She was five foot six, with natural strawberry blonde hair and green eyes, made even more vivid with tinted contacts. She wore a plain pink T-shirt, black satin shorts, and Adidas running shoes with white ankle socks.

"When are you getting some ink yourself?" Deidra asked Jo.

"You know I don't go for that sort of thing," Jo snapped back, responding with a pat answer to the question she heard almost every day. Visible tattoos revealed too much about a person's past or passion or pain. And, Jo thought, there was no way anyone was going to get lucky enough to see a more privately-situated tattoo.

Turning to Lauren, Jo asked, "Do you know what you want for your back?"

"You mean the tramp stamp?" Deidra said with a chuckle, repeating the phrase she'd picked up from Keisha.

"No. Not slutty," Lauren clarified, "But kind of wild. I grew up as the good little Catholic girl. It's been a hard image to shake. My longtime and now ex-boyfriend didn't want me to do this. Now that he's out of the picture, I figure this is the time, before I meet someone else who tells me what I can't do."

"Let her design it for you," Deidra said, "That's what I did."

Lauren looked pained. Jo understood; tattoos were a permanent commitment, and Lauren would have this one for life.

"Oh, go for it," Deidra coaxed.

Lauren eyes opened wider, and her forehead wrinkled with apprehension.

"Okay, you know I trust you," she said to her friend with a slight tremor in her voice.

Jo looked hard into Lauren's eyes. She already knew more keenly than Lauren herself what she was seeking. Jo's artistic talent was in freestyle, with a keen ability to decipher a vague notion and transform it into a work of art. People sought Jo out for her reputation of custom, one-of-a-kind designs. She used no pattern, no sketches, no collaboration.

Forgoing any small talk, Jo stared into the customer's eyes and noted whether they were bright, dull, scared, worried, desperate. She listened for a key event, a realization, a transformation, a longing, or a whim that drove the desire for body art. Once she knew the gist, even as the person continued to speak, the words no longer registered, washing over her like the sound of a waterfall splashing and crashing as background noise. She heard what was meant and images flowed through her mind.

She would mumble, "I see a field of sunflowers reaching for the heavens." Or she would share a revelation, "There's a man in a top hat standing before a mirror with a grinning skeleton staring back, worms eating out his eye sockets." Often tears would spring to the customer's eyes or a smile would spread over the face. In any case, in that moment the person whose body was her canvas would fall silent and become very still.

"Ready," Jo said to Lauren. It was more an order than a question.

Lauren swallowed hard. "I guess."

"Lie face down across the table. Deidra, you can come back in about an hour," Jo commanded.

Deidra knew the drill. "Okay."

She crouched down to face Lauren. "It'll be all right," she said, then got up and left.

"Pull your shirt up," Jo ordered.

Lauren was lying on her stomach and raised herself enough to lift her shirt to just below the shoulder blades.

"Higher."

Lauren tugged her shirt and the black sports bra beneath it up to her shoulders, almost off. Jo then pulled the woman's shorts down, exposing the top third of her butt crack. Underneath was thong underwear that Jo also pushed down, just a bit. Jo studied the canvas. In the silence, Lauren lifted her head for a moment. She craned her neck to look at the pictures hanging on the wall of the various local celebrities who had visited the shop.

"Who's that?" Lauren asked. "The football player."

The words were like a flashbulb bursting in Jo's face, breaking her concentration. When possible, Jo ignored a customer's chattering, but since it was a direct question she grudgingly replied, "Tom Brady."

The Patriots' quarterback had inscribed his photograph with the words: _"To Jo, a true artist, Tommy B."_

"I know who _he_ is. I meant the other one. Do know Tom Brady? Does he have a tattoo?"

"I don't really know him. He doesn't have any tats that I know about—I did Nick's tat—see his left arm?"

Lauren squinted her eyes to get a better look at the picture hanging next to Tom Brady's. It was of a large man sporting a muscular tiger on his forearm. The large cat was a fierce-looking beast rippling with power, grace, balance, and speed.

"Who's he?" Lauren asked.

"Nick Glazier. He's the backup center for the Patriots," Jo informed her.

The photo of Tom Brady was a huge draw, especially for male clients, which was why Keisha insisted on posting it so prominently. But for Jo, it was the other player's inscription she cherished: _"To Jo, an amazing athlete, Nick."_

"Nick Glazier," Lauren took her time saying the words, nodding her head. "A friend of yours?"

"No," Jo snapped.

Jo was being only half truthful. She had met Nick once at Ink Angels and once more after that. Since then he'd sent her several text messages asking to get together again. She liked Nick. Nick was a wonderful person. And that was why she would never see him again.

Jo wasn't in a chatty mood and changed the subject. "Put your head down and let's get this done."

Lying face down, Lauren relaxed her neck. Jo guessed that she had more questions to ask, but Lauren's resigned sigh indicated the woman realized they'd go unanswered.

Jo looked at Lauren's back, waiting for the design to come to her. The gym shorts pulled halfway down distorted the woman's body. Jo ran her hand down Lauren's lower back and butt to get a read on her canvas. Her touch was like a doctor performing a routine exam.

With her keen perception, Jo considered the subject before her, looking for clues as to what purpose, desire, or need this body art might fulfill. She noted that Lauren's expensive running shoes looked fairly new on the top, but the soles were worn. She was a runner and a serious one. The woman had a trim, athletic body and well-toned glutes. She was getting out running as much as possible, taking advantage of the last of the Indian summer. The tat on Lauren's ankle was a small, deep blue checkmark representing a seagull in flight. She'd remarked that she had waited until her breakup to get this one done before another controlling male entered her life. It seemed as though this was a long established pattern: always living up to another's expectations.

Jo decided that the new tat was going to be as much a statement as it was art. It would be bright and breezy. It was Deidra, not Lauren, who referred to it as a tramp stamp, so Jo knew viewing this work would be by invitation only. Jo designed it in her mind. She would position the tattoo so it could be visible when Lauren ran. It would be just at the belt line of her running shorts. Lauren could decide if it would be seen or not, depending on what she was wearing or how she wore it. It would beckon select future love interests, and, at the same time, declare that she was her own woman and could make her own decisions.

Jo ran her hand over the skin one more time to get a final reading on the texture and contours of the surface and to determine the size and placement of the image forming in her mind. It would be a single golden rose, reflecting the sun's rays, blowing, but not bending, in the breeze. The petals would be subtly windblown, and the stem of the flower strong, supple.

"We have XM-Radio with over two hundred stations," Jo remembered to offer. "Here are the headphones and remote," she said, as she handed Lauren the silencing device.

Keisha was out of earshot and Jo was eager to get started, so she skipped the detailed explanation each customer was required to receive. Jo had the spiel memorized by now: "There is a fairly long routine that needs to be performed before the artwork can begin. There are staph germs all over the skin that we need to keep us alive, because they kill germs that would otherwise hurt us. But if the skin is broken, those staph germs could turn toxic. So, the tattooed area needs to be surgically cleaned..." Blah, blah, blah.

Once a design fixed in Jo's head, her fingers tingled to realize it.

"What's Nick like?" Lauren wondered out loud.

Boy, did Jo wish she'd be quiet. Jo was never verbose, but she found conversation especially grating when she was working. Jo was tempted to dismiss Nick as a jerk in an attempt to cut off the questioning. But he wasn't.

"He's okay," she responded reluctantly. "The skin lays better if you relax. Don't move. Don't talk."

As Jo shaved the lower back area, she thought about Nick for the first time in a long while. Jo was normally completely absorbed in her work. But Lauren mentioning Nick made memories of when she had first met him flood her mind.

That night certainly hadn't started out like one that would change Jo's life forever. Around 9:30 PM, as Jo's last customer left the shop, giggling with her friends and peeking into her pants at the newly inked turtledoves below her right hipbone, Keisha briskly informed Jo that she needed to stay late. No explanations were offered. Jo's questions were rebuffed in the surly and tight-lipped fashion Keisha used when she was sitting on a secret and wouldn't budge. Jo fumed silently in the break room, flicking crumbs off the table with her fingers. She split her attention between a rerun of "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" blasting so Keisha could hear it from the other room and the slightly more engaging second hand on the slowly-ticking wall clock.

At ten past ten, the door chime sounded and the room was filled with enthusiastic greetings: booming male voices, two of them, and Keisha's happy shrieks of welcome. The sudden change of mood intrigued Jo enough to heave herself up from the table, click off the television, and round the corner for a look.

Keisha introduced Nick Glazier first, who'd come in to get a tattoo. His friend Tom Brady accompanied him. The reason they came at night, after hours, was that Tommy, as Jo soon came to know him, attracted a crowd in the daylight. It was the price of fame and success.

Nick wanted a tattoo to celebrate the team's second Super Bowl win. Nick was an amazingly nimble three hundred seventy-five pounds and incredibly strong. As the backup center, his job was to call the offensive blocking scheme and keep the other team from tackling the quarterback. Nick told Jo he wanted something that represented power, strength, balance, and quickness. A cat quickly came to mind, but which was the right one?

Jo asked him why he wanted these qualities. She was asking out of pure professionalism, to design the tat. Jo had no idea her life would be altered with his response.

Nick began, "When I was in high school I was very, very big—already over three hundred pounds—but not muscular. Kids used to push me around. My father was a sports promoter, and on an extended summer trip to Japan, he brought the whole family along. There, I was introduced to Takashi Soto, a Sumo wrestler. Takashi took an immediate liking to me and taught me about Sumo training. I thought these wrestlers were just fat, but they're extremely muscular. The big bellies are misleading. Their training is intense. I started Sumo exercises to improve my balance, endurance, and strength. I went from being just big and heavy to playing high school football, getting a scholarship at Georgia Tech, and eventually playing in the NFL. And winning a couple of Super Bowls."

Jo listened intently. She was just over three hundred pounds herself at that point. Though her size afforded her a certain protection from the world, the practicalities of living were becoming increasingly difficult. Stairs were a trial for her, walking any distance was a challenge, and jogging an impossibility. Worst of all, Keisha was starting to take the more elaborate tattoo jobs herself. Keisha had even pulled Jo aside and asked, "Are you sure you're up to this?" before entrusting Jo with Nick's artwork.

"Tell me more," Jo said to Nick.

"Sure," Nick replied, "We fatties need to stick together."

Jo did not take the comment as an insult or a joke, but as it was intended: a statement of fact.

Nick went on. "Thousands of years ago, Sumo wrestlers would fight to the death, and even five or six hundred years ago, it was part of military training. Then, only the warrior class could fight Sumo. Now anyone who is prepared to work for years to become a Rikiski can do it. Training involves weight lifting, bicycling, jogging, yoga, and katas, which are a combination of wrestling moves and ballet. What Master Soto taught me, I use every day in my regimen. I owe my success to him."

Nick's tat was easy to design: a Japanese stylized tiger with the initials T and S designed into the stripes. When Nick's arm was still and hanging straight down, the tiger's head looked just slightly out of proportion, too big or maybe off-center for its body. But with the arm held in position for rushing at full speed toward an opponent, the tiger's head almost leapt off the arm in a 3D effect. Jo began work on Nick's left arm. Above the hum of the needles, Nick described to Jo the details of his training. She decided at that moment she wanted what he had.

At the halfway point, they stopped and ordered take-out from a late night pizza place. When the hot pizza and subs arrived, all four crammed into the break room.

Jo remembered how Nick pulled out her chair.

"May I?" he asked and looked her straight in the eye with a million-dollar smile.

This genuine gesture stirred an unfamiliar feeling. Reality and fantasy blurred. She knew with certainty that anyone with a penis was scum, dangerous, aberrant, predatory, evil. Yet, for a split second she allowed herself to acknowledge what she had been forcing herself to not think about: _boy is he good looking. And polite, and treating me so nicely._ Strange and new emotions overwhelmed her.

Jo finished a couple of hours later. Keisha wanted to take a picture.

Nick apologized, but told her, "Mr. Kraft doesn't like us to take pictures, but I'll have the team photographer take one and send it to you." Then he turned to Jo and said, "If you're serious about starting Sumo wrestling training, you can work out with me tomorrow morning."

Jo was taken aback. She didn't know how to respond. Normally, she'd reflexively decline. But she knew deep inside this was an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity. The kind one might soon and forever regret callously tossing aside.

"My wife is a personal trainer, and I'm sure she'd be happy to help you," Nick offered.

_Wife?_ thought Jo, noting Nick wore only his Super Bowl ring. She experienced a flash of disappointment that was immediately replaced by a sense of relief. What was she thinking? Obviously, he was just being friendly.

"Yes," somehow tumbled from her mouth.

Nick wrote down the address and brief directions and handed the paper to Jo. She saw the words "off of Newbury Street" before stashing the note in her overall pant's pocket.

Mid-morning the next day, Jo arrived at the Harvard Club of Boston. The outside was brick and the interior elegant with copious polished mahogany. She asked the guard, who did not seem at all surprised to see a large woman in sweats, where to go. The guard directed her to the athletes' workout room. When Jo arrived she found not just Nick, but the entire Patriots offensive line stretching out.

These men were all heavier than she was. For once she felt like she fit in, at least size-wise, though she found that much testosterone in one place irritating. Then, she spied a few thin, fit, and gorgeous women doing warm up exercises. She assumed they must be the wives and girlfriends of the players. The sense of fitting in immediately evaporated. Seeing the two extremes, almost caricatures of male and female body type, left Jo feeling like some sort of mutant she-ogre.

_Fuck them all._ Wondering what she was doing there, Jo turned and headed for the door. As she approached the exit sign, Nick appeared at her side and intercepted her escape, babbling excitedly about his tiger tattoo.

Then he reminded her why she'd come, "If you're looking to build muscle and endurance, trust me, this is the place."

Jo relented, turning around and allowing Nick to guide her across the floor.

"This is our private workout room, so we don't get mobbed for autographs. Let me introduce you to my wife Lindsay."

"You did an amazing job," Lindsay said. At the same time she gave Nick's arm a poke, pressing the tiger's nose with her index finger.

"Ow!" Nick said.

"I thought you football players were supposed to be tough," Lindsay teased.

"I am," Nick said, "In a game."

Lindsay was a striking woman. She was six feet two inches tall with long, straight auburn hair pulled back in a high ponytail. As the personal trainer her job was to facilitate the workout sessions. Jack McCreedy, the Patriots' offensive line coach, was there with a chart and clipboard, but it was clear that Lindsay ran the show.

"Okay guys," Lindsay said, "Let's go. Five minutes."

All the men, many weighing upwards of three hundred pounds, congregated in the ballet room.

Lindsay took Jo aside and asked, "What are your goals?"

Jo was dumbfounded. She didn't quite know how to answer.

"Was the walk here tiring?" Lindsay ventured.

That was an understatement.

"Well," Jo admitted, "I'd like to have an easier time climbing stairs."

Lindsay said, "Offensive linemen need to be quick, strong, and have the endurance to play a three-hour game."

"That's what I want," Jo confirmed.

"Nick said you're interested in Sumo training. That'll help," Lindsay said with a nod, "Stick with me and we'll get you there. Don't worry if you can't keep up. These guys have been doing this a long time." Then Lindsay turned to face the group and said, "Okay everyone. Let's do this."

The Harvard Club ballet room had a twenty-five-foot square polished hardwood floor and a gleaming mirrored wall. First everyone stretched, using the wall-mounted bar for balance. The men partnered up, as did the girlfriends and wives, and Jo worked with Lindsay. Lindsay called out yoga positions that everyone else seemed to know; then she'd quietly explain them to Jo. Jo was impressed at how nimble these huge men were.

"Just go as far as you can everyone." But this time, by "everyone" she meant Jo.

Jo studied herself in the mirrored wall. She didn't own a full-length mirror at home, and it had been years since she'd seen her body below her chest. Her new size was impressive. It pleased her to see the faint outline of muscles beneath the flesh as she extended and contracted her arms.

Lindsay said, "Okay. Let's go!"

Lindsay strode to the wall and hit a button. As music filled the room, Jo noticed the speakers high up on the walls. The Black Eyed Peas' "Boom Boom Pow" was the first song to blast from them. As the music pounded through her body, everyone and everything, other than Lindsay calling out the moves, disappeared in a fog.

During the first hour they did kick boxing aerobics. Kicking. Punching. More kicking. Jo was exhausted after the first fifteen minutes, but was determined to go on. At the half hour point, she was perspiring profusely. The pain consuming her body was excruciating, but also exhilarating. The outpouring of sweat was not only a physical release, but an emotional one as well. Frustration and anger, Jo's constant companions, flowed from her. Despite the burning in her muscles, she felt almost content.

At the forty-five-minute mark, Jo was staggering, her eyes glazed. Lindsay took a break and handed Jo a bottle of room-temperature water.

After several minutes, Lindsay clapped her hands together. "Okay, let's do it." Then said to Jo, "Athletes need to have balance and strength. And great footwork. The next hour we'll do ballet."

As she did the exercises, Jo looked around and was surprised to see how fluid the players' movements were. The men were all wearing their blue sweatpants shorts and sleeveless sweatshirts with the Patriots logo on the front and their uniform numbers on the back. It was strange at first to see these men, some like Nick who weighed more than three hundred fifty pounds, gracefully mastering ballet positions.

Jo attempted the various positions and gained confidence when no one mocked her. Nick showed her some tricks, knowing big people had challenges. When she completed a credible arabesque, the men around her cheered a collective, "Woo-Hoo!" Nick smacked her palm in a spontaneous high five.

Jo had a taste of a something that she'd never really known. Acceptance. A feeling of belonging. It scared her.

After the workout, Nick asked, "Can you join us for lunch?"

"Sure," Jo said, suddenly aware that she was starving.

Jo limped to the woman's locker room. She was relieved to see individual dressing rooms with private showers. Simple actions like lifting her arms took some effort. After showering, toweling drying her short hair, and changing into her normal outfit at about half-speed, she found Lindsay waiting for her outside the locker room. She had already showered, dressed, and was reviewing some notes on a clipboard.

"Tired?" Lindsay asked.

"I can barely move," Jo admitted.

"Well, it gets easier," Lindsay said as she led the way in a series of right and left turn through corridors that changed from tile flooring to hardwood to plush carpet. "The guys have to do this five times a week. You're welcome to join us anytime. Here. Take my card. It has my cell number on it."

Jo didn't know what to say.

"Here we are," Lindsay said, "The Miller room."

They sat by large windows overlooking Newbury Street. The men were eating massive quantities of food and had impeccable manners. They were out of their sweats. Some had on shirts and ties, and others wore more casual button down shirts. Jo felt slightly underdressed in her overalls and flannel shirt, this one red and black checkered.

"Hey, Jo. Come on over here," Nick called from across the room.

Some of the other men, impressed by Nick's tiger, wanted to hear of Jo's experiences as a tattoo artist. A couple were interested in her advice on body art they were considering.

After everyone else had gone, Nick, Lindsay, and Jo continued chatting. Then Nick reached under his seat and brought out two identical rectangular packages. Both were loosely wrapped in bright white paper and secured by a single piece of scotch tape in the back. Jo unfastened the tape and without tearing the paper, she slid out the contents.

The first package contained a photo of Tom Brady with the inscription: _"To Jo. A true artist. Tommy B."_

"Tommy left early this morning for an autism benefit thing, but enjoyed watching you work. He wanted you to have that."

The second package held a photo of Nick with his new tattoo. Nick laughed at Jo's look of surprise. "I knew the team photographer would be coming in first thing this morning so I asked him to make a Walgreens one-hour photo run." Then he added in a more serious tone, "Mr. Kraft said it was okay to hang these up in the store, but asked you not to sell them or post them online."

"You didn't sign yours," Jo said, knowing that Keisha would want to add it to her photo collection of local celebrities.

Nick took a clip-on sharpie from inside his pocket, deftly pulled the photo from the frame, scribbled something, gave it a few seconds to dry, and slipped it back inside. He handed it to her.

The photo read: _"To Jo, An amazing athlete, Nick."_

"Okay," she replied in a flat tone, though she was secretly pleased, "I'll give these both to Keisha to put in the shop."

"Hold on," Nick said, "I've got to tell you, I was impressed today." Smiling, he added, "Not everyone can keep up with the Patriots' offensive line, you know." He paused for a second and pulled a third package, larger but similarly wrapped, from beneath his chair.

Jo glanced at the parcel and bit her bottom lip.

"Open it. The only thing I ask is that you treat it as top secret. My teammates don't know about this. I may have to face them again."

Jo was apprehensive. Secrets and lies. She peeled back the wrapping tentatively and peered inside. It was the training manual Takashi Soto had given to Nick when he was in high school.

"You're the only person besides Lindsay who's ever seen this. I called Soto's rep in Japan last night. He said it was okay to give it to you. So, here you go."

Jo leafed through the training manual. Everything they did that morning was there, plus a lot more. She snapped the handbook closed and stared at the gift, not daring to open the cover again. She longed to open the book and just glance through the chapter list, but feared if she did she would be unable to refuse. She held the book out to Nick.

"I can't accept this."

Jo saw the muscles in his jaw relax a bit, but Nick didn't reach for the book.

"Every word and illustration is committed to memory by now," he said, "I haven't even looked at it for years. Giving it to you, someone worthy of it, would be some major Karma. Still, I have to admit I'm having a hard time giving it up."

Jo continued to hold out the book, but inched the instruction manual slightly closer to her body.

Jo made it a habit not to accept gifts or the strings that invariably went with them. But Nick was enticing her with the Italian "magic three" interchange. It was ingrained in Jo from birth that even the most benign invitation of, "Please take it" must be met with, "No, really I couldn't." Perhaps in the "old country," as her Nana always referred to her small home town in Northern Italy, this was a way of allowing people to be generous who had nothing to give away. But, after a third insistence it was permissible, and expected, to comply.

Then Nick proposed, "How about this. It's not a gift. Let's call it a loan instead. You can return it to me whenever you're done with it." Nick took a business card out of his wallet and tucked it inside the front cover of the slightly outstretched book.

Only then did Jo draw the training manual to her chest. "Okay," she said.

A few minutes later, the three stood outside the Harvard Club at the curb, Nick asked Jo, "Can we give you a ride?"

"No. I'm all set," she said.

Lindsay hugged her and told her what a great job she'd done. Jo stood stiffly, arms hanging down by her sides. With a smile and a wave, Nick and Lindsay pulled away in their BMW SUV.

Jo was physically spent, but endorphins were still tingling within her veins and her brain buzzed. What a remarkable day. At that moment she felt accepted, wanted, liked.

She never returned. She never saw Nick or Lindsay again, despite invitations, which Jo would always refuse, to workout with the team or to visit Patriot Place and watch Nick play. She did trade text messages with Nick every now and then: casual interchanges about the finer points of football, tattoos, or Sumo.

That day had opened an important door for Jo, one that led to new power and empowerment. In her mind, going back meant going backwards and risking losing it all. For Jo, surviving in this life meant going it alone and depended on her being a scowling, nasty bitch. Hanging around people, especially these people, would change all of that, challenge her carefully crafted self-image, and perhaps crumble it.

Men were scum. All of them were sick depraved bastards and no-good creeps with ulterior motives rippling just under the surface. Men were evil, and the ones that started off nice were the worst. Penises were weapons. Men were the real seducers—like Pandora's Box with a twist—luring women with their compliments and gifts, but eventually exposing all the evil of the world inside of them. Women allowed men to be hateful, so perhaps that made them even worse than men. Jo lived her life by this philosophy and wasn't about to stop.

Then again, sometimes in a weak moment Jo would find herself wondering if perhaps Nick Glazier, who proudly wore her tattoo, and his beautiful wife Lindsay were the hope in the box that humanity wasn't completely bad. All the same, she knew that hope was one small step from trust, and trust an open invitation to betrayal and that made it a most dangerous thing.

That afternoon, her return home was different somehow. _She_ was different. At home, Jo immediately began reading the manual. The next evening, she transformed her second bedroom into an exercise room. The next night, her Sumo training began.

"How long will this take?" Lauren repeated, pulling Jo back into the present.

"Ah...about an hour more," Jo said.

With the skin prepped, Jo was ready to get started. The first needle stick was always telling: a customer might wince, tear-up, or seem not to notice. There would be hundreds of sticks, each more painful than the last. The needles were tiny and mounted on a special device that looked like a dental drill, and made a low, muffled buzzing when the needles were sub-dermal. Jo had to be careful: lower back tattoos were just millimeters above the lumbar vertebrae.

The first stick went well, with Lauren remaining perfectly still.

"Okay?" Jo asked.

"Good," Lauren said through clenched teeth.

Jo immediately became absorbed in realizing the imagery in her head. A thin layer of sweat beaded on her upper lip. It was almost as though she were outside of her body, watching each stroke appear, replicating her mental image onto Lauren's skin.

Now the tricky part. The leaves. It would require precision artistry. "Make sure you're very still during this part," Jo cautioned.

"How much longer?" Lauren asked. She was hoping for a small number, judging by the tension in her voice.

"About a half hour."

By this point Jo had only to relax and look on as her brain and fingers worked seemingly of their own accord. Jo's attention drifted from the woman's distress as she watched in awe the creation that was unfolding before her: smooth petals soft as skin, razor sharp edges to thorns protecting their precious charge, and each tiny vein on each jagged leaf appearing with just the right curvature, thickness, and shading for leaves to curl and dance in the soft, invisible breeze driving the imagery.

Twenty five minutes later Lauren asked once again, "How much longer?"

"Just a few more seconds," Jo assured her, "And done." Jo lay down her instrument. Suddenly she was aware of the tingling in her fingers. Jo shook her hand in the air and tightly curled and uncurled a fist a few times. "Do you want to take a look?" she asked, "I'll get you a mirror."

Lauren jumped off the table and whirled around, her back to the full-length mirror on the wall. She twisted her neck to get a glimpse as she waited for Jo to bring a hand mirror.

"I thought I'd be in more pain," she said, "But you know, it wasn't really so bad."

Jo rifled through a drawer for the mirror. She mused that getting inked seemed to be a bit like birthing a baby. Moments after the piece was completed, the client, lost in the excitement of getting a first peek, seemed to immediately forget how much getting a tattoo had hurt.

"Is it okay?" Lauren asked Jo.

Jo walked towards her, keeping a nondescript look on her face, and responded, "It's good."

"Can I come in?" It was Deidra.

Deidra and Lakeisha joined them in the procedure room. Jo handed Lauren a mirror, which Lauren took in her right hand, and with her left she pulled up her shirt. Her eyes widened. The rose blowing in the wind whispered its yielding power. The gold showed its great value in the reflection of the sun.

"Beautiful," Lauren whispered.

"It's amazing," Deidra agreed sounding a bit envious.

Lauren was choked up, and her eyes were moist. She fell silent and become still, spending some time taking in the work. Lauren wanted to get a better look, so she took off her shirt exposing the black sports bra beneath. She then pushed her shorts down, exposing the entire tattoo. The tilt to her head showed a renewed confidence that she was beautiful and desirable. She threw her shoulders back which made her appear unencumbered, free.

Keisha took her camera out. "I wanted to take a picture for the book. You probably want to put your shorts back on."

"Who sees the album?" Lauren asked.

"Anyone who comes in the store," Keisha told her.

"You know Lauren," Deidra goaded her, "you don't always have to play the 'good girl.'"

"Get your camera ready," Lauren said, "Go ahead and take it. Just make it a close up!"

Keisha took a picture and then then handed the camera to Lauren. She took a long look at the preview screen. "I love it. It will go in the book?"

"Only if you sign the waiver. If you change your mind," Keisha said handing her the paper to sign, "I can always take it out later."

Lauren scribbled her signature and said, "Wait. Can you make me a copy of the photo?"

"Sure, honey," Keisha said.

Keisha replaced one memory card with another and then inserted the original into a photo printer and hit "2." One copy went into the IA album and the other into a hidden pouch in Lauren's wallet.

"Oh, one more thing; could I get a picture with Jo?" Lauren asked, handing Keisha her cell phone.

Jo, as always, looked indifferent, but for the moment held off on the menacing.

After Lauren and Deidra left, Jo cleaned up and prepared for her next client. She had four more appointments that day, three women and one man, plus she had some unscheduled blocks for walk-ins. Her next appointment was with a man named Murray, a regular. He had told Jo he wanted her to surprise him. She was planning a Japanese fan for his upper bicep with a rippling effect in the folds, which Jo knew would delight his grandchildren.

"The last appointment is at seven o'clock tonight," Jo reminded Keisha.

"Okay," Keisha nodded.

It was the night of the Patriots' first pre-season game. Nick had texted Jo several weeks before, confirming that he was scheduled to play with the starters for the first quarter. Keisha had installed a thirty-two-inch plasma wall TV, which dominated the tiny break room. Keisha enjoyed watching snippets of soap operas, talk shows, and sitcoms between customers. Jo didn't own a television.

"The game starts at eight o'clock, doesn't it?" Jo inquired, trying to sound casual.

"That's right, sweetie," Keisha said, and added with a mischievous smile, "I wouldn't miss it either."

Jo knew she was caught.

Then Keisha divulged, "I'm locking up early tonight so we can see the game."

That evening, Jo only half-followed the football's progression down the field. She spent most of her time watching the line play, keeping her eye on number 67 whenever Nick was on the field.

Jo didn't watch the game like the typical fan. She made no commentary, and her trademark scowl was always on her face. But there was also a kind of calm in her demeanor. She'd look at these large, athletic men, admiring their moves and strength and wonder what it would be like to be in the game.

Jo had loved playground games in elementary school, back when girls and boys were on mixed teams. The more physical, the better—she still remembered the thrill of whipping a kickball at the biggest, meanest boy in the class without a prayer of him dodging the ball, or crashing through the most impenetrable of locked arms in Red Rover.

Her popularity as the first one picked for any team ended abruptly when boys and girls began being segregated for gym class. After that Jo lost interest in sports. Most girl sports were a bore. She watched with envy as the boys engaged in hand-to-hand wrestling combat on the other side of the gym, while she struggled to balance on a beam. Or heard them collide over a football, as she whacked and chased a wooden hockey ball across a field.

The girls' competitions that did involve contact, like basketball, inevitably ended up with a girl sprawled on the ground and in tears. This gave Jo no sense of pleasure, just a feeling of mild annoyance over interruption of the play. So she learned to hang back and to put in only the minimal effort needed to get a passing grade in gym class.

She was sure that with her power, speed, agility, and her seemingly endless endurance, she could play football professionally, if it were allowed. And was fairly certain she'd be competitive pitted against men. She reflected on getting paid millions for smashing into an opponent while massive cheers swelled from the crowds.

After the first quarter, as Nick walked off the field, Jo decided to go home.

# CHAPTER 2: Dual Lives

While Jo was engrossed in the football game, Francis Joseph Mangini was arriving at his home, a one-room apartment in the back of a small house in East Boston. He had just returned from his favorite haunt, the Three Aces Pizzeria. He did his best writing there. Plus, they let him order an item not found on the menu: A basket of Scali bread and butter.

His place was eclectic and minimalist. The walls were apartment white, with several pieces of art work, all originals and gifts from the artists, hanging on them. His favorite piece was made by an elephant named Sao, of the Phuket School. The multi-colored painting had long, gentle brushstrokes created by Sao holding a paintbrush in his trunk.

His other prized painting was by Cape Cod artist, Steve Luecke, and was titled, _"Dead Bee Behind a Beer Bottle."_ It showed a Coors bottle with a stiff insect, feet-up, that could be seen through the green glass, appearing even more true to life than a photo.

Francis' office consisted of a desk he purchased on Craigslist, a banker's light, a wireless modem, and a printer/scanner/copier/fax machine. There was also a twelve-inch combination TV and VCR on his desk. The television was usually set to CNN, except for when he flipped the channel to watch "American Idol," his one guilty pleasure. In this reality show, three music critics and the nation sifted through an ever dwindling pool of candidates to select the next up-and-coming pop singer. Francis liked the idea that anyone from any walk of life could make it in the show. And the show's simple, predictable format helped him wind down.

Several feet from his office was the kitchen area. This was merely a corner of his room with a small sink, a hot plate, and a college dorm-room-sized refrigerator holding a quart of milk, butter, and half a lemon. On top of the refrigerator sat a loaf of Wonder bread and a jar of peanut butter. The shelf above the sink held paper plates, a few cups, and assorted kitchen utensils.

His sleeping area was dominated by a queen-sized bed. Though he'd long ago decided to support the Franciscans in ways not involving direct membership, he hoped to have a permanent bedmate at some point in his life. His dresser contained a week's supply of underwear and socks, a pair of Levis, several T-shirts, and a couple of casual long-sleeve shirts.

His closet was not so sparse. He had a tuxedo with tux shirts, tux ties, and cummerbunds; as well as five conservatively-colored suits from Louis of Boston; three white dress shirts and three blue; and a collection of mostly red, subtly patterned silk ties. There were two pairs of designer jeans and two pairs of pressed khakis; a light windbreaker; and a double-breasted camel hair winter topcoat and a North Face jacket. There was also a brown robe with a white rope belt, which he wore on a retreat one week a year.

He had four pairs of shoes, in addition to the worn Nikes he'd slipped off under the computer table. In a neat row in the back of the closet were shined tux shoes, black patent leather dress shoes, new Nike sneakers, and brown Rockport boat shoes.

The apartment had one other room, a place no one else even knew existed. It was his one expression of vanity and hubris. Francis had contracted the build-out. It was done several years ago when the two women who owned the house were away on a five-day pilgrimage to Graceland in Memphis to pay homage to Elvis. The hidden space was accessed via a sliding panel. This was where Francis retreated when he needed motivation, a reminder that his words mattered, that things mattered. Proclamations, pictures, and articles covered the walls of the tiny room which was crammed with high power computers and communications equipment. He would go there to do research, conduct business, recharge, and recuperate.

Sitting at his desk in the main room, Francis started up his computer and checked his email. There were three new messages from Charles Davis. Francis first opened one that had the subject line, "Nice job on the speech." Then he checked the second message from Charles. "Is Rome still on?"

Francis typed in, "Probably. Will know for sure by tomorrow." Then he clicked, "Send."

Francis read the third message, "Went to Ernst and Young and got the check for tonight. All set."

Francis was distracted. He'd been haunted all day by the woman he'd spoken to on the subway. His face reddened as he remembered once again what he'd said to her, _Jesus loves you, you know..._ He rested his elbows on the desk and pressed hard against his eyebrows with the palms of his hands. _Great opening line Francis._ But what choice did he have? When he received 'a word,' as he sometimes did, he felt obliged to deliver it, no matter how inconvenient.

His chest rose and fell heavily as his thoughts flooded with the image of her powerful body and exquisite face: he'd stole a long enough look to penetrate her harsh expression and see the features beneath—distinctive cheek bones, long lashes, full lips. She was unlike any other woman he'd ever met—spirited, strong, iron-willed, and absolutely unafraid. He closed his eyes and imagined the scowl melting from her face. She looked serene. And beautiful. She was angry and hurting, but behind the hurt there was something there. He had to speak with her again.

He closed his email and did a Google search on IA in Massachusetts. Too many returns. Then he typed in, "IA Boston Business Kecia." Nothing relevant. He tried, "Kesha" instead, then "Keisha." Nothing. He entered just, "IA Boston." Scrolling through the pages, he found six businesses within walking range of the Arlington T stop.

IA Interior Architects

Iranian Association

Independent Auto Repair

Italy and Beyond

IT Adventures

Ink Angels

Francis eyed the paneled wall across the room. He was tempted. He arose from his wooden chair, went to the wall panel, and slid it open. He punched in the combination and slipped inside the tiny room. Once barricaded inside Francis collapsed into a smooth green office chair and pushed a button on the side to convert it into a recliner. In that position it practically filled the floor space of the secret room. Francis pressed the back of his head into the supple leather and gazed at the facing wall. It was filled with his own drawings that he'd sketched then tacked on top of the news stories, maps, calendars, agendas, and notes. All of his sketches were of a warrior. A woman warrior. Some were close-ups, and below each eye he'd painted a rust-colored streak running all the way down her face.

Francis' eyelids were heavy. He closed them and breathed in deeply. He was tired. He'd had the dream so often that he could see the image of the woman from his drawings clearly, even in the drifting into sleep stage. He knew, as well as he knew anything, that she was real. And that she would save him. Her image brought the raw pain of loneliness and with it a deep longing.

Francis willed himself awake. He didn't have time for sleep. He glanced around him: a few minutes on the equipment, a few phone calls, and he'd have his answer. He reconsidered. And sighed. No. Engaging business resources for personal matters was strictly prohibited. He lingered for another minute, then left his haven.

Back in the main room, at his own, worn desk, Francis glanced at the phone numbers and address listings on his personal computer. He did a quick print. Tomorrow he would go searching.

"Please help me find her," he prayed.

It had been dark for hours by the time Jo made it back home to 614 California Avenue in Newton Corner, a mostly wealthy suburb of Boston. Jo lived in the working class section in a small apartment building with eight units. Hers was basement apartment #1. The rent was expensive at $2,500 a month, but it was hard to find a complex that would allow the number of pets she kept.

No matter what her mood, her animals always greeted her with great enthusiasm. Jo sometimes wondered if they should be admired or pitied for their willingness to forgive past wrongs by others and their unquestioning loyalty to her. Rufus, a Lab/Great Dane/Rottweiler mix, was the first to welcome her. He was black with tan eyebrows and was enormous. A second, large dog followed. Ben was entirely black, except for a small spot of white on the chest and a few stray white hairs on his front toes. Ben was a Pit Bull/Greyhound mix and was tall and lean with a boxy skull and a powerful jaw.

Jo approached Rufus with her arms outstretched, and he greeted her back by launching his hundred twenty pounds into them. His wagging extended from the tip of his tail to the midsection of his body. Jo thumped the powerful dog, to his delight. Then Jo turned her attention to Ben. She scratched his favorite spot, between his neck and shoulders, using just the right pressure with her fingernails until he grunted in contentment.

Next, Jo quickly checked on a small menagerie. Four pet rats were permanent residents. The other animals were an ever-changing assortment of temporary inhabitants, currently a ferret and three half-grown kittens.

She began her evening ritual by taking the dogs outside and then feeding them. Keeping busy was imperative. Jo knew if she didn't keep her focus elsewhere, episode 62 would play to its finality, bringing memories and the pain she was desperate to keep at bay.

All her animals had been picked up off the street, adopted from shelters, or received from people who brought them to her at the shop. Wild animals or ferals she would treat and later release. A pet animal would live with Jo until it was de-wormed, flea-free, restored to full health, and trusting enough to respond to another person.

Then, slipping the animal into the bib of her overalls or letting it follow at her heels, she would bring the creature to work with her to house in a cage Keisha let her keep tucked under a counter in the shop. It was not uncommon to see a furry face popping out from Jo's overall bib or a well-behaved dog lying at her feet as she prepped a client. The animal provided comfort during the procedure whether stroked beforehand or serving as a distraction from within their pen as the needles pierced a client's skin. It wasn't uncommon for a client to leave with a new tattoo _and_ a new pet.

Jo scooped kibble into the dogs' bowls and mixed in canned food. She was rewarded with a happy dog dance. While the dogs wolfed down their food, Jo headed for the rat cage. Her four resident rattie boys stood in a row and clutched the bars of the cage with tiny fists like four prisoners hoping for early parole. Jo popped opened the top of the pen, and Sammy, Muzzy, Jessie, and Jimbo came streaming over the sides.

Most nights Ben and Rufus accompanied Jo as she traversed the city streets. As she snapped on the dogs' leashes, Jo admonished the rats, "Behave yourselves, use the litter box, and don't chew on the molding!" Turning back to the dogs, she called out to them by their street names, "Titan! Cain!" which she used when they were out at night to help intimidate strangers. Rufus wriggled in delight and Ben waved his powerful thin tail. They knew they were going into the city for the evening.

Jo scowled at them and said, "Hey. Toughen up!"

Titan's lip curled into a smile, exposing his long white canine teeth, and Cain burst into an explosive series of barks.

"Okay, that's a little better," she conceded, though the tails still beat the air, "Let's go."

The three started out into the night. Inspired by exercises from the Sumo training manual, Jo had developed her own loping stride. She did not run or jog, fearing a lean and thin runner's build would result. Instead, she moved in a rolling rapid gait, bending her knees ever so slightly with a movement somewhere between a chimp on two feet and a Native American Ute hunter. She'd never yet hit her limit on how long or far she could go at this pace.

It took two hours for Jo to travel the ten-mile stretch from Newton to one of Boston's grimier neighborhoods, arriving there after just after midnight. Ben was the tracker, without formal training, but with a strong natural instinct to sniff and find. Jo had shaped the behavior using verbal praise, with Ben ready to work to exhaustion to attain a rare expression of her pleasure. The huge hound was indiscriminate, able to search and rescue any living creature, whether it was a rat in need, a cat, a dog, or even a city pigeon with a broken wing. Most of his finds were lost or deserted pets of all sorts, including reptiles, ferrets, bunnies, and the occasional gerbil. Ben kept his nose to the ground in one continuous sniff. Rufus held his head high, skipping along beside Ben, tail swishing back and forth. Ben's tail waved the air as he walked, until finally, often behind a large green dumpster, he would tense his shoulder muscles, freeze, and stare intently.

Ben was always the first to find a creature, having both the superior nose and concentration over the adolescent Rufus. Jo was never sure what species they'd encounter. She came armed with rolled oats, meat, an apple, baby food, and lactose-free milk for the animals. She carried packets of vanilla energy paste, too, which she consumed herself every forty-five minutes for concentrated calories, protein, and potassium. These she would sometimes share with severely emaciated carnivores.

She'd been picking animals up off the roadside for as long as she could remember. Jo found it ironic that this passion was initially ignited by her mother, of all people. It was nearly impossible for Jo to think about her mother as the person she once was. In fact, she thought of the woman in that memory as a different person all together, one long dead and gone.

There was a time, before the episodes, or at least before they'd gotten very bad, when her parents took her on family vacations to a cabin in Maine. She and her mother stayed a whole month, with her father joining them on the weekends. The two of them would spend endless hours of mother-daughter time together pressing flowers into a scrapbook, drawing a picture next to each in colored pencils, and carefully printing both the scientific and common names. Using a guidebook on native plants and animals like a treasure map, they'd take long walks looking for new flowers to paste into the scrapbook.

One Saturday her mom shook her awake at dawn for one of their early morning nature walks, sneaking out of the cabin while her father was still asleep. Everything was grayish and the air was misty. It was quiet except for the soft cooing calls of mourning doves. They'd been traveling a dirt road for only about ten minutes when they came across a cat-sized silvery gray animal that had been hit by a car.

As soon as she caught sight of it, Jo remembered turning her head upwards and away from the ground. Gazing into the face of her mother, she could see the woman glancing down at the road in a detached sort of way, then curious. She was surprised to see her mother take a gardening glove from the front pocket of the flower-gathering tote she carried. "Oh the poor things," her mother murmured, as she slipped on the glove.

Her curiosity outweighing her revulsion, the young girl peered down to see the tips of tiny tails twitching atop the soft-looking light gray belly fur of the dead animal on the road. The woman gave each tail a slow, steady tug as though she were pulling baby carrots from the ground. And with each tug out came a wriggling mouse-like animal that her mom tucked into her bag.

As mother and daughter turned around and headed back to the cabin, the woman explained that opossums are marsupials, which means the mothers carry their babies with them in a built-in pouch wherever they go.

Once home, they put the litter of four babies in box lined with an old cloth, then put a heating pad underneath the box on one side. The babies had coats of velvety fuzz and pink hairless tails that curled a bit at the end. The first day there were purplish bumps where the eyes should have been, but throughout the next day, one by one dark slits appeared and grew in size until the babies blinked and stared with shiny black eyes.

She helped her mother feed them a mixture of evaporated milk with molasses using an eyedropper. Each baby, when it was his turn, grasped tightly to the eyedropper with front paws that looked like tiny hands. As a baby possum licked at the glass tapered tip, a thin layer of foamy milk formed at the lips.

Then, after three days, the babies started to lose weight, dying, one by one. She couldn't remember all their names, but "Peter" was the one to make it the longest: a full five days. Her mother's words had comforted her then, "Isn't it better that they pass away sleeping on a soft towel snug inside a dark, quiet shoebox with a belly full of warm milk, rather than starving by the roadside?"

Jo loved watching the intensity with which Ben took in the scents and sounds of the city. Once Ben made a discovery, Jo listened to the noise of its movement. She could tell immediately the broad category of the find, usually mammal but sometimes bird or reptile. Over time, sounds would give away more information: size, weight, how low to the ground, number of legs, or in the case of a boa constrictor or other snake, no legs at all.

Certain animals were adept at street living, such as small colonies of feral cats. Jo kept an eye on the ferals and intervened with medicines or food only when needed. She sometimes would have to trap a wild, injured animal, such as a squirrel. However, she never left a trap unattended. Jo could imagine all too well the vulnerability and panic a trapped animal felt and its awful fate should an ill-intended human or animal predator come across it.

Even though it was especially hard on Rufus, both dogs knew to sit quietly at a distance while Jo went to investigate a new find. If an animal was small, timid, or compliant enough, she would retract it from hiding and tuck it into the bib of her overalls. Otherwise, she would mentally mark the spot and return the next night alone or with just Ben to start the sometimes lengthy tame-and-capture process. Ben was a help in drawing out dogs or puppies that saw humans as the enemy. Having him there sped the process. With adult cats or prey animals, Jo would go at it alone.

The taming process required a surprising level of focus and patience. Often Jo would have to sit or squat perfectly still for hours, regulating her breathing, all the while emitting a stream of barely audible sing-song encouragement. It might take days or even weeks of Jo wedged behind a dumpster having the animal learn her smell and the sound of her breathing, until finally she was granted the thrill of catching the first glimpse of a face peering out.

The week before, it was a half-grown black kitten with saucer-shaped yellow eyes that was reluctant to come into the open and expose its vulnerability. The kitten finally emerged marching in place, moving a step forward, retreating a step back, afraid to come forward, too hungry to go back. She stared at Jo, hissed one final protest. Then resigned, with the pain of hunger outweighing the fear, she climbed onto Jo's lap and into the open cave-like bib to be taken home.

When she roamed the streets, Jo was careful to avoid areas where the street kids hung out. She quickly took a detoured path if she spied a lone youngster or a cluster of youths up ahead. Whether the adolescents attempted to make friends or talked tough, Jo felt the same longing to gather them up, like a litter of half-starved puppies without a mother, and bring them home. Seeing a girl out alone invoked an almost insatiable protective urge, a physical sensation that twisted and tore at her gut and made her chest throb painfully. Jo felt if she got too close, if she peered into the young girl's eyes, she would be unable to turn away. So she gave a wide berth to anyone out alone on the streets and short in stature.

At 3:40 AM, after hours of tracking with no success, the night sky began to lift from pitch-black to charcoal. Time to go home. Jo called the dogs, and the three headed back. At the apartment, Jo closed the tired canines in her bedroom. Then, she went in search of the rattie boys. They were nowhere in sight. Sleepy from a night at play, all four were probably holed up somewhere, napping. Jo toasted bread and smeared on some peanut butter.

"Come-come-come," she called as she walked toward the second bedroom.

One by one rat heads emerged out of hiding, from behind a book shelf and under a clothes pile. The rats stretched and yawned, exposing long incisors that they then tucked away as they scampered towards Jo. When they reached her they crawled up the denim on her legs and up into her arms. All four grabbed greedily for a portion of the rat delicacy. She slipped them back into their pen. Each boy raced to a private spot to gulp down and protect his morsel.

The rats, when caged, lived in the spare bedroom. Jo's apartment had a small kitchen with a breakfast bar, where she ate her meals, which separated the kitchen from the combined dining and living room. From the living room, two doors led to the two bedrooms. Between the two bedrooms was a full bath with an oversized tub and a separate shower. Jo slept in the smaller bedroom with her dogs.

She had converted the master bedroom into a workout and animal rescue room. One wall was lined with cages. Otherwise, it mimicked the Harvard Club layout, complete with mirrored wall and stretching bar. It contained a rowing machine, Nautilus, a yoga mat, and a treadmill. On a side table was the worn copy of the Sumo wrestling manual that Nick loaned her.

Jo opened a can of cat food and tapped it into a bowl as the three almost cat-sized kittens purred and rubbed against her arm. She spot-cleaned the ferret cage, all the while gently shoving the rambunctious creature back inside. Once everyone was fed, she washed up with hand sanitizer. Then she removed her overalls and flannel shirt and tossed them into a laundry basket.

She changed into sweat pants, sneakers, and an oversized T-shirt. She stretched and then warmed up with ten-pound weights. After that the real workout began. She was tired by this point in her day. She had to make sure the exercise was rigorous enough to keep her mind and body fully engaged to prevent triggering an episode.

In her basement quarters she had no worries of bothering the neighbors. Five miles on the bike. Two miles on the treadmill set at ten-minute miles at a four percent incline. More stretching. Then she progressed to the weights. She bench-pressed her weight: two hundred sixty pounds, did ten reps, curls, military presses, and leg lifts.

Her mood shifted. She put on Aaron Copeland's _Symphony No. 3_ , slipped off her sneakers, and in stocking feet danced for twenty minutes. Graceful. Strong. Athletic.

By six o'clock AM, Jo was completely spent. She slipped off soaked sweats and donned an oversized flannel nightshirt. She'd shower later. That morning, like every other early morning, she fell into a dreamless, exhausted sleep, knowing she would not stir until the radio alarm blasted four and a half hours later. _Around and around we go,_ was her final thought as she drifted off. Today, tonight, tomorrow, and yesterday all merged into one predictable, comfortable routine.

# CHAPTER 3: First Date

Later that morning, suddenly and without warning, the routine unraveled. The alarm did not blast. Instead, at 10:30 AM the radio alarm clicked on and between-the-stations static hummed. Jo slept. Thirty minutes later her eyeballs shifted rapidly under the lids. She began to stir and then to thrash.

Episode 62 played in her head: _"The Dollhouse." This one starts out with a little girl sitting on her bed combing light caramel curls with a cherrywood-handled brush and comb and mirror set her Daddy had given her a few weeks before. She pulls down a banana curl with the brush and watches it bounce back up in the hand mirror. She examines her face critically, looking hard into her chocolate brown eyes framed by long lashes. She looks up from the mirror as Daddy strolls into her bedroom with a huge, bright pink dollhouse stretched across his open arms. He turns to balance it on one arm and a knee, locking the door behind him._

A moment later, Mommy raps on the door and says, "Juliana are you in there?"

He bellows at the closed door, "Do you want me to come out?" and Mommy scurries away. As he turns back around, a scowl melts into an excited grin. He sits on the floor and shows her all the features of the doll house. "See the closet door and the little dresser drawers that really open." She hopes faintly that he's come to play dolls with her. He says to her, "Daddy has given you a wonderful gift... and now it's time for you to give him a little something."

" _No Daddy, No Daddy."_

" _Come on darling, you know I'll take it slow. I'm always gentle. I have some special oil and I'll tickle you for a long time first."_

" _No, Daddy," she whispers._

"Fine! I don't have time for this shit." He grabs her and tosses her over his lap face down, flips up her dress, jerking down white panties. He grabs the cherrywood-handled brush lying on the bed and smacks her bare butt. She cries out and squeezes her eyes shut and tries to lie very still, but feels him fumbling for his fly and knows he is pulling out a fat pink penis. He moves into a rhythmic smack, pull, smack, pull and then moans as the warm sticky stuff spurts onto her side. He stands abruptly and she falls, crumpling to the floor. His face red, he sputters, "I work my ass off for this family, give them everything, and ask for so little. And I get shit in return." He grabs up the dollhouse in one hand and stomps out of the room. She knows not to come out and hides under the bed covers with a forefinger pressed into each ear.

The next morning she feels stiff and sore. Her Mommy is cross, her jaw red and swollen. She shakes the fruit loops into Juliana's bowl and says, "Why can't you just cooperate and be a good girl?"

She chews on a fruit loop slowly, staring at the kitchen clock as the number flips from 8:12 to 8:13. She steals a sideways glance at the dollhouse in the corner of the kitchen. At 8:14 Mommy puts it outside on the curb. And at 8:17 through the kitchen screen door she sees the dirty army-green trash truck pull up. The trash man tosses her lovely pink dollhouse into the back and pulls away.

At the sound of her ringtone, Jo's eyes flew open. She fumbled for the phone, flipped it open, and looked down to see "Dad cell" on the screen.

She answered it. "What do you want, you sick fuck?"

He replied, "Come on, now." He paused, then continued, "Uncle Gino is turning eighty, and Victoria's having a big ta-do over at Anthony's."

No response.

"Your mother wants you to be there."

She snorted. "Not a chance in hell."

"Okay, well you remember where the restaurant is, on Canal Street right there off of Charles. It's next Sunday at two o'clock."

Jo hung up.

It was then that the time on her cell phone registered. 11:03.

"Shit!"

Still, right then she needed a shower. She took a moment to take the dogs outside and begged them to pee quickly. Back inside she turned on the shower and stood under the stream. As the water changed from cool to scalding hot, she scrubbed off the top layers of skin with Irish Spring soap. She tilted her head up toward the showerhead, eyes closed, letting the water hit just below her lower lashes and roll down her cheeks. _Today is the day where it all falls apart. Where I can't do it anymore. Where I don't make it._ The water continued to sting and burn her body.

Suddenly, she gulped a deep breath like someone rescued from drowning. _No. I can do this._ She snapped off the water, stepped out of the shower, and with brisk swipes rubbed herself semi-dry. She threw on her clothes and bolted for the train.

Even though she was late, again, she never liked to take the same train or the same car two days in a row, preferring the increased chance of conflict with fresh meat. That day, especially, she was in the mood for a fight, or at least a decent altercation. Scanning the crowd, she noticed, without interest, the scrawny man who had sat across from her the day before, absorbed in a newspaper. The 12:17 train rolled in and, figuring she was late anyways, she purposefully missed it and waited for the 12:24.

Jo boarded the train and found a seat. The small man settled directly across from her. She wondered briefly if he had followed her. She scanned the car, alert and eager as always for any potential trouble. She relaxed in disappointment when it seemed everyone was preoccupied in his own little world or was staring blankly out a train window.

She turned her attention half-heartedly to the man seated across the aisle. He looked youthful, but not young. She was caught off guard to see the little man staring intently back into her face.

He'd found her.

_That was easy,_ Francis thought, surprised. He'd been planning for a long day of pursuing each of the addresses on his list. Yet, before he'd even started, there she was.

Though Jo didn't know it, the previous day's encounter was no mere chance, and the current one not simply a coincidence. Francis had discovered Jo several months before and had been pursuing her since. The first vision was a couple of months before that.

When the visions started, simply sketching what he saw in the vision—the woman warrior figure—provided relief and made the image subside for a day or few. After a while, he would see the warrior whenever he dreamed, and even when he daydreamed. It began to have an impact on his ability to sleep and to concentrate on his work. Eventually the vision became more persistent: the moment he closed his eyes, she was there. So he put work aside and went searching.

The very first time he sighted Jo he was inside one of the older indoor T stations, one with cement walls and the faint smell of urine. Her large figure and powerful stance dominated the station, and immediately drew his attention. After a few minutes, Francis' attention was diverted to a group of rowdy teenaged boys. They had found something in the far corner near where the train emerged from its tunnel. They were stabbing at this something with a long, half inch diameter iron bar. Their unfriendly laughter echoed through the station. The large woman in denim overalls strode over. Francis followed at a distance. He could see the boys' victim was a mouse-sized gray-brown baby rat with nowhere to run. With each poke it stood up on its hind legs and let out a screech—which with its tiny lungs came out sounding more like a doggie squeaky toy than a warning.

The woman pushed past the outer circle of the boy pack and up to the ringleader. In a single smooth motion she knocked the stick from his hand, and, as it clattered loudly on the cement, grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt and lifted him off the ground as though he weighed nothing. She pressed the back of his head against the wall.

Getting very close to his face, she said, "It doesn't feel good to be helpless. To have nowhere to hide. Now does it?"

She let him hang on the wall until he choked out a, "No." Then she let him drop to the hard floor. The boy pack laughed at the large boy sprawled on his butt. The woman moved along the wall touching the ground for a split second, then walked away. The ringleader got up on his feet and without warning punched the smallest of the boys hard in the gut. The hardy laughter quickly subsided and was replaced by a few uncomfortable chuckles. He reclaimed his stick and glared at the other boys for a moment. He scanned the wall, but the rat pup had disappeared.

The woman stood across the station with both hands tucked into the bib of her overalls, perhaps holding something inside. The boys were not looking in her direction. Their chatter was loaded with ample and creative use of profanity. The woman looked straight ahead, her jaw clenched sternly. Beneath the hard veneer, Francis thought he detected a sparkle of humor in her eyes.

This was the first of many sightings that Francis carefully recorded on his hidden room wall-map using colored pushpins, each with a neat, hand-written time and date label. The only discernible pattern Francis had been able to surmise was that she never took the same mode of transportation two days in a row. Until this day.

He gazed at Jo seated just an arm's length away from him on the train. He became aware of his heart thumping at an elevated pace in his chest. He wondered where she was going, where she worked. Not wanting to seem like a stalker, he slipped his "IA" Google search printed pages out of sight, praying for something to say.

"Jesus knows all the good you're doing."

As inconvenient as it generally was, when Francis received these sorts of messages he had no choice but to pass them along. She shook her head back and forth slowly a few times, eyeing him, and made no reply.

When Jo emerged from the train, she noticed the little man followed at her heels, taking three steps to her two. She headed for the park, moving at a brisk pace. She was secretly thankful for his company, welcoming any distraction. Jo was not at all sure she could handle another episode.

He peppered her with rapid-fire questions. "Where do you work? Have you always lived in the city? Do you like empanadas?"

She mostly ignored him, except for occasionally punctuating the conversation with, "You are a crazy fuck."

When they approached Ink Angels, the man's mouth puckered and his eyes widen in surprise. It was a common reaction. Jo didn't wear any visible tattoos, and people seemed to expect all tattoo artists to be covered in ink, like the ones from the reality TV shows. Arriving at the shop's threshold, Jo wordlessly grasped the door handle.

"Oh, you work here," he said, and then practically shouted, "Wait!" She hesitated long enough for him to blurt out, "Can I take you to dinner?" In the pause that followed he added, "You gotta eat."

Maybe it was his small size, or maybe it was something in his eyes, but this man, yes _man_ invoked none of the usual feelings of fury. She tried to muster her normal contempt, but couldn't seem to forget how he'd brought her through a tough morning. He'd distracted her by trailing after her, and his off-beat chatter had warded off the episode invading the edges of her mind. She was having trouble shaking off lingering feelings of relief and gratitude.

Jo tried staring him down. He had no trouble gazing directly back into her eyes. His look was amused on the surface, but underneath she sensed a grave seriousness, the look she'd often seen in abandoned house pets, a look of desperate longing. She felt like he was seeing straight into her soul. Part of her wanted to turn away from him, but she felt paralyzed. Staring back at him was like looking into the eyes of a street kid or a stray dog. In him there was no guile. And in that moment she felt compassion.

Even so, Jo was shocked to hear herself accept his offer, "What the fuck. Meet me outside after work on Saturday." She disappeared through the door without saying a time.

Jo was inside the shop for nearly a full minute before she was released from the man's spell. She immediately regretted accepting his dinner invitation. She opened the shop door and scanned the faces and backs of people walking in both directions. But he was gone. Jo closed the door thinking there was no possibility that this dinner date was going to happen, and then she put it out of her mind completely.

Francis returned Saturday evening at 5:47 PM. He didn't know when she got off work and thought better of pursuing her into her sanctuary to ask. He figured dinnertime was at six maybe seven o'clock, but wanted to be a little early.

He leaned against the brick wall several feet from the front door of the shop and examined the face of each exiting person. He paid particular attention on the hour and half hour. Six o'clock came and went. Nothing. Same thing at 6:30.

At 7:05, he pulled on the hood of his sweatshirt and slid down the wall, hugging his knees, with his head tilted to the right, eyeing the door. By this time the sick feeling in his stomach and the pounding in his chest each time the bell rung subsided enough for him to start feeling bored.

In his back pocket he had a New Testament and a credit card-sized PDA which was as powerful as most laptop computers. He had a speech he needed to finish writing. He'd been up since four o'clock AM working on it. It needed to be ready for tomorrow, but he decided he'd done enough for one day. Besides, he didn't want to draw attention to himself to passersby. More importantly he wasn't ready to risk having to explain to Jo why he carried a $5,000 Personal Digital Assistant in the back pocket of jeans that were just a few wears away from a hole in the left knee.

He was itching to pull out the New Testament, though. To Francis theology was more like an intellectual and spiritual video game than a set of facts to be memorized and vehemently defended. Reaching one level of enlightenment excited him, but ultimately only increased his hunger, driving him to pursue the next level.

But he didn't want for Jo to catch him absorbed in the Bible. _Enough with the pushing Jesus,_ Francis thought. He immediately wondered if such a thought was sinful and decided it probably was. So he mouthed silently, "Lord God, forgive me." And then after a pause, "You know, if this works out I think it would be a good thing for me. And for You, for us both. Help me. Let me know what to say, what to do. Let it not end with tonight. Open a door for me. Please?"

Francis resisted the urge to check on the scriptural writings about healing, helping, and the second coming for an idea he was working through. He liked to develop his ideas by engaging in an internal dialogue. He had no one with whom to discuss or debate such topics, except when attending an annual Franciscan-style retreat. So, he'd represent both sides of the argument himself.

"Do you think Jesus is a woman?" he asked himself. "Self, I know, I know, in the first coming He took the shape of a man, but think about it. If you read all firsthand accounts of His work, what was He doing? He was healing, helping out, serving, even bathing feet. He was constantly trying to talk some sense into people, persuading them to get along better. If I read the Bible to someone who never heard it before and used a gender neutral name, like Chris, and said at the end, describe 'Chris,' I bet the person would just assume a woman.

"Of course it wasn't practical for Him to come as a woman on round one. He would have been stoned on the spot. Do you think in the second coming when Jesus bursts through the clouds in a chariot with white horses, we'll see a woman with long chestnut hair flowing behind Her? Well, maybe this whole distinction is bogus, the gender thing I mean. It could be another of those artificial distinctions we use on earth to make ourselves feel superior to one another."

Francis was becoming excited about the path this idea was taking, but he cut off the progression anyway. He couldn't commit any more ideas to memory. The train of thought would be lost unless he jotted down a few notes or made a diagram. He knew he would be unbelievably frustrated if he reached a new height but then later was unable to recall exactly what it was.

By then it was almost 7:30. Still no sign of Jo.

Francis heard the Ink Angels' door chime and looked up with anticipation. Nope. It was a man about forty, thin, tall with long blond hair, just starting to gray, pulled back in a ponytail. He walked out of the shop, admiring the new addition to his forearm: a rider-less motorcycle clearing a jump with its engine in flames. The man straddled his bike, a Honda CRF with knobby on-and-off road tires. He revved it up and zoomed away.

Francis kept a keen eye on the door, but there was still no sign of Jo. He looked at his watch again—7:47. Hunger pangs stabbed at his gut. He briefly considered pulling out the small plastic container of peanut butter he had in his sweatshirt pocket. But knew he might need it later, if the restaurant served only organic, fancy, or ethnic food.

At 8:12, he was back to thinking about the speech. What he wouldn't do for a pen and a scrap of paper.

Quick look at the watch—8:23. Starving and bored.

At 8:35 still no Jo. He knew he'd be able to hear the opening door chime, so he thought he would close his eyes for second.

The door chime rang—Francis bolted awake. Not Jo. Now his back hurt. He focused his attention on a young girl leaving the shop, alone. She had straight dark hair, low rise jeans, and sad eyes. Though the evening was cool the girl wore just a tank top with strings tied in the back. She walked with her head turned to the side, eyes fixated on her left shoulder at an enormous butterfly in an array of vivid blues. From Francis' vantage point it appeared about to lift off her shoulder, its wings fluttering a message. Francis strained to hear it. Yes, of course. "Freedom."

He lay down, curled in a ball, resting his back against the wall, struggling to stay alert. Francis closed his eyes once again.

At 10:12 PM, Jo walked out of the shop. She had a throbbing sensation at the base of her skull. She was irritated at herself for waiting around in the shop well after the last customer had left and her work station was cleaned and prepared for Monday's work. All day she had passed the time between customers thinking of bitingly sarcastic rejections which she planned to quickly and unceremoniously deliver the moment the small man dared pass through the shop's threshold. With each new revision her words became meaner and more succinct. Although it would not be nearly as satisfying as delivering a physical blow, the idea of deflating his enthusiasm with her crushing rejection pleased Jo. And who knows? A man scorned could turn nasty. Then the real fun would begin.

But the bastard never showed up. Now she'd be late getting home to care for her dogs. She might miss the last bus. Then she'd have to walk home which would make her even later and agitate her dogs who were accustom to their nightly routine.

These thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a figure curled in a ball sleeping against the brick wall of the building. It wasn't how she planned it, but the image of the man waking up on the cold sidewalk to a dark, closed, and deserted store made her feel pretty good. With a look of contempt, Jo walked over to where he lay. A nearby street light threw a shadow off her body and it encompassed his small frame entirely. He looked vulnerable and unprotected. One solid kick with her custom-modified, interior-steel-tipped boot, and his head would bounce off the brick behind him and smash like a pumpkin.

This thought, rather than exciting her, invoked a wave of nausea. Something about him made her not want to harm him, but instead to help him out in some way. She diverted her glance, staring at the ground in front of him. The smattering of money that had been tossed about him indicated that strangers passing by must have had the same reaction. Jo wheeled around to go. She twisted her head to get one final look at him, then turned and walked away.

Each step that further distanced her from him only increased the sick feeling blossoming in the pit of her stomach. She felt as if she were deserting a defenseless animal in need. The back of her head pulsed painfully. She sighed, grabbed the nape of her neck with both hands and roughly massaged her throbbing skull.

"Fuck!" she said under her breath and pivoted back around. She walked directly to him, and before considering the matter for too long, nudged him awake with her foot.

"Ready?"

He leapt to his feet and glancing down saw the partially crumbled bills and change on the ground. Jo noted the adroitness with which he bent down and flipped up the change. She guessed that begging was likely the source of his livelihood.

He smiled and said, "Oh good, the tip."

Jo wondered if he was homeless.

"How long have you been sitting here?" Jo asked him.

"For a while. I forgot to ask when you got out of work," he confessed.

"Why didn't you just come in?"

"I don't know. I didn't want to bother you."

"Are you strange or something?" Jo asked.

"Kind of, but in a good way," he assured her with a quirky smile on one side of his face.

"I'm Francis," he said, "Francis Mangini."

"Jo."

"So," he asked, "are you hungry?"

"Yeah," said Jo, "There's a diner near my house that's open twenty-four hours. They have homemade Twinkies."

"Sounds good," he said politely, "Where are we going?"

"Newton Corner. I have to let my dogs out, first. Hurry or we'll miss the last bus."

They walked at a rapid pace, making it difficult to converse. Jo filled the time by recalling the series of events that had somehow culminated in a dinner date with a total stranger who seemed like even more of a weirdo than most. A man who was about to see where she lived. Well it couldn't be helped. She hadn't planned on actually going through with the dinner, and the dogs had to pee. She took another look at the man beside her—who had broken into a jog to keep up—and relaxed. She was twice his size and armed. One thing was certain, if he tried anything, it would be over quickly.

They had to run the final half block to the stop to reach the waiting bus. The driver, who recognized Jo as a regular on her route, held the doors.

On the ride Jo felt compelled to clarify a few things. "If you think this is a date, it's not," She told Francis, "For it to be a date, there needs to be kissing or the possibility of getting laid, and you're not getting a fucking thing."

"I didn't know there were rules," said Francis.

"Well, there are," Jo stated.

"Any other rules I should know about?" Francis asked earnestly, but with a smile playing on his lips.

"Plenty, but we can cover them as we go. Not really a rule, but I'm not much for small talk." Other than television sitcoms, there was nothing like inane dribble to set Jo's mind wandering. "And I never find quiet awkward."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, looking out the window. The bus dropped them off about twelve blocks from Jo's apartment.

"So, do you like being a tattoo artist?"

"Today was a good day. I had a Bohemian guy come in and I did his forearm."

"I know. I saw it. It was very colorful, with the orange and blue flames."

"I finished that one at 7:30. You were waiting that long?"

"Well, I got some stuff done," he claimed.

"And then I did a girl's entire left shoulder. You probably saw her leave about 9:30. After that I just sat there thinking you stood me up. I didn't realize I'd have to go out and search for you."

"Sorry about that," Francis apologized.

Jo disappeared into her basement apartment, nimbly snapping the leashes hanging by the door onto the collars of the two wriggling dogs, and then reemerged. She was led by one large and one enormous brute, both rippling with muscles under tight skin and short black fur.

"Hey, buddies," Francis said to them, standing still while they sniffed at his opens palms and the legs of his pants.

After briefly greeted him, the dogs went right to business marking favorite sign posts. Francis' calm demeanor and the animals' relaxed posture earned him a few points with Jo.

The dogs strained to continue down the street, but Jo pulled them back into the apartment and told them sternly, "Wait a while."

She and Francis walked down to the Blue Arrow Diner on the corner of Washington and Cleveland streets. The Blue Arrow had bar-style seating with attached, padded stools surrounding the out-in-the-open grill. There were four small booths against the walls on either side and long tables with benches in between. Along the walls were chalkboards with the menu and specials written in colored chalk.

A woman who looked to be in her sixties with a faded name tag that read "Terry" greeted them. "Table for two?"

"Yes, please," Francis answered.

Jo read the walls twice and rested the printed sheet of today's specials on the table for some time, before Terry, the host/waitress/cashier, returned to their booth.

"What would you like?" she asked.

"I'll have the lumberjack breakfast with a side of corn beef hash," Jo said.

"I'll have an English Muffin, toasted with peanut butter," Francis said.

The waitress told him, "We grill them. It's very good."

Francis looked pained. His eyes were fixed on the cook at the grill who was flipping an unending assortment of meats and other food items with just a quick scrape of a metal spatula in between for a cleaning.

He asked, "Is there any way you could toast it?"

"Sure," Terry said scribbling on her pad, "And to drink?"

"Chocolate milkshake," Jo said.

"Water is good. With lemon please," Francis replied, handing Terry the two menus.

"I thought you were starving?" Jo said.

"I am," he replied.

Jo's milkshake arrived, along with Francis' water. He mixed seven packs of sugar into the lemon water.

When their meal came, Jo's oversized plate held three pancakes, three pieces of French toast, three strips of bacon, three sausage links, and a pile of scrambled eggs. There was a heaping bowl of homemade corned beef on the side with freshly grated hash browns mixed in.

Francis' plate had two sides of an English muffin toasted, not grilled, with peanut butter. He sighed in relief.

"I've lived in East Boston my whole life," Francis ventured. Jo looked indifferent. "My two aunts raised me."

Mild interest.

"My parents...I never got to know them, not really. They died when I was three."

Now he had Jo's full attention.

"They were on their way to an office Christmas party one evening, when a newly licensed sixteen-year-old girl, heavily-pierced and with a car full of friends, didn't realize her street came to an end at a T in the road. She barreled into my parents' car nearly head-on. Their car spun out and slammed into a stone wall, releasing its fluids and airbags.

"My parents were okay. They stepped out of the car to phone from a nearby house when a flatbed truck coming around the curve from the other direction plowed into them both. My father died at the scene. My mother was in a coma. I don't remember visiting her in the hospital. She never regained consciousness and after a couple of weeks she passed on, too."

Francis' made several attempts to get Jo to tell him about her family, growing up in Boston, her work, and her dogs. Jo rebuffed each with a shrug, groan, or monosyllabic retort. It was clear that even these seemingly innocuous topics of conversation were off-limits. So he finally settled into telling of tales of the boyish pranks he played on the school grounds or on his doting, but gullible aunts.

"Can I get you anything else?" Terry asked.

Francis looked across the booth at Jo for an answer.

"I need to feed the dogs," she told him.

"The check and four homemade Twinkies, please. Two to go," Francis told the waitress. Then he said to Jo, "For my aunts."

"You see your family willingly," Jo commented, "I do the family thing once a year. My sentence is tomorrow. It's going to take me all morning to get across town to Malden thanks to the cuts in weekend T and bus services."

Francis interjected, "Tomorrow...can I drive you?"

Jo was taken aback. She hoped he hadn't thought she was suggesting such a thing. He didn't look like he had the means for a bicycle much less a car. All at once she felt flushed, feverish. Black spots swam in front of her eyes. The room suddenly seemed to be closing in on her. She needed some fresh air. Without answering, Jo headed for the rest room. She splashed cool water on her forehead and dabbed it dry with a paper towel. She stood in front of the mirror until the normal coloring returned to her face. Jo saw in her reflection her brow furrow and the corners of her mouth twitch into a small frown. She hadn't planned on ever seeing him again. But on the other hand, he seemed harmless enough. And having a ride would reduce an all-day ordeal to just a couple of hours.

When Jo returned to the table, she was perturbed to realize Francis had paid the bill. He'd smoothed out a few of the crumbled dollars for the tip and topped them with a few neat stacks of coins. All at once she was enveloped by the distinctive smell of warm homemade Twinkies. She sidled onto the bench and lifted one of the tubular cakes from the plate in front of her. The first bite into its golden spongy goodness made her all but forget his presumptuousness.

After finishing her dessert in just four bites, Jo asked, "Aren't you going to try one?"

"No, thanks. Please, go ahead," he said, nodding toward the Twinkie still on the plate.

Jo was somewhat curious about his diet, but she didn't pry.

When Jo's mouth was emptied of the creamy goodness, he said, "You didn't answer me. Can I give you ride?"

She was tempted. Perhaps seeing her parents wouldn't be quite so terrible if she had a ride and if Francis were there as a distraction and a buffer.

"Fine. Pick me up at one o'clock."

After leaving the restaurant Francis walked Jo home to her quiet, dimly-lit street. It was a crisp, but not cold, late-September night. Rufus began to howl at the sound of Jo's approaching footsteps.

Francis said, "I can hear your dogs barking to see you, so I'll let you get going. I had a nice time and I'll see you tomorrow." With a warm smile and a wave, he turned and walked away.

As Jo walked up to her apartment, she half-regretted agreeing to a second non-date, but she needed the ride. And besides, if she were being honest with herself, she'd have to admit that he'd stirred her curiosity. Her thoughts were broken by the plaintive wail of dogs that were used to getting fed by ten-thirty, not after midnight. Jo, after being welcomed with an especially enthusiastic greeting, began the feeding ritual. As the dogs wolfed down their dinner, she mused, _What a weird little freak._

# CHAPTER 4: Meet the Parents

The next day, Jo was sitting on the cement stoop in front of her apartment when Francis pulled up driving a faded mint green Chevy Nova compact. He jumped out to meet her. Jo's gaze was on the vehicle and not him.

"Like the wheels? The car was a high school graduation hand-me-down present from my aunts. That and a two-and-a-half ounce bottle of Jake cologne, which I still have by the way. I save it for very special occasions."

In the early fall breeze she breathed in a faint, pleasant fragrance. Jo, with a hand on the passenger-side door handle, glanced through the window at the odometer, noting it read only 78,303 miles.

"I really don't drive much," Francis admitted.

"Anthony's is across the city," Jo said.

"Do you drive? Do you want to?" Francis asked her.

She shrugged. "Sure," and walked around to the driver's seat.

On the drive, Francis ventured, "So, we'll be seeing your folks?"

Jo made no response.

Francis asked, "Tell me about them."

Jo shifted in her seat and clenched her jaw tightly. "Nothing much to say," she mumbled, "A pretty boring pair, actually."

"Really, I want to know," he pressed, and then added playfully, "How else am I going to make a good impression?"

Unamused, Jo launched into a reply. It was her habit when discussing her parents to start with a few dates and facts and then wrap it up quickly with a general, sweeping statement. "My mother married late, especially for back then. To this day, my father reminds her that he was 'her last chance,' as though she still owes him. I was born a few months after she turned forty."

Once she got started, Jo realized how long it had been since she'd said any of this out loud. It felt good to let the words spill out, even though Jo was accustomed to walls going up and people being repelled by her telling. Say the words "child molester" and people immediately conjured up the image of a shady, deviant criminal, the one-in-a-million stranger who plucks a child from her safe, loving home or on her way to school. They don't even considered the much more likely possibility of it being the dad next door who between attending a church service in the morning and the neighborhood block party in the afternoon, quietly molests his own daughter in her own bedroom.

During her childhood years, Jo had found the response to sharing her story to be an unexpected and bitter disappointment. Person after person who she'd confided in, hoping they would throw her a lifeline, instead denied and deserted her. With each unfruitful telling, she sunk further into despair. In her teen and early adult years she went silent. More recently she'd begun to speak up again after discovering an entirely new reason to voice her story. Telling had become a rarely used but powerful method in her arsenal of weapons to distance herself from the human race.

_What the hell,_ she thought, _he asked._

Jo kept her eyes focused on the road ahead. She related the events like a news report of a flash flood, bombing, or other disaster. The account was factual and impartial, providing play-by-play detail of the unfolding drama.

She began with her earliest childhood memory. She figured that would be plenty to shut him up for the rest of the drive. She told him she had just turned three years old. She'd been given an elaborate birthday party with pony rides in the back yard. "It was getting dark and everyone went home. My mother was downstairs cleaning up. I was playing in my bedroom with my new puppet theater when my father came in and told me about 'a puppet in his pants.'" She remembered him pulling out a pink thing that looked to her then like the neck of her Nana's Thanksgiving turkey. He chased her in the bedroom with the pants puppet, poked it at her, and tickled her. She laughed hard, but she had a queasy feeling in her stomach.

Jo finished with, "It just escalated from there."

"That's terrible," Francis said softly.

By that point, Jo was annoyed. Being stuck in the presence of another person had put her in a foul mood. She was sick of his prying questions, and the false sympathy only made matters worse. She knew he didn't give a damn. Besides, it was none of his damn business, even if he did. She decided not to stop. She was going to tell him, tell him everything. She was well aware of the common reaction to her story and decided to use it to be done with him.

Imagining the revulsion he must have been feeling, she continued cruelly walking through the events, maintaining her news reporter tone, hitting the essential facts and the firsts: the first time her father exposed himself, first penis-vaginal contact, first penetration, and at seven, his first orgasm inside of her.

"It was pretty much a monthly episode," she said, "until I left the house for juvenile hall at fourteen."

"Juvenile hall?" he repeated hoarsely.

"Now, that is a whole other story," she said, "My parents bought me only dresses and a lot of sweaters, which by eighth grade were getting tight. I was taller than the other girls, and my curves came in early. Boys were attentive, and some liked to fiddle with me behind the school, feeling my breasts. I didn't mind.

"One boy went too far and put his hands under the skirt of my dress. When I pushed his hand away, he shoved me down and laid his body on top of mine. I grabbed his wrist, pushed, twisted, and heard a snap. The boy turned white. I felt bad; I hadn't meant to do that. I let him fuck me to apologize. And to keep him quiet. He would have too, except apparently he was on some Olympic development team. Who even knew they had lacrosse in the Olympics? He didn't tell right away. But eventually his dad punched it out of him. When the detective came to the school to question me, he discovered that I'd taken to carrying my dad's handgun in my backpack. That, along with the fact that the judge was a good friend of a friend of the boy's father, well, I spent almost two years in juvie."

The time in juvenile hall was the best part of her childhood, such as it was. First of all it got her away from _him_. Second, she learned how to protect herself and picked up the necessary survival skills for not only the present circumstance, but also to prepare for any future prison time and life itself.

She quipped, "The wisdoms I picked up there would make for a pocket-sized book to sell at the front counter of Barnes and Noble, _All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Juvenile Hall_."

It was there Jo discovered the top three ways to deflect a beating and, when necessary, how to take one without crying out. She learned to show no emotion except disinterest and menace: heavy on the former with those in power and on the latter with everyone else. There she came to realize that ultimate control comes from not giving a damn about anything, or anyone, and most especially yourself.

There was nearly unlimited weight room access. The gym was one of the few places consuming enough to keep her mind from wandering back to episodes perpetrated by her father. Frequent workouts plus a steady fare of bologna, baked beans, and peach halves in heavy syrup rocketed her weight from one hundred forty-five pounds to a solid two hundred fifty. As her body transformed she experienced with it, for the first time, a surge of power. She was awarded a wider berth and begrudging respect from the other girls and an increasing disinterest from the male "chaperones." Chopping her hair into a ragged bob and dying it black with contraband shoe polish completed the effect.

Jo hadn't foreseen that her under-the-radar approach would result in an early release for good behavior. Three months before her sixteenth birthday, she was handed off to her parents with an ankle tracking bracelet and a court order for house parole. Both parents retrieved her, as both were required to be present to sign the release forms.

Once the three were alone in the car, her father greeted her with, "You look like shit."

She responded, "What do you care, you sick fuck," and braced herself for a heavy back handed slap across the face.

None came.

Her father gripped the steering wheel tighter. They rode in silence, with her mother rubbing the palm of one hand over the knuckles of the other the whole way home.

And with that, as suddenly as it had started, the episodes were over.

Francis was silent in the seat next to her. Jo wasn't sure he was listening. Probably like the others she'd told in her younger years, he had rolled up an invisible glass window between them in denial, distaste, disgust, _horror_. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. _Well, fuck him._ She was driving so she would certainly get to the restaurant. She didn't much care if he took off from there and she never saw him again. In fact, she hoped he would. She'd never before used her past with such force or so cruelly. She'd rendered him silent, so obviously it had worked.

Jo risked a quick sidelong glance. To her amazement, she saw tears flowing down Francis' face. She stared at him for a long moment. Unashamed, he gazed back at her through tear-filled, sympathetic eyes. She returned her attention back to the road, her forehead wrinkling in disbelief. She'd never seen a man sob in sorrow before. She'd heard them howl, cry out, or blubber only in pain. She was caught off guard by his reaction, and was starting to feel flustered. For once she had no idea whatsoever how to respond.

Jo spied a subway T station stop ahead. She swerved into a spot by the curb that was clearly marked _"No parking or standing"_ and jerked the car to a stop.

"You know what," she announced unbuckling her seatbelt, "I'm going to go."

"No, no. Don't go. Don't go. I'm fine," Francis said, struggling to regain his composure. "Hey, I'm fine," Francis insisted, his words halting.

Francis wiped his eyes several times. Jo stared hard at him. This man was so very odd. His dark chocolate-colored eyes, just one shade lighter than his large black pupils, were rimmed with red and made him look like a sad Basset Hound puppy. One that needed rescuing—from what she did not know.

Jo's mind raced trying to fathom why Francis appeared to be so moved. Why would he care about her? He barely knew her. Maybe his reaction was a ploy. An attempt to score some points—erroneously thinking he could cash in later. Jo was about to call him out with a stinging accusation. She stared at him critically. Then hesitated. He twisted his body towards hers, and leaned forward just a bit, his face tear-streaked. She could sense he wanted to reach out, touch her shoulder, maybe even take her into his arms. She gave him her iciest stare. He leaned back into his seat, still searching her face. Something inside her couldn't help but notice the authenticity of his quiet tears.

Without bothering to re-buckle her seatbelt, she wordlessly pulled out of the parking spot onto the building Sunday afternoon city traffic. There seemed to be nothing else that needed to be said, so they drove in silence, Francis occasionally wiping away a stray tear.

After a bit, Francis brightened. "I know where we are," he piped up. "Let's stop. I want you to meet somebody, well two somebodies. My aunts' place is right on the way." He added, "If you aren't in a rush to get to the party."

The excuse to put off seeing her parents even for just a little longer was enticing. "Fine," she said flatly, thankful for the diversion, but careful to mask any hint of gratitude.

"Francis, what a wonderful surprise!" Two stout aunts shrieked, as they descended upon Jo with open arms.

Jo looked down at the tops of their heads as she disappeared, from the neck down, into their warm, fleshy hugs and ample bosoms. The women introduced themselves as Francis' aunts, Francesca and Angelina, but Jo didn't catch which was which.

Stepping back, Aunt One threw her hands up and exclaimed, "Just look at you!"

Aunt Two said to Francis, "She's lovely, just like you said."

Aunt One continued, "So pleased to finally meet you."

Aunt Two finished, "We've heard so much about you."

The exuberance of their greeting made Jo curious as to what attention they might bestow on any woman who actually _completed_ a second date with their nephew.

"Come, please sit down," an aunt invited, leading Jo into the kitchen. "Don't mind the dog," she said, as a wet nose pressed against Jo's hand and a warm coat touched her leg.

Jo instinctively scratched the dog's neck right behind his left ear, and he leaned heavily against her. He looked like a sheep about to deliver twin lambs. He was a mostly white, medium-sized terrier mix with triangle ears, a pointed nose, wiry fur, and a curled tail.

"His name is Goblin," an aunt informed her as she offered the dog a milkbone.

Goblin sniffed at the biscuit disinterestedly. The other added, "We got him at Halloween."

One aunt scooped Maxwell House grinds into a percolator coffeepot on the stove and set the flame to medium high. In the kitchen, the four sat around a yellow Formica-topped table with a grooved metal ring around the side.

"Francis tells us you're a tattoo artist," one of the aunts chattered excitedly, "He says you're quite talented. It must be wonderful to be artistic and use your talent to bring enjoyment, and joy, and healing. We just love the show 'Miami Ink' she said with a coy smile, "Does everyone really have a story? You must meet the most interesting people."

_It's clear where Francis got his gift of gab,_ Jo thought.

Jo's eyes wandered through the series of school pictures of a small, brown-haired boy hung across the wall of the tiny kitchen. By his teens, he was unmistakably Francis. Then Jo settled her gaze on a Lincoln Log cabin showcased on a rounded built-in corner shelf with a faded blue ribbon hanging down one side.

An aunt, noticing Jo's gaze, boasted proudly, "Francis did the whole thing himself, every bit of it, you know."

Francis chided, "Come on Auntie, Jo is going to think I peaked at eight."

"Now, Francis," said his aunt patting his arm, "there's no reason to be modest." She launched into the story, as if it had happened just the day before. "Each child could pick a certain number of pieces and had to decide which to use and make up their own design. When the parents arrived for the presentation, all four sides of the gymnasium displayed the cabins of the lower elementary students. And in the center, right up on the stage—I recognized it right away—right up on the stage was Francis' log cabin," she announced, smiling broadly, "And a bright blue first prize ribbon." Her eyes were wet as she patted Francis' arm again.

The pot bubbled, filling the kitchen with the rich smell of coffee. One aunt poured three cups of the dark liquid and placed the mugs on the table along with a half-gallon carton of cream, a large bowl filled with sugar, and spoons.

The other aunt busied herself catering to Francis, laying out before him a paper plate and knife, a box of Townhouse crackers, a jar of peanut butter, a glass of chocolate milk, and finally a red and green Macintosh apple, expertly prepared on the spot using a circular metal contraption that surrounded the fruit, cored it, and produced six even slices with one press.

She then began emptying the contents from the refrigerator, which were layered on top of one another, onto the table before them. Cold cuts, sliced cheeses, olives, cold cheese ravioli, antipasto, cooked lobster still in the shell, Scali bread, butter, and ricotta cheese cake.

Jo surveyed the feast and noticed Goblin's mild interest as an aunt hand fed him a slice of roast beef. She surmised that Francis' food jag had likely spared him from suffering a similar fate as the bursting-at-the-seams terrier. Jo consumed a respectable portion of the offering, even though she was motivated more by politeness than appetite.

The aunts continued to chatter away for another several minutes about the virtues of their nephew, claiming some extraordinary SAT, MCAT, LSAT and other scores on tests that Jo only vaguely knew the purpose of, as well as his generosity and acts of kindness. Nothing Francis said could derail them. Even when he begged, "Please stop! It's better to receive our rewards in heaven than recognition on earth. At this rate, I'll be getting squat."

Seeing the futility of his efforts, Francis sat back and just let them go on, squirming in his seat. He lifted his hands palms upward apologetically. He tried to distract Jo with eye rolling and other humorous and dismissive gestures, but she was hanging on each word. She realized that, for all Francis' verbosity during their dinner date, this was the first she'd heard anything personal about him, his activities, what made him tick. The picture the aunts painted was quite different from her initial impression of him as a defenseless street person. In spite of herself, Jo was intrigued.

Long before Jo had her fill of the conversation, Francis insisted, "We can't stay any longer. Jo's family is waiting."

They headed for the front door, trailed by the two aunts. There was another round of hugs and an invitation to come back and visit very soon. Jo said goodbye and inhaled deeply a last breathe of the warmth and smells of this place. Despite the pleasant weather, as Jo walked out the door, she shivered as though enveloped by a raw, dark cloud.

Upon arriving at the restaurant, Jo and Francis were directed to a back room. A sign at the entryway read, "THE ORSIANO PARTY — HAPPY 80TH BIRTHDAY, GINO." It was spelled out in black plastic letters stuck onto a grooved board. Jo stood immobile before the sign, studying the two slightly mismatched lettering styles. She wondered for the hundredth time, _What am I doing here?_

How was it that her father always managed to guilt her into doing some favor for him? Like that day, attending the party so that her mother didn't have to explain Jo's absence to the family. If someone had asked her why she always ended up helping him out or why she gave two figs for the man who'd made her life beyond miserable, Jo couldn't have answered. She didn't know herself.

Why did she care? Why had she felt such a compulsion as a child to gain his affection? And even now as an adult to abide by his wishes? She gritted her teeth. She hated herself even as she cleaned his gutters, babysat the cat, picked up prescriptions, and that day, for showing up at the party.

She despised this man. Hated him with every bone in her body and cursed him most nights before she fell asleep. Yet somehow she couldn't turn him away. The guilt ate her up inside anytime he needed her and she told him, "no." The inexplicable need to take care of her father was as irresistible as it was sickening.

Jo took a deep breath and tossed her head. Francis, who'd been standing quietly beside her, asked, "Ready?"

She shook her head. _I don't have to do this! Turn around. Just walk away._ With a heavy sigh, she led the way through the threshold.

A small, white haired, hunched woman who walked with a cane and had Jo's eyes, approached them. She took Jo's hand and gave it a quick squeeze, saying almost inaudibly, "Gino will be so pleased you've come, Juliana." Then she released her and continued shuffling along, greeting other guests.

No one else took notice of Jo as she, with Francis beside her, headed across the noisy, crowded floor. Jo grabbed a folding chair that was leaning against the wall, set it up in the far corner if the room, and hunkered down. Francis pulled up a chair beside her.

Francis' repeated attempts to make conversation with Jo failed. She barely heard what he was saying, the words falling on her ears in an unintelligible jumble. Jo scanned the room intently. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, and focused to maintain a distant look, as a furrow deepened in her brow.

Finally Francis asked her, "Mind if I work the crowd?"

"Sure, fine," she murmured without looking in his direction.

As he stood, a man emerged from the crowd and strode towards them with a woman in tow. The man had a heavy build, an ashen face, and a protruding stomach. The woman was trim with a neat salon haircut, color, and curls. She wore a straight black dress and crisp white half jacket. Her lips were pressed in a red line. She held a wine glass in one hand with a few sips of white wine still left in it. Her other arm was wrapped tightly around her waist.

The man glared at Francis through squinted eyes and said to him, "Juliana didn't tell us she'd be bringing anyone."

Jo turned her eyes to the woman and said to her, "Hi Ma. This is my friend, Francis."

"Oh, ho! A friend," her father retorted, clamping Francis roughly on the shoulder, "Maybe, a _boy_ friend? Come. We need to get acquainted."

The large man led the way to the buffet table. After Francis piled a plate with Townhouse crackers, Jo's father leaned over to him and whispered at length. She could see Francis' jaw was clenched, his posture rigid, awkward. He listened politely, but it was clear to Jo that he wasn't about to get friendly or chatty with her father.

In her husband's absence, Jo's mother became more animated. Jo gritted her teeth and braced herself for her mother's assault.

"Oh, Juliana. Just look at you! Why do you insist on wearing that getup," she sniffed. "You look like a farmer. For God's sake, they had this _catered_. I still have a closetful of beautiful dresses in your bedroom at home," she went on, "Of course none of those would fit you now..."

Jo was unable to hold back any longer interrupting the diatribe in midstream, "You look well, Mother." She continued slowly and deliberately, "No visible bruises. Did he keep it to the rib cage, with the big bash coming up on the horizon?"

Her mother hissed back, "Why do you have to be so hateful?" The woman whirled away. Letting out a soft yelp, she clutched her midsection more tightly.

A pang of guilt stabbed Jo, and she immediately regretted spewing out such a heartless, and apparently spot-on, remark. She leaned forward in her chair and pleaded with the retreating back, "Oh Ma, I'm sorry!"

Her mother wandered off, Jo knew, in search of another glass of wine and her husband.

Jo whispered, "I didn't know." She chewed the inside of her left thumbnail raw, and small vertical dents formed on each side of her forehead.

Afterwards, in the car, Francis' face was drawn and for once his boundless energy drained. "Wow," he said. He drove without speaking for a while. And finally said, "That's not okay."

# CHAPTER 5: Crusades

After the family party, alone at home, Jo felt restless and agitated. Her mind raced. She took the dogs out and gave the rats a treat but was immune to any further pleas for attention. Instead, she set out alone on her nightly rounds. She would be a vigilante and pose as a member of Pet Ink, a group of tattooed tough guys who had a soft spot for lost, stolen, or mistreated pets and dogs living on the street. Jo was not a joiner; she simply claimed an affiliation.

She reached into her side pocket for a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers she'd collected over the previous few weeks from lost dog ads and posters. It was amazing how trusting people could be when they were distraught over a missing pet and how much personal information they would disclose. After an initial interview with the owner, she'd gather information from neighbors, people out on the street, the homeless, or even cops. No one ever questioned her credentials.

On rare occasions, she found and delivered the actual dog to the doorstop of his home on a late night ring-and-run. She always claimed, in a note, that the continued success of Pet Ink depended on their members' anonymity. The best reward was a donation to a no-kill shelter and for the owners to keep their mouths shut. Other times, by following leads on a stolen pet, she found some other neglected or abused creature even more in need of redemption.

When the mission involved beating up the perpetrator, as it often did, it made the night crusade all the better. Jo wouldn't mind another stint in prison, if unavoidable. She had arrangements set with a shelter worker for her animals' care, if that should happen, with the phone number memorized for her call from a jail cell. However, that scenario seemed more and more unlikely with each successful mission; she didn't know whether the animal abusers she encountered had rap sheets or just knew they had it coming. But, in either case, no one yet had reported an incident.

Angrily, list in hand, Jo headed for the streets.

The long night was quiet and uneventful doing little to improve Jo's foul mood. She was still brewing when she turned around for home in the wee hours of the morning.

Jo's return trip loosely tracked the gaping gash that was the Massachusetts Turnpike. The Turnpike was noisy and unsightly, an eyesore whose rusting chain-link fences failed to keep its ugliness out of the neighborhoods, rich and poor, that it passed through. Along the edges of the Pike, animals, the homeless, and other wanderers had built a network of paths and shelters, breaks in fences, camps, and exits out to the city streets. It was a miniature city of its own, with a street system and amenities expressly for the desperate citizens of Boston. Jo found it a convenient way to travel between the parts of town that had been separated by the highway, preferring it to the wide open bridges and avenues above.

Jo was about halfway home, treading a path that for a few feet passed close to a cobblestoned courtyard on a dead end street. It was an expensive, gentrified section of the city. At four o'clock AM, the hardworking residents of Bay Village slept soundly, resting themselves to rise early and go earn the money for their hefty mortgages and Volvo leases. Just before Jo stepped into the clearing, she was startled by a soft, snuffling sound and low murmuring. She froze, just out of view of the street. She bent low, and peered out carefully.

On the stoop of a classy townhouse stood a short figure with a slight build. Disheveled and sobbing, she adjusted her work clothes, which had clearly been put on hurriedly: stiletto heels, tight-fitting black leggings, a tiny black miniskirt with belt, a low-cut leopard print top, and enormous hoop earrings. She pulled off a skewed wig of garish red hair. When she turned her face toward the street lamp, Jo realized in horror that this prostitute was a child no more than twelve or thirteen years old.

A door slammed in the townhouse, and the sole light burning on the third floor switched off. The girl shivered as tears smeared her makeup. Her muffled sobs were the only sound. Jo was frozen in place, not wanting to reveal herself and unsure what to do, when headlights turned the corner of the short street.

"Shit," Jo mumbled, as she watched a shiny black Lexus sedan glide to a stop in front of the townhouse.

The girl made no move toward the car. The driver's side door opened; out stepped a man, medium sized, medium skin tone, unremarkable in every way except for the furious scowl on his face. He called out quietly but angrily to the girl in a guttural, choppy sounding language Jo did not recognize. The girl shook her head and replied, pointing to the third floor window. The trick had ended badly, apparently. The man's voice rose; he gestured angrily toward the passenger door. The girl shook her head again, and the man bounded up the steps.

He seized the girl by the hair with one hand, covered her mouth to muffle her cry with the other, and dragged her down the steps to the sidewalk. On the sidewalk, he swung her around with his back facing Jo and persisted in his incomprehensible grilling. Then, he raised his hand to strike her. But to his surprise, an iron hand wrapped around his wrist, a granite shoulder came up under his side, and he went crashing down onto the hood of a parked car.

The girl gasped and backed away as Jo seized the man again. He never saw or heard her coming. As he tried to right himself on the car hood, Jo smashed her fist into his upturned face. Blood and spit sprayed out; a tooth hung crookedly in his gaping mouth. His hands shot toward her, but she already had a handful of his hair and one forearm. She flipped him over like a pancake and smashed his face again into the hood of the car. The car alarm started blaring. In one smooth move, Jo tossed the man off the car. He hit the sidewalk face first and groaned. Jo stepped gracefully between his spread-eagled legs and aimed a field-goal kick directly between them. The man let out a shriek and vomit flowed from his mouth, puddling around his face. He lay still.

"Fucking pimp," Jo spat at him.

The car alarm had stopped its rant, but a light was on in the townhouse. Jo looked the girl calmly in the eyes. Obviously this victim was not, as Jo wished for a flickering instant, one she could slip into her overall bib. Jo saw the look in the girl's eyes; a look she would never forget. She saw in them the terror, abuse, and shame of the years, with just the tiniest hint of relief beginning to creep in. Jo knew she'd forever carry with her the haunting image of the slight girl with silky black hair and dark almond eyes and the worry over whether she was okay or even alive.

"Run," Jo said.

The girl must have known enough English to understand the word and what the moment meant to her. She pivoted and leapt away like a gazelle. With a quick tip-tapping on the cobblestones, the girl vanished into the darkness. Then, Jo disappeared through a hole in the fence to the litter-strewn highway.

As the morning sun rose over the city, Francis leafed through the work clothes in his closet. He couldn't walk out the door in a suit; it would draw too much attention from his neighbors. No matter—the agenda for the day was casual. When his work involved dressing in jeans or slacks, he could get dressed at home, which he much preferred over maneuvering into a suit in the men's room at the airport or on the plane. He put his hand on one of the pairs of custom jeans and smiled thinking of the multiple fittings and five-hundred-dollar price tag. They were his favorite pants, but he wasn't sure of the dress code on the golf course where he'd be working. Instead, he settled on a pair of pressed khakis. He matched them with a light blue polo shirt and slipped on soft leather boat shoes.

Francis gazed into the tall, thin, almost full-length mirror nailed to the wall and was satisfied with the effect. He would blend in, with everyone plainly seeing but not noticing him, just like the main character of G.K. Chesterton's "The Invisible Man," a short story he remembered reading in high school. As an afterthought, he put on his own worn jacket for warmth and to fit in with his East Boston neighbors. He could always leave the jacket in the car. He also brought a new windbreaker, carefully rolled so it wouldn't wrinkle, to change into later. Then he exited out the back door, walked around to the front steps, and waited.

The sun had not fully risen. He watched the cars drive by, carrying morning people to their jobs and saw the high school kids starting to congregate for the bus. He wished he could tell Jo where he was going, what he was doing, and who he'd be seeing. Though truthfully, it would not be a particularly interesting day for him. He just wanted to impress her with a little name dropping. He felt a pang of remorse as he wondered for a moment whether or not name-dropping was a form of pride. _Is bragging about your associations as sinful as bragging about yourself?_

Francis had plenty to boast about on both fronts. He'd taken over his parents' business more than a decade before, on his twenty-first birthday. Back then, each day was a novel and exciting immersion into the world of wealth, power, beautiful people, politicians, world leaders, the rich and famous. As time went on, Francis found it took more power, more wealth, more fame to get that same rush and eventually to have any effect at all.

Francis had made an unfortunate discovery long before. People could become desensitized to anything, no matter how amazing or disgusting it seemed at first, simply by doing it over and over again.

He pondered whether he was at the same place, mentally, as a veteran septic tank pumper who had been completely grossed out on his first day of work. Francis went on to imagine a young man just starting out in the profession struggling to hold back from retching, and then imagined the same guy ten years later, barely noticing the stench of human waste that surrounded him. Perhaps he, like Francis, felt trapped, but resigned to his lot in life and was just trying to get through another day, with the best part of it being able to spend a few hours outside in the sunshine.

Francis was growing increasingly sick of all of it. He was tired of the great chasm between the obscenely rich and the desperately poor. Tired of the cruelty directly and indirectly caused by those who valued things like shiny rocks, oil, or drugs more than their fellow man. Tired of the utter stupidity of mankind, a species who spent inordinate amounts of time pursuing largely unattainable things that, even if acquired, made them unhappy like riches, promotions, and fame, all the while neglecting the true sources of happiness from family, nature, God, and love that were right in front of them. He was tired of spending day and night trying to do something about it, and yet always falling short in how much and how fast true change, if any, came about. Sometimes it all seemed futile.

A black Toyota Avalon pulled up to the curb in front of Francis' home. No one in the East Boston neighborhood could have suspected that veiled behind the tinted windows was Charles Davis, a philanthropist and one of the country's richest men. Francis knew Charles preferred riding in the Porsche, he'd reminded Francis of that repeatedly. But Charles knew he had to keep a low profile when picking Francis up from home. Francis rose from the front step, opened the car door, and jumped into the back seat beside him.

As the driver pulled away from the curb, Charles said, "Geez Francis, why you insist on living in this dump?" Francis strapped on his seat belt. "Are we going commercial?" Charles asked him.

Francis replied, "No, the private jet. I'll need to brief you on the way. Besides you tee-off at one. We'll come home tonight on Delta, though. The red eye."

Charles raised an eyebrow.

"It can't be helped," Francis said, "The Carters will be at the Kennedy Library tomorrow to attend that event with Caroline, and you'll be having breakfast with them in the morning. Hey, at least _you'll_ be flying back first class."

"Speaking of class," Charles said with disdain, "I hope you're planning to leave that jacket in the car. God, Francis, have you been shopping at the Good Will again?"

Francis waved his L.L. Bean windbreaker in the air. "I've got my work jacket."

Charles pressed. "Let me buy you a coat"

"I'm good," Francis replied his jaw taut, trying not to sound irritated.

Sometimes Charles got too caught up in the illusion. He forgot he was the front man who was only _playing_ the role of a billionaire.

Charles Davis, whose birth name was Stuart Clay, had been hired when he was just fifteen by Francis' father. In high school, Stuart had been a strong athlete, a promising thespian starring in every annual school play since middle school, popular with classmates, and well-liked by the teachers in his small, rural, southern high school. Francis' father had groomed Stuart for the job of the front man, which Francis secretly thought of as the "puppet," until "Charles" made his first public appearance at the age of twenty-one.

Since his emergence into the public eye, Charles lived on an allowance, albeit a hefty one. Everything from his seven penthouse apartments in four countries to his designer Italian sunglasses and shoes were on loan to him as payment—or more accurately a bribe—to maintain his role as the man in the public radar. A generous monthly pension fund would ensure his silence in his retirement and an inheritance to his children would keep him quiet to his grave. Once a person was accustomed to living rich, it was almost impossible for him to go back.

Francis had assumed his father's job when he was of age. Like his father before him, Francis was the middle man—the conduit. Francis needed to stay as private and as invisible as possible. He was like the magician's assistant who performed the real magic in the background while Charles, the magician, took the spotlight mesmerizing the crowd with his smile and flare.

Francis had inherited the traits of a good conduit from his father. He was highly intelligent and non-egotistical with a photographic memory. In addition, both father and son had the same strong sense of responsibility and a burning desire to better the world.

The third layer and final player was the sponsor. Francis always thought of the sponsor as the "puppet master," since he pulled the strings. He was the decision maker. The sponsor's identity was a mystery to the front man/puppet, a fact that, over the years, had increasingly irritated Charles.

It marveled Francis that Charles had not yet discovered the obvious truth about the sponsor. But as his father liked to say, "Once someone gets into his head that an answer is complex, he forever loses the ability to see the simple solution that is right in front of his face."

They drove to a tiny airfield and were waved through the security gate. Charles and Francis walked from the car, across the tarmac, up the rolling stairs, and boarded the private jet. Inside, there were three pairs of comfortable tan leather seats along either side. A wide space in-between fit a round-edged, rectangular conference table anchored to the floor along with the six chairs surrounding it. There was a fully-stocked bar across the back of the cabin.

Francis was trained and certified as an airline steward, which afforded him a double benefit. It let him eavesdrop on meetings between Charles and influential donors, and, on trips such as that day's, he and Charles could travel alone, with just the pilot, and meet FAA's regulation for having a steward or stewardess aboard a jet with a filed flight plan.

Once airborne, Francis took about twenty minutes to brief Charles on the upcoming meeting. "Ted and Jane invited you for golf under the guise of a purely social meeting," Francis began.

"Are they on again?" Charles interrupted.

"Still claiming to be just good friends. Our sources say they've been getting more and more involved in collaborating on something they're calling the 'Turner Environmental Decade.' It's likely they're going to ask for matching funding, which is fine. We certainly have the resources on our end, but they're going to have to ante up a good chunk of change upfront. Also, you know how Jane tends to jump from one pet project to the next, so I'm sure the sponsor is going to want the funding they receive to be paid incrementally. And it's got to be tied to clear milestones. Just get them talking about the specifics for me, will you? You know use the usual lines, 'That's interesting, tell me more about that.' I'll give you the signal if I need details. It has to be clear that this is seed money. And find out what the global implications are."

Francis could see Charles starting to shift in his seat and eye the bar, even though it was barely eight o'clock in the morning.

"Just one more thing," Francis went on, "I'll call the sponsor to get the final okay. When I have all I need, I'll say something like 'Hey Boss, you want me to make that call to New York?'"

At this, Charles perked up. "So he's in New York. Living in New York?"

Francis sighed. "I don't know where he lives," he lied, "nor do I have any idea who he is. He's *1 on my cell, and that's how I contact him. That's all I know. If he needs anything, he gets the message to me."

Francis reclined in the leather seat, feigning exhaustion, and closed his eyes. Charles was an exceptional front man, but he wore Francis out. Despite their close working relation, the two had surprisingly little in common.

"Hey, Francis," Charles began.

"Hmmm?" he replied.

"Are you coming tomorrow?"

Francis wished he could. He didn't know how much longer Jimmy and Rosalynn would continue to make public appearances.

"No," Francis said, "Philip will cover the Carters."

Francis hoped Charles wasn't getting chatty on him. If his faked exhaustion ploy failed, he could always pull the New Testament out of his back pocket and try to engage Charles in some theology. Francis wondered briefly if using scriptures to be left alone was a sin. Probably.

Suddenly, a wave of sincere tiredness hit him, and he sunk further into the leather. Francis thought about Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter. Jimmy had just turned eighty-five and welcomed the birth of his latest great-grandchild into the world. Francis first met the couple years before; Jimmy was one of those rare people who would strike up a conversation with anyone from any walk of life. Francis, at the time, was posing as Charles' handyman. Jimmy had questions about installing affordable electric wiring and inquired about whether Francis might have some time to help with a new housing development in New Orleans. Francis found it hard to resist his kindly advances, despite knowing full well that even casual conversation could jeopardize his invisibility and position as the conduit.

So it would be Francis' backup, Philip, who would cover the Carters. Philip, whose real name was James, had apprenticed under Francis for the previous year as the middle man. He was much better than Francis was in deflecting friendly overtures. It was one of the many ways the student had surpassed the teacher.

Philip was always thinking. He had an unusual ability to shift easily between the big picture and minute detail. His name change, for example. "Jesus, Francis, I can't go with 'James.' Too obvious. It sounds like I really am a goddamn butler."

Hours later, Francis was awakened by a slightly bumpy landing at a private airfield. They were about thirty miles northeast of Rancho Palos Verdes, an affluent Los Angeles suburb built on the bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Their West Coast limousine driver met them at the jet. Awaiting them in the wrap-around back seat area was a hot plate of mahi-mahi and dirty rice with fresh pineapple for Charles and "the usual" for Francis. They ate on the drive and arrived at Trump National Golf Club shortly before one o'clock local time.

It was a hot, but not scorching, day in Southern California. The sun felt good on Francis' skin, like going back a season to an end-of-June Boston summer's day. Francis had met, or more accurately been in the company of, Ted Turner and Jane Fonda a half-dozen times over the years. A broad smile and hint of a Spanish accent produced the desired comfortably disinterested response.

The business side of the game was quickly initiated, presented to Charles mostly by Jane with Ted filling in details and numbers. Francis listened in while serving as the caddy for the trio. By the eleventh hole, Jane, Ted, and Charles had diverted their attention whole-heartedly to the golf game. Francis gave Ted's golf ball a quick rub on his cloth and rested it on the tee. At least it gave Francis something to do. In his mind, the only thing more dull than golfing was watching other people golf.

Francis surreptitiously glanced at his watch for the fifth time in seven minutes. Thank God, it was almost three o'clock. Time to make the call. Francis excused himself and searched for a private spot, well out of earshot of Charles. He settled on one side of the hexagonal bench in a deserted gazebo a short distance from the clubhouse. Francis was surprised to feel perspiration on his palms. He wiped his hands on one of the still-clean golf ball cloths in his back pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed *1.

Jo picked up on the third ring.

"Hey," she said. Francis thought she sounded surprised, but not disappointed, to hear his voice. "I just went on break."

"I know," said Francis, "It's six o'clock. Let me guess. You're in the so-called break room, enjoying the silence after clicking off the credits to Oprah, relaxing on the black faux leather chair, opening a Tupperware of lasagna, and unwrapping your provolone and salami on Scali bread."

Francis regretted the words the moment they left his lips. The long silence that followed confirmed his misstep. He imagined her putting her salami sandwich down with half the cellophane still in place, eyes darting along the walls, ceilings, and the base of lamps looking for some sort of camera feed.

"Sorry," Francis apologized, "Conversations stick with me. You told me when you have a dinner break, and I saw the party leftovers your cousin packed for you."

Still no word on the other end of the line.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ Francis thought. Then he prayed, "Don't let me blow it now," and barreled ahead. "So anyways, I was thinking we could meet Sunday at eleven o'clock at that café we passed on the way to the diner? You know, the one with the green awning? I think it's called Teedo's." Francis knew it was Teedo's Outdoors Café. He also remembered its exact location and dozens of descriptive features about the place, but was careful this time to avoid saying too much.

No reply. Francis knew the phone was still connected from the faint sound of the sitcom laugh track in the background. He continued, desperately thinking this might be his one and only chance to express something that had been weighing heavily on his mind. "I've been thinking about what you told me in the car on the way to the party. A lot. I had an idea."

"Yeah?"

She was still there! And she sounded interested, so he ventured. "Have you ever thought about legal action?"

"Yeah," she said flatly.

"Okay then. This idea, how about I float it by you on Sunday?" Francis winced and held his breathe. _Please, please say "Yes."_

"Uh...Okay. Sure."

"Good," Francis replied and immediately changed to a more innocuous topic. "So what's new? Beat anyone up lately?" he joked.

Another long silence.

"Chase anyone off the T?" he asked hopefully.

"Oh yeah, that. No, last night was pretty quiet. But I did come across a guy last week who was thinking about stringing up a decrepit old tom cat to a barbed wire fence. Let's just say I dissuaded him from that thought," Jo replied. "How about you? Earning a living? Did you remember the tin can today? Any good tips?"

Francis smiled happily and feigned insult. "Most of my spendable income comes from cashing in deposit bottle empties, if you must know. But no, today I've been busy finishing a political thriller. What do you think about the idea that all charismatic leaders, including several presidents from Roosevelt to Reagan, are hired actors, puppets of brilliant, albeit socially awkward, closet billionaires?" Francis began.

Twenty minutes later, Francis said goodbye to Jo and headed back toward the golf game. As he hurried over the plush, gentle slopes, he felt like he was floating above the greens. In five days, he would see Jo again.

As soon as Francis caught sight of Charles, even at a distance, he knew the man was irritated. Charles could be a baby about caddying for himself and was embarrassed knowing that his companions were not accustomed to self-service golfing either.

"Damn it, Francis," Charles said, "We're down two holes."

Francis bristled. He'd have a talk with Charles later. For the moment, he covered up his feelings with a grin and a loud, "Sorry, Boss."

As Francis approached, Charles handed him two golf balls.

In one sweeping motion, Francis leaned in to take the objects and whispered into Charles' ear, "The sponsor is onboard. Let's do this."

# CHAPTER 6: The Sentence

The following Sunday at Teedo's cafe, Jo sipped a hot coffee with extra cream and extra sugar while Francis stirred a tall, cold glass of chocolate milk.

"So, how did you like my parents?" Jo asked sarcastically.

Francis replied, "You know Jo, all of it...it's just not okay."

"Yeah, I know," she said. Then after a few seconds she confided, "I've stopped by the Newton Police station three times over the years. I've rehearsed the words, saying them over and over in front of a mirror. 'I'd like to report a crime.' How hard could it be?"

"Very difficult, I'd imagine," Francis replied.

"Every time I got to the desk, the words caught in my throat, and I asked for directions instead," she said. "The last time when I was there waiting, a woman actually reported a rape. It was...ah, educational."

Francis asked, "What happened? How does it work?"

She rubbed her forehead, remembering. The officer at the front desk was a woman. Otherwise, she would have walked out right then. Officer Murray. She had that no-nonsense cop look. Hair pulled back and uniform complete with the gun, billy club, pepper spray, and a not-exactly-slimming bullet-proof vest.

Jo said, "It was a female cop at the desk. She had a nice voice, kind of soothing, and asked the woman, 'What happened, hun?' The woman came right out with it. 'I've been raped.'''

Jo recalled how Officer Murray hit a button near her shoulder that activated a microphone and said, "Dispatch, we have a 261." Within a few seconds, an athletic man also in uniform joined them from a behind a locked door just a few feet away. He introduced himself to the woman as Sergeant Lucier and then with a nod to the cop at the desk said, "I'll cover this, Cindy."

Jo said, "As soon as I saw it that it was a man who would hear the woman's story, I almost bolted, but I was curious about what would happen next."

"So, what happened?"

"They moved across the room. I followed them, keeping my distance. He asked whether she was injured. It turns out that she had waited several days to report the incident. So, he called off the ambulance, which was on the way. Then he said to her, 'We're going to go in the back, and you're going to tell me everything.'

"Then I took off. I spend every waking minute trying _not_ to remember these episodes. I can't imagine spilling out all one hundred twenty-eight of them to some stranger, the whole time wondering if any of it is giving him a hard-on."

Francis said, "You know, Jo, it might not be like that. Maybe it would be freeing. You wouldn't be judged. It's a conversation that needed to happen a long time ago."

Jo thought about it for a minute. "I might be able to say some of it. One time. If there was no record, and I knew they would never repeat what I said. But I don't want to be dragged through the mud, saying it in front of a cop, and then a lawyer, and then in a courtroom while some court reporter writes it all down for a permanent record that who-knows-how-many people will read."

"Well, it doesn't necessarily even have to go to trial," Francis said, "I know someone. He owes me a favor. He's very good."

Jo gave a skeptical look.

"I've known him for years and would trust him with my life. I think you'll like him. Why don't we just go talk to him, and he can explain the whole process. Then you can decide what you want to do."

Jo bit her lip and said nothing.

"Let me tell you a little bit about Jay Yarmo. First of all, he's a very good friend, and I know he'll do this. At no cost. Second, when I say he's good, I mean spectacular. You know Alan Dershowitz?"

"Sure. I've seen 'Reversal of Fortune.'" Plus Jo recalled the summer she suffered through Keisha's obsession with the Court TV televised O.J. Simpson trial re-run, which played in the shop's break room for an excruciating one hundred thirty-four days straight.

"Jay went to Harvard Law and was one of Alan's top students," Francis told her. "Jay started out as a defense attorney, but quickly found he was much more sympathetic toward the victims. So, now he's a prosecutor, and a good one. Anyway, he's the one who handles these cases."

"Yeah. Well, I've never heard of him."

"That's because whereas Dershowitz is a master of the high-profile cases, Jay only goes low-profile. Jay's specialty is _not_ to go to trial. And, getting the injured party what they want or need. Since he wins nearly every case, most defendants plead out to make a deal. Basically, his intellect and intuition are so far beyond any competitor's that he's able to set up the game so that only he can win. Going against him is like playing chess with Karpov."

Jo did not ask, "Who's Karpov?" She wanted Francis to stay focused. There would be time another day to hear about the history of chess masters.

"By the way, you'll see in Jay's office that he has a glass chess set. He loves playing; usually I'll go a few games. I _was_ president of the chess club at East Boston High."

Jo remained expressionless.

"I can tell you're impressed," Francis with a hint of a smile, "Anyway, my point is that I'm pretty good. My record so far with Jay is playing eight moves before he gets checkmate. With Jay, in chess or the courtroom, it's not a question of _who_ will win, only _how long_ it will take.

"Jay's other hobbies are poker and magic. He claims the lessons should be tax-deductible as a business expense. He says these skills come into play as much as any of his Harvard Law School courses. He's amazing at making people see what he wants them to see and making them believe that he holds the winning hand."

Jo felt like she was standing at the edge of an icy river on an excruciatingly hot day. The scorching heat of living with her terrible secret only increased with the passing of time and was becoming impossible to bear. On countess occasions, she'd imagined taking the plunge into the frigid depths by pressing charges. Here before her was a perfect opportunity. And yet, the thought of moving from the desire to taking action terrified her to her core, making her head buzz, her throat swell, and her palms clammy.

The memories were a relentless enemy who, through her constant vigilance, she barricaded from entering her thoughts. Was she to open the gates and let the memories hit full force? Given the damage even the trickling of memory caused, what would happen if they hit her all at once like water from a fire hose? The swelling expanded from her throat to her tongue. She wasn't sure she'd be able to work it to make legible sounds.

"Yeah, okay," she said thickly, "I suppose there's no harm in talking."

Without wasting any time, she and Francis took the next train headed downtown. The feeling of dread clung to Jo as they traveled to their destination. They rode in silence. Jo said nothing, even when Francis rested his hand on top of hers.

When they arrived, they found Jay Yarmo in his office seated behind a desk stacked with papers. "I've been expecting you," he said walking up to Jo and pumping her hand warmly. Before the fury sparking within Jo could ignite, he quickly explained, "Francis didn't give me any details, whatsoever. He only said that you survived an unspeakable ordeal and feel it is time to seek justice."

Jay was a bear of a man with clear blue eyes that reminded Jo of a husky's. The photos around the office showed that he'd started to gray in his high school or college years, but then the color froze half way through. Now in his fifties, there was still almost as much pepper as salt.

Jay invited them to sit at a small round table in a corner of the room near towering book shelves crammed with law texts. He pushed aside the mountain of papers piled on the table and pulled up a chair. He seated himself next to Francis and across from Jo.

Jay spoke slowly in a deep voice. He asked Jo for a quick summary. She was thankful that he did not probe for the specifics. His progression of questions demonstrated his skill in rapidly assimilating data, pulling out key facts, and filling in the blanks. He asked a few follow-up questions, such as her father's age and medical history.

Jay cut right to the chase. "What are you looking for? How long? Best case."

Jo immediately responded, "A hundred and twenty-eight years."

Jay raised an eyebrow. "So, he'd get out when he's two hundred?"

Jo considered that.

"I always urge clients, even in the most painful of situations, to be as practical as possible," Jay said, "Vindictiveness bogs down the proceedings and can negatively affect the outcome." After a pause Jay resumed, "Okay, let me explain. Your father committed several crimes. A repeated offense is called Aggravated Felonious Sexual Assault, which is touching a minor child inappropriately. Can I ask you: did the abuse happen solely within the state of Massachusetts?"

Jo wondered why that mattered and answered warily, "No. Also at our summer rental in Maine."

Jay gave a slight nod and asked, "When did you first remember the abuse?"

"I've never forgotten any of it."

Jay furrowed his brow in thought for a few seconds. "The problem we run into is the statute of limitations. In Massachusetts, it's just three years from the time of occurrence, from the age of eighteen, or in the case of repressed memories, three years from when the victim remembers the abuse for the first time."

Jo glared at him incredulously. She fumed in disbelief. "What are you telling me?"

Then, without giving Jay any time to answer, Jo squeezed her hand into a tight fist and slammed the ball of it into the table like a gavel making the papers jump; her breath came out in short blasts through her nose. This was impossible. The words _statute of limitations_ and _three years_ resounded through her brain. Everything her father had done to her, all of it, was rendered null and void by the passage of a few years' time. How stupid she was to think the legal system, so notably absent in the past, would protect her now.

"I need to take a walk," she said, stumbling out of her chair.

Jay took hold of both Jo's hands, encapsulating them in his strong steady ones, and pressed them onto the table. His clear blue eyes anchored her in place. He spoke in a low voice with conviction. "Don't worry about it. We'll get him," he promised her.

Jo suddenly felt lightheaded and collapsed back into her seat.

Jay said, "Listen to me, Jo. We may not be able to bring criminal charges in Massachusetts, but Maine has no statute of limitations. We can bring a criminal case there. We can bring a civil case in Massachusetts, at the least."

Jo's hammering heart pounded a bit more slowly. _Maine's not that far away...we could go to court there._

Jay, as though reading her thoughts, explained, "We can do the deposition right here in Boston. And, Jo, it won't go to trial. I know how to deal with bullies. How to hit them where it hurts. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve that'll make them afraid not to settle. One more thing. Maine has an agreement with Massachusetts for convicted residents to serve in Massachusetts, and the state will pay the costs. Think about how far you want to distance yourself from him. Being allowed to serve in-state is a good bargaining chip for me to bring to the table.

"How does fifteen years at the Western Massachusetts Correctional Facility, with another thirty years suspended sound? That means if he commits even a minor transgression after the first fifteen, he'll be locked up for thirty more. What's more, while in prison he'll be required to complete a sexual offender counseling course. And he won't be allowed any unsupervised visits with minors for forty-five years."

Jo mind was filled with a whirlwind of thoughts. Part of her wanted to run out the door. Another part of her knew that it was time to stop running away.

Jay persisted, "I'll need your help, but it will be in the form of a deposition. Just me, you, your father, and his lawyer. He may want your mother there, and you can have a family member or Francis present. No jury, no trial. I'll prep you with all you need to say and do. We'll hand-pick a few specific incidents, but only what I need to bait his lawyer."

Jo remained silent. She swallowed hard.

"We'll get him behind bars," Jay promised. "And, at his age and health, he'll most likely come out in a box. All you need to do Jo, is say, 'Yes.' I'll take care of the rest."

Somehow Jo, who trusted no one, felt safe in this man's hands. "Fine," she said. It was then she shared her secret for the first time. "You know, I have tapes. Of him. Of the crime. I'm not willing to let anyone, not even me or you, see them," Jo added quickly before Jay could become too optimistic, "I'm only telling you in case it helps you to know about them."

"Does your father know that you have the tapes?" Jay asked calmly without changing his demeanor or showing any excitement he may have felt over the presence of such hard evidence.

"Yes," Jo said.

"Very good. That's all we need. I don't need to watch them. Just tell me about these recordings. Tell me everything."

"A few years back," Jo began, "I was minding the house for my parents. They were away for a long weekend of leaf-peeking in Connecticut. I came by every day to check on the cat and bring in the mail and newspaper. The thermostat was turned down to sixty-five, and even though it was too warm to wear my jacket inside, I was cold without it. So, I went into my father's bedroom to borrow a sweater."

She paused.

"Take your time," Jay said.

She took in a long breath. She remembered bringing the garment up over her head expecting the familiar scent of Tide-ultra laundry detergent and Downy softener—clothes barely left her father's back before her mother would toss them into the washing machine. Instead, his musky body odor mixed with the smell of stale cigarettes filled Jo's nostrils, hitting her full-force. She grabbed the sweater off of her head and plunged it into the deepest back corner of the dresser drawer. Her fingers hit something hard.

"There in the drawer, beneath the sweaters, I found two VCR tapes labeled 'Home Movies,' not dated, but with a small red 'x' in the lower right-hand corner. I thought it was strange. When I was growing up, my parents had a movie camera, but vacations and holidays were filled with drinking and yelling, so mostly the camera stayed in its carry-case or set up, but turned off, on a tripod in one corner.

"I put one of the movies in the VCR player. The movie started to play halfway through. I felt dizzy. I thought I was going to throw up."

Remembering made the blood drain from Jo's face, and she was hit with a wave of nausea. She swallowed hard. "It was me," she said so quietly that Jay had to strain to hear, "on the TV, five years old, wearing my Easter dress. I knew after just a few seconds that episode 26 was about to play. Not in my memory either. The real thing."

Jo remembered watching the video, struggling to stay standing, gulping back the warm saliva filling her mouth, trying not to vomit.

"I pressed 'Stop.'"

She recalled her one and only thought. _To this day, that sick bastard is using me to jack off._ The realization set her heart pumping, filling her veins with blood and giving her a rush of energy.

"So, I ransacked the house from attic to basement, emptying every box, dumping each drawer, searching any VHS-sized space," she said through clenched teeth, her face flushed. "I pretty much destroyed the place," Jo said with satisfaction, "I found six tapes in all."

She could picture them now. All of them had been identically labeled, "Home Movies" with a red "x." These she put aside. The rest of the VCR tapes, commercial or home-made, she smashed. The six marked tapes she wrapped in three layers of grocery store plastic bags to transport them home. The next day, she bought a fireproof strong box and stored the movies under the floorboards in her living room. Perhaps she had always known she'd need them later.

"Did your parents confront you?" Jay asked, "Did your father ever try to recover the tapes?"

"No," Jo replied, "like everything else, the whole incident was just swept under the rug. My parents never even mentioned that the house was trashed. And my father never said a thing about the missing tapes."

Jay asked, "Do you have any non-explicit tapes of the same brand?"

"No. I don't have any normal home movies."

"That's okay, all you need to do is buy one of a similar type and paste the label onto it. No writings or markings are necessary. Make sure you leave the other tapes at home and bring just the blank one to the deposition."

He told Jo he would let the defense attorney bait her. Her job was to feign building anger until Jay gave the signal. At that moment, Jo would blurt out a line about having something to show them. Jay assured her that it would cause quite a dramatic Perry Mason moment when she produced the tape.

"Trust me," Jay said, "It takes only the slightest provocation to get the guilty to think everyone knows what they are hiding."

After the initial meeting with Jay, the legal proceedings moved rapidly. Everything unfolded just as Jay had predicted, almost as though he'd written the script for a one-act play.

At ten o'clock on Monday morning, Jay called Jo. "We have an indictment," he told her, "The police just picked up your father and they're bringing him in now. Twenty-one counts of sexual battery on a child, including rape of a child. Each one carries a sentence of up to thirty years."

At four o'clock that afternoon, Jay called Jo back. "Your father hired a former colleague of mine, Barbara Anderson, to represent him. She was well-trained in my old job as a district attorney and now she's a high-priced defense lawyer. She's very good."

"Will he still go to jail?" Jo asked with some trepidation.

"I'll do all I can to make sure that happens," Jay assured her, "Barbara wants a quick date, which your father is entitled to under the sixth amendment."

"How quick?"

"We'll have a deposition later in the week. She wants us to be as unprepared as possible. It'll be right here in the courthouse, in one of the conference rooms upstairs. And, don't worry Jo, we're ready."

At the deposition that Thursday, there were five of them seated around a solid wooden table. On one side was Barbara with Jo's father. Across from her father sat Francis. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be humming or maybe singing to himself under his breath. He looked peaceful enough. Next to him, and across from Barbara, sat Jay. Jo sat to Jay's right, as far as possible from her father. Jo's mother was not present.

_No big surprise there,_ Jo thought.

Barbara dove directly into the proceedings. "You know Ms. Orsiano, the rape of a child is a very serious allegation. When we go to trial, the prosecution must show beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant, your dad here, committed the unlawful penetration of the alleged victim, that the victim had unlawful penetration of the defendant, that the alleged victim was less than thirteen years old, and that the defendant acted intentionally, knowingly, or recklessly. This is what will happen when we go to trial..."

Jo felt a hint of panic at the repeated phrase, "... _when_ we go to trial." Jo glanced at Jay and relaxed a bit at the barely perceptible shake of his head.

Barbara continued, "The jury will hear my opening statement, where I will say something to the effect of, 'My client, Bill Orsiano, is innocent. The testimony you will hear will be shocking, saddening, graphic, grotesque, and you will be angry when you hear it. You will want to find a villain. But the villain isn't Bill. You will get to know Bill, as I have, and in hearing his story you will know that he is a loving father who would never hurt any child.

"You're going to hear testimony about one hundred twenty-eight alleged 'episodes' from Bill's daughter, Juliana." Barbara used her fingers to make quote marks in the air. "She'll tell you about so-called episode 22 when a vibrator was placed on her private area and episode 81 when her anus was penetrated. And she will be certain she is telling the truth. Listen carefully to her testimony. It is in the details that you will find reasonable doubt.

"You will also hear testimony about a concept called suggestibility. Suggestibility is when false memories are planted in someone's brain. Juliana will not perjure herself when she says she remembers certain events. But the events _never happened_. Or at least they didn't happen the way she remembers.

"But it doesn't matter what I say. The only thing that matters is the testimony of the experts. The expert testimony will prove that Juliana's memories are, in fact, not real. When you listen to the testimony, you will conclude that no one knows that happened twenty or more years ago. And if so, you must return a verdict of not guilty."

Jo wanted to punch her. She realized her right hand had curled into a tight fist below the table. She relaxed her fingers and stretched them out straight. Then she drew both hands from hiding and placed them palms-down on the table in front of her.

"This is how it will go next," Barbara pushed forward relentlessly. "I will start by calling Juliana to the stand. The bailiff will come to you with a Bible and the customary, "Do you swear the testimony you give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?' Then, Ms. Orsiano, you must say what you know happened, not just what you think happened or may have imagined happened. But what really happened."

Barbara paused, met Jo's eyes, and added softly, "For God's sake do you know what you are putting your father through?" She waited long enough for the accusation to settle. Then, resuming her lawyer's tone, Barbara said, "We'll start with the demographics. Your age, where you live, what you do for a living, where you work, and your relationship to the defendant. We'll move next into your association with your father today. We'll discuss house sitting and other favors you perform for him, family gatherings you attend, that sort of thing. We'll discuss other intimate relationships that you maintain today, such as any long-term close friendships you may or may not have. Next, we'll get to how often you have these memories or thoughts about your father, and why you suddenly decided to bring them up now. When we get beyond all that, you'll have to recall all one hundred twenty-eight of the alleged episodes."

Jo was breathing heavily.

"Let's you and I go through a little bit of testimony, Ms. Orsiano, just to see what it is like. Think carefully about whether you want to do this. Whether you'll even able to go through with this."

Jo wondered that very same thing. _Can I really do this?_ She stole a sideways glance at Jay. His confident nod let her know everything was as planned and to just go with it. Beyond him sat Francis with his eyes still closed, body in a slight rhythmic rocking. The muscles in his face were relaxed. Jo was careful not to look in the direction of her father; she imagined she could feel the heat of his anger from across the table.

Jo took a deep breathe. _I can do this._

Barbara shuffled her notes in preparation. Jo felt a heartbeat pulsing in her throat. She began to feel panicky as Barbara pulled a tape recorder from her briefcase, placed it on the middle of the table, and pressed down the Record button. Jo was sworn in. She was glad that it was done seated. If she stood, she might just walk out the door and put an end to all of this before it was too late to turn back.

Barbara began the questioning. "Tell me what happened during what you call episode 26."

Jo answered immediately. "Episode 26 happened the day before Easter when I was five. My father raped me in my bedroom. I asked him to stop and he didn't."

"Juliana, could you take a look at this?" Barbara handed her a piece of paper. "Could you tell me what it is?"

"It's a receipt from a hotel."

"Could you tell me the date?"

"April seventh, 1985."

"Could you tell me where the hotel is?"

"Miami, Florida."

"And could you tell me who was staying in the hotel?"

"Bill and Michaela Orsiano."

"Is that the defendant?"

"Yes. And my mother."

"I'd like this marked exhibit A. Now, Ms. Orsiano, please take this. It is a 1985 calendar. How old were you in 1985?"

A pause. "Let me think...uh...five," Jo said.

"Please turn to April. What date is Easter Sunday?"

"April eighth."

"So, if your father was in Florida with your mom, how could he have been in Belmont raping you on that very day?"

Jo felt the panic intensify, even though she recognized this as the exact scenario Jay had predicted.

"I'm not lying. I was wearing my Easter dress. He raped me. I know he did."

"In your bedroom. When he was in Florida."

"It happened so long ago; maybe I was wearing the dress for professional pictures. We have a picture of me in that dress in the hallway. I can't remember details. I know he raped me."

"That _was_ a long time ago," Barbara said sympathetically, "I know it's hard to remember what really happened."

Jo wished she could jump up and smack her. She was being painted as either a liar or a crazy person. She knew she was telling the truth. She remembered all the facts that mattered.

"I'm not lying."

Jo caught Jay out of the corner of her eye, drumming his fingers on the table. _Thank God. The signal._

Jo spoke slowly and clearly, "I have something I want you to see." Jo reaching inside of her overall's bib and pulled out a VCR tape.

"What is that a video of?" Barbara demanded. Barbara turned first to Jay and then in Bill's direction. "I was never told about any tapes." Then she exploded, "Come on, Jay. You know full well you can't spring evidence on me. You know the definition of 'disclosure.' Plan on spending tomorrow in court."

Jay feigned innocence as Barbara berated him. Both were completely oblivious to what was ensuing at the far left corner of the table. For the first time during the proceedings, Jo peeked in the direction of her father. What she saw made her stare, unable to look away. His face was red, turning purple, the veins in his neck bulging.

Jo was transported back in time with her father's words, "You little shit. You wouldn't dare."

Bill stood up so rapidly that his chair fell backwards. He let out a roar and grabbed the corner of the heavy pine table. Francis' eyes flew open. He was too stunned to move.

Jo knew full well what her father was capable of. Her Sumo training served her well; she leapt away from the table in an instant and landed in a half-crouch, her eyes fixed on her father's heaving form, ready to act at the slightest provocation.

Her father heaved the table with both hands and overturned it. The VCR tape cracked under its heavy weight. Barbara flew backwards smacking her head on the chair back as it hit the floor. Jay and Francis were barricaded on the other side of the upended table.

The overturned table and the shock of the unfolding events kept Jay and Francis from coming to Jo's defense. Barbara shook her head, and looking dazed, crawled toward their side of the table and covered her head with her briefcase.

_Good._ Jo didn't want to hurt them in the fray. _Goddamn that man is strong,_ was all Jo could think. The blood coursed through her veins and time slowed. Suddenly, everyone around Jo and her father began to disappear into a fog. Jo licked her lips, exhilarated. She stood upright and squared off, arms at her sides and slightly away, tensed in readiness. She moved into a wide-legged stance with both hands curling into fists.

Suddenly, the truth became clear. This was it, the real purpose of years of weight training. To destroy him. Her father stood in front of her, furious, eyes burning, determined to punish her. She automatically lowered her eyes, from habit, and then purposefully kept her gaze downward to draw him in. In her peripheral vision, she saw him advance. A fresh wave of euphoria filled her.

Her father stomped toward Jo like a crazed bull. Five more steps and her fist would smash into his face, crumpling him like a straw man. She knew once she started to beat him she would be unable to stop until she was forcibly restrained or, better yet, until her arms grew too tired to continue pummeling his still, lifeless body.

At that moment, the door to the deposition room crashed opened. Two huge police officers leapt at her father and knocked him down. There was a loud thud as the large man hit the hardwood floor. Jo felt a moment of keen disappointment; she fought back an almost uncontrollable desire to leap upon his felled body and tear him to pieces.

One officer drew his gun. The other pinned Jo's father down with a knee in the small of his back, reached for handcuffs, then shackled the man's wrists behind him. The officers pulled him to his feet. One gave a quick thumbs-up to the closed-circuit camera mounted on the far wall as they roughly shoved him out of the room.

Ninety minutes later, the two lawyers met privately.

Barbara started off the negotiations. "We'd like to offer a deal. Obstruction of justice. Child pornography. He knew of the existence of the tapes, but didn't tell authorities. Ten years with five suspended."

"Twenty, outside New England, in a level three sex offender facility," Jay countered.

Barbara sighed. "Okay, I get there are Brady considerations on the rape and battery counts, yes. But not on the filming and transportation across state lines. _If_ these tapes are real. And, we're not saying he made them. Just that he knew about them."

Jay asked, "Bottom line?"

"Fifteen years in the Western Mass Correctional Facility."

"Throw in thirty years suspended and no unsupervised visits with children, and we've got a deal."

Barbara agreed, "Yes, my client is amenable. Fifteen years with thirty years suspended."

Jay went back and told Jo, "Okay, we've got what you wanted."

"He's going to admit he's guilty?" Jo asked.

"Sort of. Not to the rape of a child or sexual battery. He's admitting to having knowledge of tapes involving sex and a minor."

Jo's heart raced. She was furious. "So he didn't admit that he raped me? No. Forget it. We'll just go to trial if we have to. He has to admit it or forget it."

"We can do whatever you want," Jay said gently, "but if we go that route...well, you got a taste of what you'll be in for. Barbara is setting up a case of suggestibility. She has some very good experts who will testify that your memories are false. Her star witness is Elizabeth Hoffman, who has testified in over a thousand cases. She's very good, Jo. When you go to trial you put your destiny in the hands of the jurors. And without showing the tapes, there's a chance your father might walk.

"And Jo," Jay added, "one more thing to think about. If you don't do this now, he's free on bail until the trial. You'd know better than anyone: do you think he's a flight risk? Would he take off for Belize or something?"

"Did you know Belize is the only country in this hemisphere that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the United States?" Francis interjected, trying to be helpful.

Jo considered her options for a minute and then asked Jay, "If I agree to this, would he spend his first night in prison tonight?"

"I'm sure that could be arranged."

Resigned, Jo said, "Shit. Fine."

From then on it was a blur of activity. There was an intimate meeting in chambers—the five from the deposition plus the judge and a policeman. Judge Sweeney sat behind a large mahogany desk, stone-faced and dressed in black robes. The five sat in a slight arc in front of him. Jo and her father were seated on the far edges, separated by as many chairs as possible. The police officer who had handcuffed Bill during the altercation earlier that day stood directly behind Jo's left shoulder, looking grim and never taking his eyes off her father. In the presence of the judge, Jo's father looked subdued and old.

"Mr. Orsiano, please rise. I understand you are pleading guilty to obstruction of justice charges."

"Yes, Your Honor," said Bill, stumbling to his feet.

"You understand this means that you are giving up your constitutional rights to a trial by jury and also your protection of self-incrimination? You also understand that you will be sentenced immediately and you will go to the Western Massachusetts House of Correction tonight?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"I sentence you to fifteen years in the Western Massachusetts House of Correction with thirty years suspended. While in prison, you must complete a sexual offender counseling course and you will not be allowed any unsupervised visits with minors for forty-five years."

"Yes, Your Honor," said Bill meekly.

Before leaving the courthouse, Jo asked Jay about any forms she'd need to fill out for prison visitation. Jay cocked his head and examined Jo critically. Her face betrayed nothing.

Finally with a small shake of his head, he said, "Okay. Once the paperwork is ready, I'll have it overnighted to you."

Three Sundays later, two days after receiving approval papers and instructions by mail, Jo and Francis made the first of their weekly three-hour drives to the northwest-most point of the state.

"You know, you don't have to do this, Jo," Francis said for the third time.

"It's hard to explain. I know I don't have to. But it's something I need to do."

Francis let it go. He'd just as soon let the bastard rot in jail. But he knew Jesus was a big advocate of forgiveness, mercy, visiting prisoners, and honoring one's parents no matter how undeserving. What's more, Francis believed that dissuading someone from following His wishes was a most serious sin. _"...whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone fastened around his neck and to be drowned in the depth of the sea."_ That didn't sound pleasant, so he kept his mouth shut.

Jo and Francis drove the length of Route 2 West in silence. The late Sunday morning traffic was light. A few weeks before, the leaves had been a brilliant array of autumn colors. That day, the trees looked haggard in their threadbare red and yellow coats, some of the leaves turning to brown while still clinging to the branches. Jo stared through the windshield, mesmerized by the whish-whish-whish of the passing trees. She traveled in her mind to a place she rarely went. This was a memory she'd never shared with anyone and one that never forced itself upon her.

She wakes up from a bad dream and climbs out of bed. She glances down the hallway and considers crawling into bed with Mommy. Mommy finished her drinks and light yellow pill hours ago and would be cold and unresponsive by now. Instead, she turns toward the den which is dark except for the flickering glow of the television. Daddy is watching a black-and-white movie, alone, in the dark. She settles into his lap. As sleep overcomes her, he whispers into her hair. 'You're all I have, baby. You know I love you.'"

Growing up in an Italian family, it was ingrained in Jo that her birthright as not just the youngest but as the _only_ daughter—her very reason for being—was to take care of her father in his old age. Except for occasional favors, she'd distanced herself from him since leaving home at eighteen. Now he was caged and alone. Completely alone. Jo knew there was no one else there for him. There was no way her mother would step up; it was yet another instance in a lifetime pattern of having her mother's responsibilities fall on her shoulders. Jo would demand her father be held accountable, but she couldn't abandon him.

Jo and Francis finally arrived to the prison grounds on the outskirts of North Adams. They drove up a long, unpaved road to an area marked, "Reception and Visitors." Jo parked the car and could see a huge grey complex.

"Wait here," she said to Francis.

"Let me come up with you," he suggested, "I filled out the paperwork, too."

"No," she responded, "I'll be right back."

"No rush," he said.

"This won't take long," she told him.

As Jo approached the prison, she saw bars on the windows and, at the end of one of the wings, a courtyard with a paved area and several basketball hoops. Two fences that were topped with razor-sharp wire stood about twenty feet apart and surrounded the buildings and the courtyard. There was a third fence about ten feet high that had an imposing sign that read, "Electric Fence. Do Not Touch" with the skull and crossbones symbol.

Jo remembered the rule: "Don't bring anything in except for your license and a roll of quarters for the vending machines." She had taken her license out of her wallet, and left the wallet in the car along with the car keys—still in the ignition so Francis could listen to the radio. Of course, she'd also left her hand gun, furtively slipping it into the glove compartment before getting out of the car.

She entered the main building, went up a few stairs, and opened the door to reception. There were lockers lining the walls and two long metal benches in the middle. At the far side of the wall behind highly frosted, bulletproof glass was the guard; only the featureless silhouette of a person of undetermined gender could be seen within.

"Good morning," a deep voice said, "Here for visiting hours?"

"Yes," the word echoed loudly.

"Speak into the microphone."

Jo twisted a long goose-neck microphone in her direction and said, "I'm here to see my father, William Orsiano."

"May I have your license please?" the voice asked politely.

Out popped a metal compartment, like the kind at a bank drive-through window, with built in clipboard on the bottom of the drawer. Jo put her license into the drawer and snapped it in place.

"Are you on the visitors list?"

"Yes," she said, "I filled out the forms weeks ago. The letter said I could see him anytime." About two minutes of silence rang in her ears. She wondered whether she'd made a wasted trip.

The words, "We'll get him," broke the silence.

"This is my first time visiting."

"I know. Do you have anything on your person?"

Jo showed the roll of quarters.

"You'll need to unwrap them and put them in the napkin I give you."

Jo followed the instructions.

"Anything else?" the voice asked.

"No."

"Could you please show the inside of your pockets?" Jo did.

"And the bib of the overalls."

Jo opened and exposed the back side. Out popped the bank teller drawer.

"Keys, please."

Jo complied, placing house keys she'd forgotten about onto the tray.

"You can pick them up when you leave, along with your license. Step through the security gate, please."

Jo passed through the metal detector. There were no beeps.

"You're all set. Follow the signs. Exit to the door on the right. Don't forget your quarters."

These Jo had neglected to retrieve after going through the metal detector. "Oh...okay."

Jo stood at the prison entrance in front of a large, sliding glass door made of thick glass with metal reinforcements all around. There were two video cameras that she could see. She stood there for about forty-five seconds until it opened. She went into a holding compartment about as big as a large elevator. On the opposite side was a second door with a window on it. Another voice told her to stand in the middle. The door to the reception area closed with a loud shutting noise, and then a pronounced locking mechanism sounded a few seconds later. She was expecting the second door to open immediately. It didn't. She just stared at it.

She didn't have a watch, so after standing and waiting a few seconds, she started counting to herself. On the count of eighty-seven, that door opened, and a kind-sounding voice told her to follow the signs. After a few steps down a long, white corridor with painted white walls and no windows, she heard the door close behind her with a metallic _thunk_. Then it clicked loudly as it locked. It was the sound of no escape. She looked back and imagined, with some satisfaction, what it must have been like for her father to hear those noises, what they meant for him.

There were posters on the walls that seemed out of place. Industrial posters like "Bend With Your Knees" with a stick-figure drawing of a person lifting a cube. And obscure admonitions like "Please Keep Your Feet Off The Walls."

Jo couldn't help but wonder, _Are these major problems here?_

When she entered the visitors' room, she saw prisoners talking in low voices to their visiting wives and girlfriends, some with their children playing at the tables. One man sat on the floor with a boy about two years old. There were also several guards positioned around the room. One of them asked her name and told her she could sit at whatever table she liked. There were diner-style, square, stainless-steel tables and matching short, round, stainless-steel stools. All of them were bolted securely to the floor. The seat, though cold, was more comfortable than Jo expected.

There were twenty or so vending machines in a semi-circle around the room that sold ice cream, candy, chips, cookies, frozen dinners, sodas, and water. The tile on the floor was off-white, except for the deep blue perimeter around the vending machines.

A soft-spoken guard told her she could put her quarters on the table. He reminded her that her dad couldn't touch the coins, but she could buy things for him. Jo glanced up and saw frosted bubbles in the ceiling, one over each table.

_There must be security cameras up there,_ she thought.

After a few minutes, her father entered the room accompanied by a guard. He walked over, alone. Without sitting down, he lit into her in a low whisper with a tirade of accusations that grew louder with every sentence.

"Unbelievable. You little ingrate. Just look what you've done. This is all your fault..."

"No," Jo cut in, noting that at least one guard was starting to stir. Jo spoke slowly and deliberately in an even tone, like a teacher speaking to a dull school boy, "This is completely _your_ fault. You are in prison for breaking the law. Child rape is illegal. People who do this, especially people stupid enough to film it, go to jail."

"For God's sake, shut up!" he hissed, "People in here don't take well to hearing the specifics."

From then on, during her weekly visits, the two stuck to a script. Once he was escorted into the visitors' room, she'd lay down the napkin of quarters in front of her on the table. He knew he couldn't touch it. He would indicate an item out of the vending machine, careful to stay behind the blue tile. She'd make the purchase, microwave his choice, usually a burger, and bring it back to the table for him with a cold Pepsi.

He'd say, "It's chilly," or with the changing seasons, "snowy/rainy/a little hot, today."

She'd say, "Yeah."

He'd ask, "How's your mother?"

She'd reply, "Fine, I guess. I haven't talked to her."

At this point he'd lament. Jo would pass the time by categorizing the complaints in her head and cataloging them by number. After a three complaint combo—later she'd tell Francis it was, say, "a 27-2-11 today"—Jo would stand up and say, "I've got to go."

At this point he'd remark, "I got the deck of cards you sent," and then request something else, "Hey, would you mail me some warm socks?"

"We all want things," she'd say and be gone.

Jo and Francis never spoke much on the drive to the prison, except for a brief interchange once they were outside the city where Jo insisted on filling up the tank with gas. Francis always protested, once to the point where Jo pulled over and threatened to go by bus. Jo suspected a tank of gas would cost all the money Francis had to his name, a suspicion confirmed by the fact that when he picked her up each week, the car was running on empty.

Between twenty and twenty-five minutes after arriving at the prison, Jo and Francis would turn back to the city. Visiting her father drained Jo physically, but set her mind abuzz. Francis drove on the way home. To distract Jo from the tension of her visit, he would spin his tales while she closed her eyes and listened. His favorite themes were wealth and power, and their uses and misuses.

"Did you read the latest Mitchem novel?" he began on one Sunday's drive home, even though she'd told him before the last book she'd read was in high school English, "The premise is that the obscenely rich can purchase anything at all, even extra body parts. The wealthiest people in the world can almost double their lifespans. They used to buy up teenaged children from places like West Africa to harvest their organs, but now, if they can finance it, they can create as many exact genetic matches as they want. These clones are lobotomized at birth to make their caretaking more manageable and to make a direct transfer from a live donor possible.

"Of course, even if something like that were possible, I wouldn't consider it. I'll take my seventy to ninety years on earth and then take my chances in the great Hereafter.

"Sometimes it is the intangible that is even more valuable. The novel talks about privacy being another commodity that, with some ingenuity, can be purchased. Limited layers are key. That and the right people in the right roles and responsibilities. The puppet master, for example, is the one who runs the show and the only one who understands the entire network. In a super wealthy family this is a positioned that is transitioned from parent to child.

"One key piece of the network is the front man, usually an actor. Reagan is the most obvious and famous example of a front man. But it's risky to go so high profile. A better choice would be, say, a budding community theatre actor, a high school class president with the potential to groom into the position. He knows nothing of the identity of the puppet master, as there is a layer separating them; this middle man is the 'conduit.' He's the one who writes the front man's speeches, though they come out sounding much better after a few rounds with editors and in the front man's booming voice.

"The front man provides the charisma and public appeal, traits often sorely lacking in the puppet master. These are traits that don't seem to be inherent to those truly gifted and exceptionally skilled in politics or philanthropy. It's probably for the best. Lack of recognition and staying out of the limelight helps to keep one humble and productive. Other-directed tendencies atrophy in direct proportion to the adoration and acolytes of the masses."

Jo liked to listen to Francis go on. His voice rose and fell, increasing in speed and animation.

"Haven't you ever thought it was strange in our country," Francis asked rhetorically, "that those in power are so very normal? Whereas, creative geniuses are often socially awkward. Take someone like me. If I were to go to a political banquet spouting Jesus-loving slogans, it would be a PR nightmare. Especially," he said with a grin, "after being served a regional delicacy or even steak and potatoes, only to pull out an apple and a jar of peanut butter."

"Since you brought it up," Jo interrupted, "what's with that anyways? I mean the food-thing, not the God-thing."

"Well," Francis said, considering the question for moment, "How can I explain it? You know how in some other places they eat bugs, bull privates, monkey brains, fish eyeballs or whatever, but to us it seems really foreign? It's kind of like that. Before my parent's died there were certain favorite foods I liked, peanut butter, apples, wonder bread, chocolate milk, well you know the whole list. But I'd try other things too. Once they died, it was like I _couldn't_ eat anything else. The taste, the texture, the smell, ew," he gave an involuntary shudder. "My aunts never pushed the issue or took me to a dietician or anything like that. They just kept the house stocked with toll house crackers."

"Aren't you ever tempted to branch out or afraid you're missing out?" Jo asked, "Warm, home-made Twinkies are pretty amazing."

"Not really, I guess I don't know what I'm missing. I don't think about it much anymore. I know it seems limiting. But sometimes you just get used to living in your safety zone, and it seems really scary to even think about breaking out of it. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yah," Jo nodded, "I do." _When you find something that keeps you safe, that works, you don't want to screw it up. You'll do just about anything and sacrifice whatever you have to. Whatever it takes to stay protected._

"But anyway," Francis said, resuming his story, "whether it's the tendency to pass on messages from God or a food jag, the general public has a miniscule tolerance for such nonconformities. A person unable or unwilling to hide his or her oddities, passions, or original ways of acting, looking, or thinking tends to be shunned, ostracized. Anyone who is brilliant, passionate, and represents himself—a Lincoln, a King, Jesus himself—is met with teeth gnashing and almost certain assassination. That's where the front man comes in..."

Basking in the comfortable warmth of the car heater, her mind occupied by Francis' endless stories, Jo felt the tension she didn't realize had been gripping her slip away. She relaxed into the passenger's seat for the long ride home.

As it turned out, Bill Orsiano's prison sentence was not nearly as long as expected. After five months, Jo's father was diagnosed with inoperable stomach cancer and was transferred to the prison infirmary. Three weeks later, he was dead. A month later, Jo's mother died.

According to family folklore, Michaela had become distraught after the death of her husband and stopped eating. In truth, Jo's mother's emaciation and ultimately her death were both a direct result of living alone for several months without anyone to lock up the liquor cabinet.

Jo reacted to her father's death as she always suspected she would. Much like anyone who's given prolonged care to a demanding, ungrateful family member, she felt the lifting of a great burden. She had fulfilled her role as dutiful daughter to the end. She'd been the only person not to desert him, the only one by his bedside when he exhaled his final breath in morphine-induced peace.

Her mother's death however, hit Jo like an emotional tidal wave. Jo was about to shower for work when she received the call. "Very sorry...we'll know more after the autopsy...a neighbor called the police... newspapers piling up. You'll need to make a positive identification."

Jo immediately retreated to the refuge of her bedroom, taking Ben with her for comfort. He leaned into her as she pressed her face into his velvety shoulder. She choked on huge, dry sobs, one on top of the other, punctuated with primal screams.

Michaela had deserted her from an early age, her definition of mothering was strictly limited to providing a spotless house, freshly laundered clothes, and balanced meals. Unlike her father, her mother did not ask her for any sort of assistance and thwarted all attempts Jo made to reach out to her. Jo thought back to an incident when she was eleven or twelve years old.

She was home alone after school while her mother was out shopping. Jo wanted to surprise her by vacuuming the living room just as her mother did every afternoon, at a forty-five degree diagonal starting in the far corner. She was just finishing the second pass, vacuuming in perpendicular strips, each overlapping the previous by a quarter of its width, when her mother bustled in. She took only enough time to settle the shopping bags on the counter before she roughly grabbed the vacuum handle from her daughter's hands with the customary, "Oh, Juliana."

She watched for a moment, confused and ashamed, as her mother took over the chore. Then she retreated to her bedroom, tears welling in her eyes. Without bothering to close the door, she threw herself on her bed and screamed into her pillow. She knew her mother would never hear it over the loud hum of the machine going over the carpet.

How the hell do you vacuum wrong?

The flash of anger sparked by the memory was quickly replaced by a deep sorrow and then a growing chasm of guilt. Why didn't she check on her mother? Why hadn't she stopped her father from hurting her for all those years? Perhaps Jo had wanted to pay her mother back for letting him hurt her. She knew about the abuse, just as her mother had known about Jo's abuse. And Jo had let him beat her mother. Didn't that make her just as guilty, just as wicked as her mother?

Jo realized that while Ben was a good listener, she could count on Francis for making sense of complicated things. She gulped a few breathes and then picked up the phone and dialed *1.

"Talk to me," she choked.

"What happened? Where are you?"

"Home."

"Do you need me to come there? What happened? Are you all right?"

"I'm all right. I've done something terrible."

"What's going on?"

"My mother is dead," Jo said with halting words, each a struggle, "You know she was an alcoholic. I wasn't there for her. I let him beat her. I did...nothing." Jo gasped for air. She had more to say but the words wouldn't come.

"Can I tell you about a strategy I made up?" Francis asked, "I use it when there's a thing too horrible to process or something's gnawing away at me."

Listening to Francis' rhythmic voice steadied Jo's breathing. She lay down on her back the short way across her bed with her legs hanging over one side. She closed her eyes, sandwiching the phone between the bed and her ear, and stroked Ben absently.

"I do what I call a 'plate-spin,'" Francis told her, "It's...ahhh...well...it's a fresh way of considering a situation. Gathering more information. Trying to see it from another's view point, or from a broader perspective. Do you have time for a story?"

"Yeah."

"The plate-spin idea is something I picked up from a sermon our deacon once gave. It had such an impact on me that I asked him to email it to me."

There was a pause. Jo waited, hearing the sound of unfolding paper crinkling softly through the phone's earpiece. With dry purse of her lips, she envisioned Francis rummaging through his pockets for one of his notes, readings, sketches, or other assorted scribblings he never seemed to run short of.

"The sermon was about a pastor coming to terms with our deacon being at once both a minister and a solider, but let me read the part that stuck with me. He says, 'One evening I was having dinner with my wife's family. My nephew asked his father to place some ketchup on his plate. "Daddy, put some ketchup right here," he said pointing to a spot on his plate. His father squirted a blob of ketchup on the left hand side of his son's plate near his French fries, at which point my nephew screamed, "No! Not there, here," as he pointed to the spot where he wanted the ketchup. Nothing seemed to work to get my nephew settled down. He just kept pointing to the spot. His father calmly reached over and spun my nephew's plate around one hundred eighty degrees so the ketchup was placed at the three o'clock spot my nephew kept pointing to. Then all was well. It was a matter of perspective.'

"You have to discover what the plate-spin is for you. God gives us the ultimate freedom," Francis went on, "which is the right to choose our own path in life without His interference. In this country, we get to choose who to marry and whether or not to stay with that person. Your mom made a lot of bad choices, especially when it came to your father. She was a rigid person who never wavered from those choices. When she was freed of your father, it appears she followed a path of further self-destruction.

"How's this for a plate-spin? You could have sent your mother to prison. Active Concealment is a serious crime. Instead, when you were strong enough, you sent your father to prison which put an end to the beatings. You know, Jo, you can't live someone else's life for them. The best you can do is to give them an opportunity to live it themselves."

In the lull that followed, Jo could hear Francis slip into quiet prayer under his breath. She listened to the rhythmic chant, unable to make out the words. After a while, Jo felt the black chasm that grasped her start to loosen its hold. She waivered on whether to voice her crime, finally deciding she was tired of secrets.

"I should have done more," she said.

"Your mom was a toxic person in your life," Francis insisted, "It wasn't good for you to interact with her. Cutting off ties was one of your protections and an important one. And you know, Jo, she never asked for your help. And even when you tried to give it, she never accepted it."

"But after my father was put away, things might've been different. I thought there'd be more time. I never even tried."

"Ah," Francis said, "That's where forgiveness comes in. It's our nature as human beings to fall short," he began, "Whether or not anything you did here qualifies as 'falling short' is not for me to say. But I do know that all of us are fallible beings by nature. And it is by constantly turning to God, handing over to him our shortcomings and wrongdoing, and asking forgiveness, that we're restored and renewed. He's holding the offer of forgiveness out to you. You only need to accept it."

"Not yet," Jo responded. She glanced at her alarm clock and sucked in a startled breathe. "Oh, crap. Keisha is going to have a fit."

"Do you want me to call her?"

"Yeah. Tell her I'm going to the morgue."

"I'll meet you there."

"No. Just tell Keisha I'll come in as soon as I can."

"Okay...and Jo?" He paused, as though searching for something profound to say, then simply told her, "Hang in there, Jo-Jo."

# CHAPTER 7: Lazy Sundays

After Jo's parents were laid to rest, a new routine emerged. Francis would arrive each Sunday at Jo's place at about eleven o'clock AM. One day, he brought a medium-sized, cardboard U-Haul box. It was obvious that he had taken the message written on the side "This Box is Designed for Multiple Uses" to heart. Whatever the well-used box held was heavy. When Jo questioned Francis about it he told her, "I'll show you later."

Jo was still in her long nightshirt. Nothing was rushed. She switched on the radio, clicked a preset button, and WROR's Sunday morning jazz played softly. Francis made coffee and apple pancakes, omelet burritos, multi-grain toast, and breakfast sausage links for Jo. Jo sat on a tall stool at the breakfast bar behind him watching him cook for her.

Francis always came armed with stories, ideas, and questions. It seemed to Jo that he stored them up the whole week. They came spilling out during their Sundays together, as though he was starved for conversation. Political novels and newspaper stories were his passion. Not the kidnapping, murder, death, destruction, sports, or finance pieces, but rather those with the common theme of compassion and hope.

Every week he'd launch into a new story with a "Have you heard...?" And usually she hadn't. Jo didn't own a television, and only recently had she become motivated to part with $1.50 for the daily newspaper. She sometimes wondered if he meant his endless, cheerful babbling to distract her. It worked, so she never bothered to ask him about it.

Over the previous several weeks, she'd made a habit of picking up a paper at the T station, leaving it in the back room at work, and paging through the international and local sections during her break. She had stopped by the used bookstore near the shop a couple of times, too. She needed to remember to write down the authors and titles of the books Francis recounted each week. The sales clerk hadn't been able to help her find them from plot line descriptions alone.

"Have you heard of the initiative that is starting up in Sierra Leone?" Francis asked as he stood at the stove, dividing his attention between chatting with Jo and browning onions, garlic, and peppers in a thin layer of olive oil for breakfast burritos.

"Sierra Leone is a country at the western-most point of West Africa along the Atlantic Ocean. It's a little smaller than Maine and home to about six-point-five million people. those fortunate enough to get an education speak English fluently, the vast majority still speak Krio. Krio is a mix of English and several African languages. Sierra Leone should be a very wealthy country. Did you see the movie Blood Diamond?"

Jo shook her head and turned down the radio so that the jazz music hummed softly in the background.

"It's a film about Sierra Leone. 's a man I met who saw the movie and wanted to see the country for himself, firsthand, and meet its people. He's a writer. And a philanthropist, too. Once he arrived, he discovered there are only two classes in Sierra Leone. The extremely rich and the very poor."

Jo was thinking, _Okay it's Sierra Leone day. That works._ Her mind drifted. _Wait. Francis met this man? Where does a guy like him meet a rich guy like that?_ It was a fleeting thought, as Jo realized she was missing a potentially story-critical thread on the country's socioeconomics. She worked up an "I'm really interested in what you're saying" look and hoped she could catch up.

"As the man drove through the country, his driver talked about how even the peoples' most basic of needs, like clean drinking water, aren't met. A well is prized thing and beyond the means of most families.

"One day, the man's car was stopped in traffic, and a woman street vendor came up to his window. She asked if he would buy her some water. In the streets of Freetown, cloudy water sells in baggies for a few cents. The man bought the street vendor one of these small bags of water, and watched her take it, thinking she would drink it down. She carefully took a few sips, and then retied the bag and slipped it into her pocket. It was clear the drink would be savored, as though it were 1961 Dom Perignon."

The talk about water made Jo thirsty, so she picked up her large glass of ice water and guzzled it down. She wondered if there was a word in Krio like "starving" except for water, not food. She thought having something so vital being readily available to her in this country while inaccessible for an entire country of others should serve as a lesson, of sorts. She tried to muster a twang of guilt, but the only thing she felt was thirsty. So she retrieved the pitcher of water from the frig and filled her glass anew.

"When the woman finished her sip of water," Francis continued, "she searched the man's eyes with a look of desperate hope, as though wondering if he might be the answer to her prayers. It made him feel powerful and humbled him all at once. On the way back to his hotel, he couldn't help but to cry. Not just for this one woman, but for an entire nation lost in despair."

"He cried?" Jo asked. It still baffled Jo to think that a man was able to cry for reasons other than the obvious, like a swift kick to the nuts. Francis was the only person she'd ever witnessed who was able to empathize deeply enough to feel another's pain as though it were his own. "He told you that he cried?"

Francis paused to consider the question. "Yes." And then without elaborating he shifted gears. "But you know, Jo, I don't think the answer lies in one man or even one government. As is the case pretty much universally, I believe the women of Sierra Leone are the key to the salvation of their peoples. These women, if they just had a bit of seed money, could completely change not just their own lives, but the lives of their families and their villages.

"There's this program called 'Give a Little.' It provides funding for these women, just enough for a small herd of pygmy goats and a fence, a tiny fishing boat, or a sewing machine and some material. Then, the profits are used buy more goats, fishing nets, or material. A twist to Give a Little is that the receiver is asked to give back whatever they were given. So for example, they contribute to someone else their first batch of kids, you know baby goats, to start their own little herd. Or a woman with a sewing machine is asked to time-share in the evening and nighttime until another earns enough to get her own machine."

Jo couldn't take it anymore. "Who is this guy?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, just someone I met once." Francis suddenly become completely absorbed by the task of getting food from pans onto plates. "We got to talking." Francis laid out the food on the breakfast bar. He said to Jo, " _Mangia_. Eat. Don't let it get cold."

Using jelly jar lids as miniature dishes, Francis fixed a breakfast for each of the rats and slipped into the spare room for a moment.

Jo could hear Francis from two rooms over, " _Mangia rattone uno e' due_. Enjoy little ratties three and four." She thought he was crazy, but she was getting used to it. Though far from Jo's view she knew his routine. The rats, being omnivores, enjoyed with gusto the miniature versions of whatever meal Francis had prepared for Jo. He always fixed them tiny plates of food and placed one in every corner of the cage. This allowed each of the boys to put his back to the others, sit up on his haunches, and enjoy a meal to himself without fear of being accosted by a brother rat.

Francis reappeared. After scrubbing his hands with dishwashing liquid and steaming water and drying them thoroughly with a paper towel, he made himself some peanut butter toast. Then he slid onto the tall stool next to Jo. As an afterthought, he slipped an apple pancake onto his plate. He cautiously bit into the crust and shuddered slightly.

"What do you think?" Jo asked.

"Mushy," he said making a face, but he continued to chew, "kind of like wonder bread, but sweeter. Warm. Appley." He forced a smiled and swallowed.

"So, why don't people who have so much, give to those who have so little?" he asked.

Jo had thought Sierra Leone day was over, and they'd move on to Mozart or some such thing next. But that was okay, she was kind of into it now. And yes, she knew why people don't share the wealth. _Because they don't give a crap._ She kept the thought to herself. She knew what she knew and didn't feel like interrupting her breakfast to explain or defend it.

Francis saved her from getting into a debate by answering the question himself. "People don't give, because they're too far removed, and the act of giving returns no appreciation or satisfaction."

_Well that's one theory,_ Jo thought.

"But imagine this. Imagine starting with one small village and, with the consent of villagers, setting up multiple bank accounts: one for the town itself, one for the school and teachers, the hospital, and the police presence. There will also be bank accounts for neighborhoods, each represented by a hand-picked family, one that meets the right criteria: hardworking, engaging, articulate, and most important, community minded. Funds donated to televised families would be shared with neighbors and their community as a whole, so that off-air families are motivated to support their on-air neighbor's success.

"Then you create a reality TV-meets-telethon program by setting up cameras in various locations. It will be an everyday soap opera of sorts, but participatory. The audience, to some degree, gets to influence the outcome as they contribute the amount and decide the distribution of income. They get to know the people and the town—which starts out in desperate poverty—watching their stories unfold. On the giving end there is a degree of satisfaction and on the receiving side accountability, as both parties know how the resources are used."

_Wow. World hunger and poverty solved. Now if he just had two nickels to rub together..._ Instead of derailing his storytelling with a reality check, Jo decided just to have another pancake and let him go on.

"American Idol volunteered to do a pilot of sorts for the idea. If we could televise the plight of the third world and bring their reality into our living rooms, and give a way to bring about real change, then people would respond."

"American Idol?" Jo asked with a hint of disdain, "Is that the singing or dancing one?"

"You've never seen American Idol?" Francis exclaimed, "Wait. Bring your breakfast into the living room."

Jo complied. Francis headed for the front door entry way.

"So anyway," he told her excitedly, carrying his U-Haul box and setting it down on the coffee table, "the gist of the show is that there are three music critics: Randy, Simon, and Paula Abdul. She's a former pop singer and Laker's cheerleader. The three of them audition about a hundred thousand people from around the country and pick about a hundred, which is where we are now. They'll get it down to the top twenty-four. From that point on, people who watch the show live call in to vote for their favorites. The contestants with the lowest number of votes have to leave the competition. A lot of popular singers have gotten their start this way."

"It sounds absolutely..." Jo paused a moment, searching for the right word, "freaking ridiculous. Why do you watch such crap?"

"It's a good way to keep up with the pulse of US culture."

Jo raised an eyebrow at the enthusiasm with which he unpacked the combination television and VCR from the box.

"Okay," he admitted, "I'm completely addicted to the show and a week behind."

What Francis neglected to tell Jo was that he had gotten to know Simon Fuller, the producer, and Simon Cowell, the British know-it-all judge, during a taping of a benefit show in Sierra Leone. It was Francis who underwrote the expenses for America Gives A Little. Only very astute speed readers would have caught "The Saint Francis Foundation," a required legal claim, on the credits as they scrolled by at the end. Even the Simons did not realize fully Francis' involvement; they knew him only as one of the assistant writers on the set.

Francis said eagerly, "Okay, watch. I'll spare you the entire six hours I've got taped and fast forward past the initial auditions where people sang without music. Some were very good, and others were a little, well, out there."

Francis advanced the tape to the first round that was filmed in Hollywood, where the performers sang in groups of three, intermixed with solos showcasing the voice of each. The first four song choices were: "Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch," "Do Wa Ditty," "Midnight Train to Georgia," and "Piano Man." "Piano Man" was sung by three Midwesterners. The trio had been out sightseeing the night before and sang notes very different from what was being played on the piano.

Randy said that it didn't work for him and that it was all over the place and pitchy. Paula said they looked great and she especially enjoyed their selection of coordinated leather boots; she wrinkled her nose and shook her head sympathetically, though, when it came to their music. Simon said the show wasted the money on their plane tickets to Hollywood and added the performance was a "complete embarrassment."

Jo listened politely, but the smirk on her face showed her clear distaste for American pop culture. She looked amused watching Francis, who had moved from the bean bag chair and was now perched on the wide arm of her recliner, providing his color commentary on the show.

Then, after Francis by-passed the commercials, came the next group: Dane, a six foot-four hunk with a heart who worked in the oil fields in Oklahoma; Maria from New York City, a full-figured Hispanic woman; and Treena, a woman about Jo's height and weight but lacking her muscular build. Treena was a dog groomer at PetSmart, and a brief clip of her shaving a curly black cock-a-poo played during her intro.

"Now what?" Jo asked, "They're going to make fun of the fatties? And look, they've matched them up with the eye-candy just to make it more embarrassing."

Rehearsal footage played of the two women singing backup for Dane, but not in sync.

"Francis, I really don't want to watch this," Jo grabbed for the remote, but then stared down at it not sure which button to press. Before she could figure out how to work the device, the musical number began.

The threesome sang the first notes to Billy Joel's "The Longest Time." On stage was a piano and a cello, but just the cello accompanied to start.

The words flowed in sweet sounding three-part harmony. "If you said good bye to me tonight..."

Jo stopped fiddling with the remote and glanced up at the trio on the screen.

Then Treena did the chorus flourish. "There would still be music left to write."

Maria jumped in with, "There's nothing I could do."

And Dane's part followed. "I'm so inspired by you."

Treena sang, "That hasn't happened."

Then the three of them. "For the longest time."

When they finished, Randy said to the trio, "Best performance of the night and one of the best I've seen." He called out Treena by name, "Treena, you can really sing. You owned that stage. Dane. Maria. One hundred percent great job."

Paula Abdul agreed and said the song choice was perfect. She commented that the women looked beautiful and she meant it. Treena and Maria soaked it in.

"Dane," Paula said kiddingly, "You clean up okay."

Dane smiled humbly. It was clear that it was his luck in song partners, not his looks, that saved him from elimination.

And then the moment of truth. Simon Cowell. He started by saying he was worried in the intro, but they worked it out. "You have shown the others what talented singers sound like. I agree with Randy. One of the best I've heard. Treena, I know this is week one, but you have the makings of a star."

The fellow Idol contestants gave the trio a standing ovation, but the singular collective thought of the other singers showed on their faces. _Crap._

The camera zoomed in on Treena, glammed with a new hairdo and nice clothes and a broad smile.

Jo's eyes were fixated on the TV.

"That was interesting," she said, "Will they sing again?"

"No, not in this show."

"Do you have the next one?" Jo was clearly hooked and obviously not happy about it.

"No, but let's watch the end of this episode."

Jo agreed, "Okay, but only so we can scope out Treena's competition."

With Jo absorbed in the show, as was his habit directly after watching an Idol episode, Francis pulled out his cell phone, clicked "Simon C" from his contacts. He typed a quick text, "My gf liked your pick of Treena & thinks you're right."

As pompous as Simon Cowell appeared to be on television, he enjoyed flattery as much as anyone and looked forward to Francis's unbiased feedback each week. Francis' phone beeped, and Jo grabbed it playfully.

"Hmmm...who are you texting?" She punched a key. His Outbox message displayed on the screen. "What's a gf?" she asked, her eyes flashing with anger, "Obviously it doesn't stand for 'good fuck,' and it better not be the other thing."

Francis felt the back of his ears starting to redden. "That's text language. It's just shorthand. Anyhow, do you want to watch the rest of the show?"

A sixteen-year old boy with shoulder-length hair was singing the chorus of Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline," with the audience shouting back, "So good, so good, so good."

Jo grabbed the remote and this time was successful in hitting pause. "Gf stands for girlfriend. You're bragging to your buddies that I'm your girlfriend."

"I was just texting. I was saving keystrokes," Francis protested.

Jo shook her head slowly back and forth, her eyes smoldering. With an angry snort, she hit play on the remote control, crossed her arms at her chest, and returned her gaze to the television screen.

The teen heartthrob crooned, "Warm. Touching warm. Reaching Out. Touching me." The audience erupted. "Touching you."

The boy singer continued, "Sweet Caroline."

The audience responded, "Oh, oh, oh."

This time it was Francis who hit pause. "Well, are you?"

Jo turned to him and sneered a little. "You are such a messed-up little dude."

"Well, are you?" Francis pushed.

Jo considered the question in silence, the look of anger draining from her face. Finally, she rolled her eyes. "Fine. But you're still not getting any sex."

Francis stifled a grin. He hit play on the VCR remote control. Then he shifted from the arm of the chair. Jo sidled over a bit to make room for him. He squeezed next to her in the oversized recliner. He saw her arms unfold and felt her body relax into his, and his heart soared.

With his left hand, he quickly turned off his cell phone and slipped it back into his pocket, before Jo could see the new incoming text message from "Simon C." It read, "So you finally saw it. Of course I'm right." Followed by another message, "Call me about flight to Freetown."

After the show, Jo remained in her chair and lingered over a fresh cup of coffee while Francis packed up the electronics. Jo studied him carefully. She turned over in her mind the phrase "my girlfriend" and then considered the flipside of the phrase: "my boyfriend." A boyfriend. Weird. But kind of nice.

Jo used to dread Sundays and the expansion of unplanned time; it was an especially bad day for remembering the past. But with Francis, she seemed to do a million things in a Sunday and the time raced by. Even before she had put a name to it, she knew that over the previous several months they had evolved into more than just friends.

Again she rolled the phrase "my boyfriend" over in her mind, which was starting to drift. She was irritated with herself for wandering into a state she associated with not being in control. But the sensation was enticing. She succumbed to the tingling in her stomach, warm saliva in her mouth, the feeling of floating, not tied to body, daydreaming, drifting.

She thought about Francis and how his hair began to uncurl when he was overdue for a haircut. She thought back to him lying asleep on the sidewalk against IA, waiting for their first date, watching him sleep for a minute and then, when she nudged him with her foot, how he leapt up so eagerly. How he never bothered to hide how he felt and the easy smile he wore whenever he was with her. How he smelled, the ever-so-faint scent of Jake cologne. She remembered he told her once that it was a graduation gift that he used sparingly and only for special occasions. And she realized every time she saw him, he smelled of Jake. She thought of how being near him calmed her, and she felt a sudden craving for his touch, massaging her in the space between her ear and the back of her neck, as the tingling sensation in her midsection moved lower.

"I remember the first time I saw your face," Jo ventured, "I thought you were a graduate student in a Bohemian stage. And now....well..." she trailed off, then admitted, "You're not so bad to look at."

Francis left his electronics and went to Jo.

"The first time I saw your face, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen," he confessed.

"Don't mess with me," Jo said.

"No. It's true," he insisted, "I'm not the stalking type, but I staked out the late-morning D line for over a month, watching you from a distance on those days when you took the train, before I finally got up the nerve to ride the same car and introduce myself. I'd go home and tell my aunts about you at night. To tell you the truth, when they first met you they'd heard so much about you that I'm sure they assumed we'd had more than just the one date.

"You know, Jo, I meet new people every single day, and the greed, indifference, shallowness, and cruelty I see, well...most of those people sicken me. At times, I wanted to die, just to get away from the human race. But then I met you. Someone genuine, passionate, and compassionate. I didn't think such a person existed. You are a pearl of great value. From the moment I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and, now, I know it's true."

The sincerity in Francis' voice left no room for Jo to doubt that he fully meant everything he said. She allowed herself to look him in the eye, and when she did, neither could turn away. Francis slowly lifted his hand and gently trailed his fingers along Jo's cheek, then traced her jawline. Jo stiffened, but their eyes were still locked. She didn't know how to respond. The muscles of her face involuntarily started to relax, but her eyes were hard.

He smiled. Then he lowered his hand.

"Tell me something. About you," he said.

"Sundays are good. But otherwise, every day is pretty much the same; sometimes I feel like it runs into one long day."

"Come on. Share one feeling," he insisted, He seemed to treasure each word she spoke.

"Fine," Jo said, grudgingly, "This guy came into the shop a few weeks ago and wanted a crashed Kia Sorrento on his back. He brought me a picture and asked if I could do it for him. I said yes, but it would take a long time, and it would cost a lot. He gave his American Express card which he assured me had no limit.

"So I did the crashed car on his back, in layers, over a few visits. When I was done, he asked me if I could put writing underneath. And he told me to write 'Jimmy 1992 to 2009.' Turns out his baby brother was killed by a drunk driver. He was hoping that there'd be one person who'd see his tat and think twice about driving shit-faced."

"So, what did you feel?" Francis asked.

"Pain. My hand hurt after all that work."

"C'mon," Francis said.

She hesitated. "And I felt...sad. Yeah. Sad. A little jealous too, that this Jimmy had a big brother to look out for him, even though at the end he wasn't able to save him. See? I just shared a feeling. Oh yeah," she added, before he could respond, "I got a cat yesterday."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Another one?"

Jo explained, "I stopped by the shelter..."

"...and you were strolling down death row and heard a cat yowl, 'dead feline walking,'" he finished for her.

"Sort of," Jo said with a shrug, "On the side of his cage it said, 'Shy, not good with children or dogs, needs to be an only cat.' From the markings on the note, I could see they planned to declaw him, probably as a last resort. Stripping away his defenses would be the worst thing in the world for an animal like that. So, he came home with me."

Francis was curious. "What did you name this one?"

"Bagheera."

"The black panther from the jungle book," Francis commented, "What's he like?"

"He's very timid, although if you push him, he hisses and claws."

"How do you feel about this one?"

"I feel like a sap. See, I shared another feeling."

Laughing, Francis got up and headed towards the kitchen. "He just needs to discover his inner panther," he said. He started in on the dishes, and soon was elbow deep in soapy water, working his way through the pile of dishes from breakfast and the previous week.

"Pretty much," Jo said frowning when she heard the clink of dishes rubbing together in the dishwater. "Leave those; I'll do them tonight."

"I don't mind. I'll take care of them. I never get to do any of this for myself," he kidded, "You know I like my peanut butter and apples raw and served on a paper plate."

Jo sank deeper into her chair. If he wanted to do the mundane and much-hated chore, she wouldn't argue. While Francis cleaned away, humming contently to himself, Jo looked through the Local section of the Boston Globe for something free to do. Francis insisted on paying for their Sunday outings. Jo got the distinct feeling if it were something costly that he'd have to go without for the rest of the week as a result.

"All right," Jo announced, "our choices for today are the balloon fest on the Common, the American Gerbil Society show at the Cambridge Montessori School, the Harvard Museum of Natural History, or the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, which is free today because it's the first Sunday of the month."

"And we'd get to be Isabellas for a day," Francis proclaimed matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"Isabella Stewart Gardner felt a bit out of place. There weren't a ton of Isabellas back then, , before the popularity of that Twilight movie. So, when the building, land, and paintings were donated to the city, it was with the stipulation that anyone named Isabella would get in free anytime."

"Really?" Jo wondered how any one person could hold onto so much useless trivia.

"Plus, one day a month the museum has to be open for free to the public—hence today we are all Isabellas."

"Let's go," Jo decided for them.

They headed out the door, the last of the dishes still soaking in the sink.

Several weeks passed since their first lazy Sunday at Jo's house. Though Jo was as absorbed as much as ever by her work, the weekdays passed much more slowly than before. And Sunday flew by far too quickly. With each passing week, her façade dissolved slowly, so slowly. Probably no one else would have even noticed. Except for Francis. Francis seemed to be aware of everything, especially when it came to Jo.

It was a beautiful sunny day, so for their weekly no-cost activity they decided to take a walk through the Fenway Victory Gardens.

"This is the last Victory Garden in existence," Francis informed Jo, as he filled a backpack with sandwiches, apples, and cookies. "Richard D. Parker established the gardens to help with food shortages during World War II, then he worked to preserve them as historic landmarks. He kept his own plot until his death. Today, anyone who wants to maintain a fifteen-by-twenty-five-foot garden, right in the heart of Boston, can."

They took the Green Line to the Symphony stop and, after a ten-minute walk, entered the garden from the Boylston Street entrance. Hundreds of weekend gardeners lovingly tended their cornucopia of plots brimming with flowers, herbs, and vegetables. After about an hour of admiring the abundant flora, Jo suggested that they find a spot for lunch.

Francis replied with a familiar line, "I know a place."

On the way, they came to a garden with a bush of huge red roses in full bloom at the entrance. Inside was a miniature labyrinth of paths with all kinds of vegetation. Francis approached the bush, stopped, and smelled one of the roses. He took out a pocket knife and cut the flower from the bush, leaving a long stem. He popped off the thorns and handed the rose to Jo. She knew she was supposed to be touched by the romantic gesture, but thought stealing roses was rude at best and illegal at worst.

"I can't take this," She said, handing it back to him.

Francis stepped inside the garden and indicated for her to follow. She shook her head. Taking her hand, he pulled her in after him. He brushed aside some mulch in front of a foot-tall gray ceramic St. Francis statue to expose a small plaque which had on it the inscription, "Francis Mangini."

He offered her the rose again and, now that she knew it was legit, she took the blossom in her hand, and brought it up to her face. The soft petals tickled her nose as she breathed in its sweet perfume. She gave him a quick, spontaneous hug. Her first rose.

"You have a victory garden," she said, stunned, "It must be a lot of work."

"Gosh, no. I'd never have time to do all this," said Francis. "It's sort of a gift," he explained, "from a woman I helped out once. It was her way of saying 'thank you.'"

Jo's heart started to thump. "What did you do for her?"

Francis got that same evasive look on his face as when she asked him about his job situation.

"It's a long story," he said vaguely, "She was at a crossroads in her life, and I made it possible for her to start down a new path. She insisted on giving me something. I suggested some flowers or a nice plant."

Francis gestured with a sweeping motion toward the garden and said, "She gave me this."

Jo felt the white-hot flash she usually associated with being challenged or threatened. She looked around her, confused. There was no one there. Except Francis. Francis with his talk of some woman.

_Wait,_ Jo wondered incredulously, _Could I be jealous?_

Just then, at the back corner of the garden, a tall woman arose from her knees and emerged from behind a tree-sized plant that had elephant-ear shaped leaves and rhubarb shoots growing every which way. The woman's rapid gait and regal posture belied her age. She was well-freckled, tanned, and fit. As she approached, Jo could see from the crow's feet by her eyes that she was well past retirement age. Jo's heart resumed its normal beat.

"Francis, darling. I thought I heard your voice," the woman said. She removed dirt-smattered hardware-grade gloves and leaned down a bit to kiss him on the cheek. "You've brought a friend," she said.

"This is my girlfriend, Jo," Francis told her.

At those words, the woman beamed. "My name is Valerie. It's wonderful to meet you, Jo. Can I show you the garden?"

Valerie handed Francis a bottle of rust-colored liquid sitting near a line of new green bean shoots and asked if he would mind giving them a squirt. Then she took Jo by the elbow and headed into the garden to tour her showpiece. As she spoke, it became clear this was a science, as well as a labor of love.

"My father had a victory garden in the backyard in Roxbury when I was a little girl," Valerie began, "It wasn't always a rough neighborhood, you know. I used to play outside alone in the garden, and it was perfectly safe. That garden produced wonderful vegetables— tomatoes, green beans, and cucumbers—which we fertilized with our own compost. My father had a great distain for chemicals. I helped him make a mixture of vegetable peelings, chopped leaves, wood ashes, and horse or cow manure. He always used hot sauce to deter rabbits and deer."

It made Jo wistful to hear the happy memories this woman still kept from a long ago childhood, enjoying the solace of a garden together with her father.

Valerie moved on to the more combative side of gardening. "You don't need to worry about squirrels—they usually won't eat in a vegetable garden. They go for tulips. There aren't deer in the Fenway, but the place is lousy with rabbits. They love carrot-tops, young green bean plants, beets, and lettuce.

"You could come back one day to see your tender green bean leaves reduced to a row of one-inch stems. A coyote took off with all the rabbits one year, saving me a lot of anguish. But he must have moved on or been removed. This year I've had baby rabbits running rampant through my plot." She gestured at the bottle of red liquid Francis was using to coat the young plants in the distance. "The hot sauce is watered down with two parts water and sprayed on while the leaves are just emerging. Though I have to say it's hard to discourage rabbits after they've had a taste of something they like."

Valerie led Jo through a maze of beets, carrots, mesclun, zucchini, summer squash, and various herbs like parsley, thyme, oregano, sage, basil, chives, rosemary, and flame-colored edible nasturtium flowers. She explained that she'd planted the marigolds along the garden edges to discourage leaf-chewing bugs.

Jo was admiring an orderly row of tomatoes in cone-shaped wire cages. Valerie told her there were beefsteak tomatoes for eating and Roma tomatoes for cooking. Jo tried not to appear distracted. She didn't want to interrupt, but she had questions. Questions about Francis.

"So, anyway," Jo felt compelled to ask now that Francis was out of earshot, "does Francis bring all his women here?"

Valerie stared at her blankly for a moment, and then burst out laughing. She wiped her eyes. Then chuckled some more. Jo bristled a little. Was the woman making fun of her?

"No," Valerie hastened to explain, "you're it. Francis used to come here on Sundays, alone, to weed the garden. And to think. He always said that he just needed to get his hands dirty. He never said much else."

That was a bit surprising for Jo to hear. When she thought of Francis, it was either an image of him speaking or else staring at her in eager anticipation for her response. A quiet, reflective Francis was a side of him she rarely saw.

"But I haven't seen him or signs of his work here for some time," Valerie informed Jo, "With Francis' absence over the past year, I've put hay around my tomatoes and cucumbers. A thick layer of hay discourages virtually all weeds and keeps the need for watering to a minimum."

Then, turning her attention from her beloved vegetation, she confided to Jo, "I'm glad he's okay." Her eyes shone as she looked into Jo's. "And that he's found someone."

Any final trace of jealously Jo had harbored vanished, replaced by a sense of wonderment. It was hard to fathom that another person would choose her and be so enamored with. She struggled to process the thought, which was at once pleasing and unsettling.

Valerie filled Francis' backpack with fresh vegetables and herbs and safely packaged Jo's rose. Jo and Francis said their goodbyes. Then they continued on toward the lunch site.

They walked a little ways from the gardens and down a barely-trampled foot path though some woods and then faced a short climb up a steep cliff. Francis went first with Jo following right after. He scrambled up the precipice with surprising strength and agility.

Francis, making it to the crest, turned and reached down for her. Jo's first thought was to rebuff the outstretched hand. Or make a joke. Did he really think she couldn't make it on her own? That he somehow was going to haul her up? That she _needed_ him? She hesitated, gazing skyward.

He was illuminated by the sun behind him. God, he looked beautiful. Her desire for him terrified her. Sometimes looks could deceive. She had to be cautious. One thing she knew: Men were by nature apathetic, self-centered, arrogant, and callous. She considered the brilliant being before her. He was refined, courageous, steadfast. She slowly extended her hand to him. Their fingertips brushed. Her skin tingled at his touch; her hairs stood on end as the sensation encompassed all of her. Without another thought, she kicked off against a rock with her right foot. In one fluid movement, Francis grasped her hand and drew her upwards. In the next instant, Jo found herself seated beside Francis, his left arm still curled around a sturdy young oak.

A most amazing scene greeted her. Hundreds of victory gardens blanketed the ground below them in a patchwork design. Each was its own little world. It suddenly occurred to Jo that there is the world you are thrust into and the world you create. Each gardener had fashioned a private place for him or herself. She and Francis, too, were developing a microcosm of their own making.

Looking around her, it was obvious to Jo that Francis was not the only one privy to this vantage point. The squirrels, while absent in the gardens, seemed to congregate there.

"It's all the acorns," Francis explained when he saw her staring at the animals. "But they really prefer these," he said, pulling a bag of roasted unsalted peanuts from his knapsack.

Jo wondered if he had been packing squirrel treats every week. It would be like Francis, always busy and never rushed, to bide his time, peanuts at the ready, patiently awaiting the day she'd suggest a victory garden excursion. Jo and Francis devoured their sandwiches and tossed nuts to the cuddly rodents who grew bolder and greedier with each nibble.

Jo was astonished at how friendly the squirrels were. She'd often tried to feed the squirrels in the tiny courtyard behind her apartment, but the Newton squirrels were a cautious lot. So it was quite a surprise to Jo to see that Fenway squirrels had no fear of humans. The boldest one practically took the peanut right out of her hand. At home it took great effort to hand feed the squirrels: Jo was always trying to find ways of getting close without spooking the skittish creatures.

Here, since there was no fear—and no challenge—she didn't hand over the peanuts right away, waiting to see what the squirrels would do. How far would they go? She followed their lead and let them work for each tidbit. Jo got them to stand up on their hind legs, climb on boulders and stumps, and come right up to her. One squirrel was so near that Jo could see the coat was not actually brown, but had a rust-colored undercoat with black hair tips. The fuzzy face had fine, fanning whiskers and short, thick black eyelashes.

Jo suspected she could get the boldest squirrel to crawl on Francis' lap. Francis sat stock still, fascinated—despite telling Jo that wild rodents could harbor mites or lice—as the squirrel crept closer and closer. Just as the squirrel put a tiny paw on Francis' knee, Jo relinquished the peanut. It was peculiar and fun to see cute little wild animals actually trusting humans, as though they were in one of the old-style Disney animated films.

Upon returning to Jo's apartment a few hours later, Francis unloaded the vegetables plus a plastic bag with two dozen empty soda cans and beer bottles he had collected. He peeled the label from a green Heineken bottle, washed it thoroughly, put an inch of water and the rose it, then set it on the kitchen counter. He gave the rest of the empties a quick rinse. Each could be returned for a five-cent deposit.

"You need to learn to take a day off," Jo joked.

Francis smiled his comfortable, easy smile. Jo knew he loved it when she teased him, as long as she didn't pressed too hard about his source of income. Jo was not one to pry, and the pained look on Francis' face whenever she approached the topic of his employment let her know to back off. Jo guessed that with the poor economy, he, like so many others, was out of work and doing whatever it took to get by.

Jo took the dogs outside and upon returning asked Francis to put them in her bedroom so she could let the rats run free. Muzzy was the first rat sprung loose and made a bee line for Francis. Muzzy had a special affection for Francis, which Jo secretly thought was due to his peanut butter breath.

Francis eased himself into the bean bag chair. Muzzy crawled up on his chest, curling his head into the nook of Francis' neck, grinding his teeth in contentment, as Francis rubbed the animal's jaw and around his ears. After a time, Muzzy inched his way up toward Francis' face. Muzzy liked to give kisses, his soft velvety tongue tickling Francis' lips. If not dissuaded, he would take it to the next level and pry open his mouth to floss out particles between his teeth.

"Jo," Francis pleaded. Jo rose from where she was settled, lying on the rug and reading the Sunday comics, and dislodged the rat's head from within Francis' mouth. She scooped up the small creature, tickling him and blowing raspberries on his fuzzy belly, until he spun away, energized for a surprise attack on one of his brothers.

Jo moved into the comfortable, oversized chair and reclined. Francis followed her. As usual, it began rather innocuously, as Francis would say, "Do you mind if I..."

He would brush her hair, massage her hands, or rub her feet. What followed then was an increasingly sensual experience. That day, he started by brushing her hair with a metal comb. Next, he gently traced the length of her neck with his fingers, before kneading her shoulders. He worked his way down to her hands, giving soft bites and kisses in between the fingers.

She remembered his first touch, when she had stiffened in his hands. It made her think briefly of Bagheera on the day she brought him home. Even then, as a scruffy black tom curled in the farthest corner of the cage hissing at her through glowering yellow eyes, it had been easy for her to imagine the animal as a sleek, enormous panther of a cat. Weeks later, Bagheera ruled the rescue/exercise room, stretched across the length of Jo's weight bench, tail swaying slightly and rumbling with contentment when she walked by and gave him a rub behind the ears.

Jo had relaxed at Francis' early attempts to show affection once she came to the obvious realization that she could send him flying across the room with one smack. And, if that failed, there was always the gun within easy reach.

Over time, she'd come to await this part of their Sunday routine with fervent anticipation. Francis' touch was soft and sure. He had a good instinct for her likes as well as a talent for reading her reaction to his touch. She had developed a silent code, which she used to accelerate the learning. Communicating in black jack signals, Jo would tap (more) or rub (pass) the arm of her chair. After Jo had relaxed under his touch, Francis would run hot water in the tub, add bubble bath, bath beads, or oils, and light a candle in a matching or complimentary scent. Then he would leave.

That day, his departure left a deep void, an unfamiliar longing. Jo lay in the warm bubbly water, her thoughts fixed on Francis. What would it be like if he didn't leave? What if, just once, he stayed? She closed her eyes, draped one arm outside the tub, rested the other between her thighs, and imagined it.

Normally Jo would undertake an especially long, arduous Sunday evening workout. But that night she put on a fresh night shirt and crawled under her covers instead. She longed to fall sleep, but she was terrified that the sense of tranquility would not last through the night. To compromise, she set the alarm before lying down. Jo drifted to sleep imagining Francis holding her close with both of them satisfied and spent. She had the most restful nap since she was two years old. When the alarm rang at 11:30 PM, she was surprised that the time had slipped by so quickly. The dream over, she dressed and headed out for the city.

# CHAPTER 8: Conversion

One Sunday evening several weeks later, Jo reclined in her chair with Ben stretched out on top of her, his head resting on her shoulder, body laid across her chest and his tail curled beneath him in her lap. The dog sighed in contentment; it was a new experience, one that they both found enjoyable, for Jo to be awake and still.

Jo watched Francis, mildly amused as he sat in a wooden chair across the room, utterly absorbed in working out a knotty theological issue. He liked to cultivate ideas aloud. Jo listened without the typical, outside-world response to his religious talk: a glazed-over look, forced politeness, or outright hostility. Devoid of any religious training or preconceptions and with no agenda or stake in the outcome, Jo came at it from a new angle. One which Francis often told her he found refreshingly direct.

Francis rose from his seat and slowly paced the perimeter of the room. "So, yeah, the switch occurred between Old and New Testament. Around the time of Job, God gets this idea, or probably we just evolved enough to be privy to the idea He'd always had. In either case, Job represents the test case of how things are going to work from now on. God is and always has been excruciatingly slow—at least by our sense of time—to responding to the pain, suffering, and crying out of His people. But at least in the ancient times, the suffering was a direct result of disobeying God. In that sense, people deserved what they got. With Job, on the other hand, God allowed a lot of crap to happen for no apparent reason, through no fault of Job's own.

"The bright spot is that He uses the crap that happens or is done to us for something good. He turns it all around. This is just one example of God as revealed in the Old Testament, and later God incarnate as Jesus, as the ultimate Plate Spinner.

"Job's situation in particular represents a mega plate spin. No longer is it an 'eye for eye' or 'follow the rules and get a blessing.' The way He explains the new world order with Job's case is pretty simple. Job loses everything. Belongings, livestock, servants, children, wives, his own health. Then, through Job's steadfast faithfulness, all is restored, plus more.

"Those were the good old days when you could trade in a wife. You know, upgrade." He gave Jo a little smirk as he said the last part.

Jo reached out smacked him as he passed.

"Ow," he protested, grinning, "But seriously. The message here has to do with suffering and sacrifice, but with a purpose. Giving up something for greater gain. Sacrifice used to mean giving up a pigeon or a goat, and gain was health and wealth. Now, the stakes are upped. Jesus demonstrated the ultimate sacrifice by giving up His own life with a hefty amount of suffering leading up to His death. The gain in His case was creating an entryway for salvation of the human race. Eleven of His twelve apostles followed suit, all similarly martyred.

"It was pretty horrific—the apostle John was able to live out his life on an island, writing, after surviving a botched attempt to boil him alive, but the rest of the Apostles were crucified, stoned, beaten to death, that sort of thing. Saints throughout the ages have suffered a variety of awful and similar treatments. Of course, no one group has an exclusive on suffering. Persecution is the one manmade resource that always seems to be plentiful."

Francis' voice trailed off as he paused before Jo. His gaze lingered upon her, considering her like a work of fine art.

Jo stared back at him intently, waiting for him to continue his trail of thoughts. "So?" she said.

Francis squinted his eyes and wrinkled his forehead as though straining to recall what it was he had been talking about.

"Ah...suffering," he continued, and with a quick shake of his head resumed his pacing, "What about you? Your father molested you, your mother allowed it, and your teachers looked the other way. Yet, as abominable and inexcusable as it was, if all of that had not happened, would you be who you are today? God often seems to grant powers to survivors not possessed by those cruising through life. Perhaps with you it is the longing to rescue and your fearlessness of the night, as well as just about anything or anyone else. There is a great power within that combination."

Francis alighted on the bean bag chair and from there considered Jo. "God loves you, you know."

Jo sighed through her nose, her teeth clenched. "Stop with the 'L' word. You know I hate that word. Why don't people just say what they mean?" Jo shook her head in disgust. "Love, hah! I heard it all the time growing up. It still sickens me when I overhear people say it. Each time it means something else; but never a definition you'd find in the dictionary. I don't understand what it is supposed to mean, only what it does mean." He eyes were cold, she pushed Ben off of her lap, picked up the Local section of the paper from the floor, and started thumbing through it.

"Don't stop. Tell me what you mean," Francis implored.

Jo gave the paper a hard shake, folded it, and rested the newspaper in her lap. "People use the 'L' word to cover up some sort of 'I want' or 'don't,' like 'don't leave me' or 'I want sex' or 'I need you to say it back to me,' 'don't be angry,' 'don't hurt me,' 'don't be upset,' 'don't be in a bad mood,' 'convince me that I'm not unlovable.' Don't ever say that word to me, or I may have to bust you up a little."

"Okay," Francis said softly, his forehead furrowed.

"And another thing," Jo retorted, "Obviously God doesn't 'love' me. How could He and yet let all that shit happen to me? Where was He? What was His role? What is He anyways, some sort of superhero on standby?"

Francis did not answer right away. His nostrils trembled and the corners of his mouth downturned into a slight, contemplative frown. Finally he spoke, "I would never question His judgment. After all, He is God. But just between you and me, extending free will to everyone seems like a pretty crappy policy. So why didn't He reach down from Heaven, scoop you up in his arms, and smite your parents on the spot? Inflict your teachers with boils or frogs?"

Francis fell still and was silent again for a moment. Then he said, "I don't know why. If I were God, with all that power at my fingertips, there would be a lot more smiting.

"God works in a different way. I guess I really don't know why. Why don't you ask Him yourself? And listen. You'll get an answer. Or maybe just peace knowing He's in charge and He's got it figured out."

Suddenly Francis leapt to feet, pacing once again but moving more rapidly. "What about this..."

Rufus raced over to join him. Francis didn't seem to notice the giant dog leaping at his side as he traversed the room in a walk so fast it was almost at a jog.

"Think about it," he said, excited, "Suffering...sacrifice...gain. Childbirth is a good example. When a woman has a baby, it is the painful labor that produces complete joy. She doesn't care about the pain, or at least she accepts the pain, because she has the whole picture. Some women even do it all over again, knowing clearly that the pain is for a purpose, a reason, an end result.

"We hold this expectation, with no foundation at all, that God will give His people an easy, pain-free life. It seems to be just the opposite. Many people who reject God live out cushy lives, while those who serve often face hardship and persecution. Clearly, belonging to God doesn't mean living painlessly. But, the pain can lead to good, joyful, amazing, unbelievably incredible outcomes. Maybe it is even necessary."

Francis walked over to Jo with Rufus still at his heels. He knelt before her, took her hand in his, and searched her face. "I have a question for you. What if you could sacrifice your own childhood so that others might have theirs? Would you do it?"

Jo immediately thought of the girls on the street and felt the familiar throbbing pang. She remembered the slight girl with silky black hair and dark almond eyes who she had protected one night and then left behind. "Maybe. Yeah, but no one asked me."

Francis said, "God didn't have to ask. He knew. What happened to you was horrible and inexcusable. But perhaps the outcome is a burning desire to save others in similar circumstances, and the ability to make them listen and follow you out of there, because you know what it is like. You've been there. A certain power comes with making it beyond a trauma and it having no hold on you, making it to the other side with no fear, no tears, not chained, and untouched: ' _he walks through fire, yet he is not burned_.'" Francis stood up and resumed a slow pace. "Oh, Jo-Jo," he sighed, "how would I know? It's all theories, ideas, speculation. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth."

Jo thought it was an odd thing for him to say, but she let him go on and did not remind him of his parents' early death and his living in near poverty. Francis stopped suddenly and stood still. Rufus pawed at his side a couple of times, then plopped into a sit next to him, tongue lolling, staring up into his face.

Subdued, Francis said, "What could I know about real pain and betrayal? I've always just been given everything I need. I've never been brutalized or endured real suffering. Really. Do something for me, will you Jo? Ask God if He would send you the answer. You ask Him for me. I know He'll answer. Then explain it to me."

Jo closed her eyes. The conversation tired her, but in a sleepy, not agitated, sort of way. Opening her eyes, Jo said, "You are an excitable little man." Then, more seriously, Jo admitted, "Francis, I'm tired." Before he could react, she repeated herself slowly, deliberately. "I'm _tired_ Francis," She murmured, "So tired."

He looked at her, with his head cocked. It reminding Jo of one of Rufus' quizzical looks. The enormity of that confession registered on his face. Jo was careful never to express even the smallest bodily need or desire to anyone.

"I can never rest, never stop, never relax, never let my guard down," she said, with the slightest tremor in her voice. She clenched her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. It cost her a great deal to admit this, even to herself, let alone to anyone else. Yet once she began, there was no turning back. The words spilled out of her like water from a spigot. It was all at once terrifying, yet strangely liberating. "The only time I feel momentarily satisfied is when I'm looking for a fight or smashing someone in the face. I only sleep when I've brought my body to exhaustion."

She looked up at Francis and said, "You lost your parents when you were three. You own nothing. You struggle to make it through the week, and yet..."

"I have much more than you know," Francis told her.

By the outside world's standards Francis had little to offer. However, gazing at him in that moment, Jo had a strange desire to reach out and take for herself his quiet confidence, his sense of inner peace, the unfailing joy and hope he exuded.

"I want it, too," she said with a catch in her throat.

Francis paused. "I've never don't this before," he admitted, "but I suppose bringing in some clergy is out of the question?"

Her mouth dropped a bit and she stared at him with an "are you kidding me?" look.

Before she could utter a word, he said, "Okay, okay. I've got this. Just give me a sec." Francis closed his eyes and bent his head in silent prayer. When he opened his eyes they were clear and bright. "I'm ready."

Jo stood up, dropped the newspaper in her chair, and approached Francis.

"You'd better sit down for this," Francis advised.

She sat cross-legged on the floor. Francis knelt in front of her and put one hand on each shoulder. He prayed in a rhythmic chant, as if talking to an old friend. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

"Would you like the Lord Jesus Christ to take on all your burdens and wash away your sins, for the Holy Spirit to enter into you, and to become a child of God for all eternity?"

Jo sighed loudly and simply said, "Yes."

In the silence that followed, Francis slowly inhaled and then expelled the air, matching his breathing to hers. In a sing-song voice, he prayed, "Oh Father God, magnificent in glory, unfailing in patience, who desires union with all your human creation. Jo comes to you earnestly seeking, yearning for reconciliation..."

He sounded very far away.

A crinkling sensation buzzed between Jo's ears. She was hit with a rush of wind. Her arms went limp and head slumped forward. She was glad that she was sitting. Her eyes misted beneath the lids. Francis continued to chant. After some time, Francis fell silent. Jo opened her eyes, wet and shining with the whites a brilliant white.

"I think it took," she said. And then, "So what now?"

Francis took a worn copy of the New Testament from his back pocket and handed it to her. "This is a general guide–an instruction manual of sorts. I'll give you the first half next week. Pay attention. Listen. God has big plans for you. Are you baptized? You'll want to join a church. You may have to try a bunch to find the right flavor."

"I'm not a joiner," she said.

"Okay, whenever you are ready, then," he replied.

# CHAPTER 9: Confession

It was a typical ending to the many months of Sundays spent together. Francis was about to slip out the front door as Jo headed for the washroom to lower herself into a steaming bath and linger in her oversized tub enveloped by hot water, bubbles, and the smell of lavender and vanilla soaps and candles that Francis had prepared for her.

With each passing Sunday, Jo found she was increasingly left with a strange tenderness and unfamiliar longing. Jo craved the physical, human contact of his touch. No more just pretending. As Francis headed out, she voiced the word she'd been thinking for many weeks aloud to him.

"Stay."

He turned back and went to her. He took both of her hands in his, and kissed one of them before releasing his hold. "I want to," he replied, "You can't imagine how much I want to, but it's not a good idea. You know," Francis admitted, "Technically, I'm still a virgin."

"Ah..." Jo teased, "And technically you still live at home, with your aunts. So that makes you sort of a '40-Year-Old Virgin' with a 'Failure to Launch.'"

Francis feigned insult. "No, thirty-five-year-old virgin. Well, I'll be thirty-five next Sunday. Hey, let me plan the day. There's something I've been wanting to ask you. I'll get your answer then. All I want is a 'yes' or 'no.' Don't give me anything else."

"I wasn't planning on it," Jo said. Then, though he didn't seem fazed, she felt a rare compulsion to explain herself. "I don't do gifts."

With a hint of a smile, Francis nodded and walked out the door.

The following Sunday morning, Jo lay awake in bed, resting. She didn't know who or what God was, but the experience she had at the moment of her conversion made her crave more of it, more of Him. Her mind traveled, not to the sad and scary, but to a thought that had a hold on her. It was the concept of herself as an eternal being. The idea that the years on earth were a beginning, a preparation for living forever, consumed her.

When she loped through the city at night, she felt almost as though she were about to fly, as if only she could take a big enough stride and with enough force, she would be propelled right out of her body. That was what the afterlife was, she imagined, leaving the physical body behind in exchange for one with no ailments, pains, limitations, or needs. A body no one could penetrate or abuse.

She heard the familiar squeal of Francis' brakes. She sprang out of bed, gave her teeth a quick brushing, and opened the front door before he could knock.

"Happy Birthday," she said.

"Yes, it is," he replied with a smile.

Looking outside for the first time that morning, Jo squinted at the bright light. It was a glorious Indian summer day. Francis stood in the doorway with a large picnic basket in one hand and a cooler in the other. He wore a new white dress shirt and a purple patterned tie. After letting him in, Jo lifted the top of the cooler and discovered bottles of champagne and sparkling cider and two crystal glasses.

"What are we celebrating?" she asked.

"That is to be determined. So, are you up for a surprise adventure?"

"Sure."

"Okay. We'll get going as soon as you're ready."

Francis grabbed a couple of plastic bags and left to take the dogs for a quick walk through the neighborhood. After a few minutes Jo peeked through the curtain of her bedroom window and looked out. She saw Francis walking up her street, then toss the now-full bags into a public trash can in front of her apartment. He opened the back door of the Nova and indicated to Rufus and Ben to jump in. Francis helped himself to three generous squirts of the hand sanitizer he kept in the glove compartment and settled himself in the car with the Sunday paper, waiting for Jo to get ready.

After a quick rummage through the few items of clothing hanging in her closet, Jo selected a deep purple, peasant-style, mid-calf length skirt and matched it with a purple and yellow flannel shirt. She rolled the sleeves and tied the shirt loosely at the waist. Then she pulled a pair of Birkenstock leather-top beach sandals from the deepest recess of the closet and slipped them on. She felt strange without her overalls, as if she were out of uniform. She was about to change when she heard knocking at the front door. She met Francis at the doorway. His lingering gaze and slowly spreading grin let her know he appreciated her attire.

They put the basket and cooler back into the trunk. Francis opened the passenger door for Jo, and she found a large hot coffee, extra cream, extra sugar, waiting for her in the cup holder. Then Francis walked around to the driver's side. As they were pulling out, Jo noticed that the gas tank needle was pointing to full.

Francis meandered his way through the city and breezed onto the Mass Pike West, then took the Framingham exit. After miles and miles of contiguous strip malls, the view along Route 20 started to become more scenic. They drove through the sleepy residential towns of Sudbury and Wayland, which Francis commented, "were once mainly farmhouses and apple orchards."

"Did you know, Jo," Francis asked her, "that because Sudbury's zip code is 01776, it was quite the hot spot during the bicentennial in 1976? Gerald Ford visited the town that year and appointed the local militia, armed only with muskets and pitchforks, to protect him. Of course they had a bit of help from the secret service. Ford made a speech at the bandstand....there," Francis said, with his arm outstretched, pointing toward the town commons.

Jo was mildly impressed by Francis' propensity for fun facts and wondered whether he had googled it beforehand.

As they drove Francis' enthusiasm waned. He seemed distracted. Francis took little notice as they whizzed past a number of farms, some selling fall produce, homemade pies, and other goods; one even had even had clothes made from the coats of their own alpacas.

Francis licked his lips and shifted in his seat. He took a deep breath. "Jo," he said in a low voice, "I have something to tell you." He spoke slowly like he was delivering a prepared speech. "I need to tell you about myself. My job, what it is I do, what and who I am." He turned his head towards her, and she glared back at him squinting with suspicion.

"Uh, well...okay. It all started about two years ago," he stammered, "with a dream. I dreamed of a warrior." Francis' words tumbled in a rapid-fire free-flow. "I didn't want to introduce myself until I was free. I haven't been completely honest about who I am. Have you heard of Charles Davis?"

"Of course," Jo said tersely. He was one of the country's richest men, a leading philanthropists, and a local celebrity. He frequently was headlined on the front page of the newspapers and was a topic of conversation in Jo's shop.

"I'm him," Francis said, "Sort of."

Jo fell silent, her jaw clamped tight. She was confused by his nervous rambling, her heart thudded, and she felt anger starting to bubble up.

Francis took another deep breath and attempted to explain. "His words, his speeches, his decisions, the way the billions are allocated. I control...all of that."

White hot anger swelled inside of Jo. Secrets. Lies. Francis was the final straw: her one last-ditch effort to trust another human being and to live in union with another person. Was he no different than any other man? For a fleeting moment, she wished she hadn't fallen into the habit of leaving her handgun home on their Sunday outings. It would make killing him so much easier, first him and then herself.

Through the fury a single thought came to her, _Breathe_. She did. Then another thought, _Be still._

She struggled to comply...to think.

No. Clearly that wasn't going to work. Adrenaline surged through her and prompted the all too familiar fight back urge. Doing something violent was an enticing thought, even though part of her knew she'd regret it. She had only one other option.

"Stop the car!" she thundered, slamming the passenger side door with the palm of her hand. Francis complied, swerving into the wide dirt breakdown lane. The brakes shrieked. Jo flew out of the car before it had come to a full stop. Without shutting the door, she took off sprinting on the balls of her feet, arms pumping by her side.

After a short dash, she switched to her loping stride, well-balanced and efficient, even in sandals. Suddenly she remembered, _Damn it, the dogs!_ Jo paused, turned, and looked back. She saw Francis shut her door and crack open the windows. He scrambled out of the car. He took a moment to touch the back window with his fingertips and speak briefly to the dogs, whose noses were pressed against the glass. Then Francis turned and took off in a full sprint after her. His steps were graceless, panicked, and much slower than hers.

Jo turned and resumed her anaerobic, long-distance pace. She focused her thoughts on nothing but taking the next effortless step. Her skirt swirled behind her and her sandals flip-flapped against the hard-packed dirt. The fall wind cooled her hot skin and calmed her raging mind.

After about two miles, Jo's head began to clear. She glanced over her shoulder and could see a form in the distance. _The little liar is pretty tenacious,_ she thought. She continued on for another two miles, replaying Francis' confession in her mind. She tried to cling to the rage to protect herself from his lies and deceit. Despite her efforts, with each stride the anger dissipated some and her curiosity grew.

She weighed his latest story against his actions over the past year. Her mind flooded with each of the many kindnesses bestowed on her, from the huge ones like prosecuting her father, to the minuscule ones like placing a rose in a green glass beer bottle vase, cuddling with the rats on the bean bag chair, and, just moments earlier, checking on her dogs before he began his chase after her.

She eased her pace and looked over her shoulder, but he was nowhere in sight. She slowed some more and turned around, moving backwards, squinting her eyes at the horizon. She spied a speck far off in the distance. She jogged in place until he was close enough for her to see that he was clutching his side. He looked as though he was gasping for air. _Good,_ she thought as she turned around and took off.

She adjusted her stride until he was able just to keep pace, maintaining a distance of about twenty yards away. Jo felt as if she were barely moving, fueled by knowing that for Francis each step was agony.

Francis shouted to her, "Will you..." _gasp_ "let me..." _gasp_ "tell the story?" _gasp_. She considered the question for a minute, and with a deep sigh, decided this was a story she probably needed to hear. She turned and strode over to him, shrugging one shoulder as she approached.

"Sure, go for it."

Francis attempted a smile. His sides heaved with each breath and his white dress-shirt was wet with sweat. "Just let me tell it without interruption. Okay? It's long and complicated even if I say it straight through."

"Yeah, why not? It'll help pass the time," she said as she loped passed him without pausing. It was at least five miles back. Not problem for her. And if he wanted to tell her something he'd just have keep up.

Francis, energized, caught up to her, and gasping out a few words at a time, told his story. "For the past year. I've been telling you about me, about what I do. All the stories I've told you. They were about me. I was the man driving through Sierra Leone. I funded the Idol thing. I spend most weekdays on airplanes...checking on endeavors across the globe. And the rest of my time in meetings with high-level advisors."

Jo started to pull ahead. Francis hollered at her back.

"My parents were wealthy people. But also extremely private, not attention-grabbers like Paris Hilton or Leona Helmsley. They did everything they could to _avoid_ the public eye. They didn't gather much notice because they lived a decent, modest life providing little fodder for the media." He moved faster and pulled up to her side before continuing between strained breaths. "My father...was a philanthropist....Hold on."

She decided to cut him a bit of slack and jogged in place. He put his hands on his hips and leaned forward. Jo recognized the move. It was one they'd watched on cheap dates in Boston sport bars splitting a half price appetizer and watching football games. He was attempting the stretches football players do on the sidelines. Francis probably thought it might help. She knew it wouldn't much.

Jo reveled in his misery.

Once he had the wind to speak, she started moving again. He limped after her.

"My father set up the initial network to funnel his money into various channels without anyone knowing where it came from. My mother, not the bury-one's-talents-in-the-ground type, put the family fortune into a combination of bonds and high-risk investments. My parent's biggest concern during their lifetime and for mine was the protection of privacy."

Jo pulled ahead once more. She heard a thud. She turned to see Francis had dropped to the ground and was sprawled out his back, looking skyward, heaving with each breath.

"Jo, I can't run anymore. But I need to tell you this." Jo walked over to him and stared down for several seconds before offering him a hand. Francis took it gratefully, and she hoisted him to his feet. He continued to hold onto her hand, but she shook it off. She turned and headed once again for the car, but shifted the pace to a fast walk.

Jo was confused and annoyed to feel warm wetness in her eyes. She made sure to speed up whenever he approached her side, making him deliver his monologue to her back. She swiped her eyes with the back of her hand and turned to walk backward for a moment. She examined him wearily, doggedly silent. She then turned around and picked up the pace once again.

Jo was gaining distance. Francis had to shout to be heard. "I received access to the trust on my eighteenth birthday. My aunts always covered my basic needs. But there was not much more for 'extras,' like electronic gadgets or expensive brands of clothing. You know the stuff that separates the popular from the losers in schoolroom politics. So, when I came into the cash I went nuts. I went on a three-year spree of reckless spending. I collected an obscene number of big toys and new best friends. Finally, I realized that, unlike my father, I had no financial constraint. I had become a complete asshole."

That gave Jo pause for thought. So had she. She'd gotten there in a different way and for different reasons, but the result was the same. She slowed so she could hear more.

"So, in my typical compulsive manner, I had my advisors help me draft a means of making the finances a permanent trust. Basically I set up rules handing over the trust fund to strictly philanthropic stuff."

She let him catch up.

"Although," he said, attempting a wry grin, "I wish now I had been a little more generous with my allowance. I'd just finished reading 'The Perfect Joy of Saint Francis' by Felix Timmermans, the life story of my namesake, and was unduly influenced by Saint Francis' life of poverty. This work has been too consuming for me to take on a regular job; I didn't realize this would _be_ my income and not just supplement it.

"The money is mine, but I can't spend it on myself, except for things like the suits and the private plane used exclusively in conjunction with business."

_Private plane?_ Jo still remembered her surprise when she learned he had the means to own a car, even an old beater. She tried to picture him in a tailored suit whisking her off in his private plane. It was a very different image of Francis, but somehow it fit.

"I receive a small weekly stipend each Friday. Usually I've spent that by Wednesday and mooch off my aunts for the rest of the week. If I marry, the amount will increase to support a comfortable, middle-class life, with added funds for the children's college."

Francis took her right hand in his sweaty palm, just long enough to draw her closer to him. "Oh, Jo. I'm a servant to this money and I've been asking God for years now to release me. To give me a sign. I think he's given it to me. I've picked a successor. No one you would know; conduits like me are invisible by nature. Of course I may have to jump in if he screws up; but he's been working side-by-side with me for a while now, and frankly I think his judgment is often better than mine."

Jo stopped, wiped her hand on her skirt, and took in a long, deep breath. It had taken several miles to use up all the adrenaline. She was emotionally spent. Even though she was still mad, she no longer wanted to fight or to flee. "I'm angry right now. You know, back in the car, if I had my gun, I might've put a bullet through your head."

"Can I give it a plate spin?" Francis implored, sounding more desperate than afraid.

"You can try."

They started walking, side by side, this time with an easy, relaxed stride.

"The Francis you know, that is who I am. And it's not going to change. This other stuff...well, that's only what I do. Truthfully, it's a hardship. I can't tell you how much I want to give it up."

Francis risked a sidelong look.

"There were two reasons I couldn't tell you sooner. The first is that this is something I could tell only to someone I trusted completely; telling the wrong person would expose me to a life of being hounded by the media and the truly desperate from around the world. In the wrong hands, knowing all of this would ruin the foundation that depends on my anonymity. So, I had to be sure. The second reason is that I want to walk away from it all. If someone knew and cared about me for my secret billionaire identity," he smiled wryly just for a moment, "even a little bit, they may resent my decision to bail out and keep me bound to what I've come to see as an encumbrance.

"You can't imagine how many times I've prayed for God to take away this burden. I asked for a sign and then got it in a dream I had again and again. I dreamed about a warrior with vertical stripes of rust-colored war paint on both sides of her face. The dreaming slowed down when I started searching for the woman. When I found you, it stopped completely.

"When I first saw you, I knew you were the warrior. Later I realized the colored stripes were the grooves you cried as a child and, even though your eyes had rusted, the tears you feel inside for the street children you can't reach out to."

Jo didn't know what to say, what to do. She decided she needed some space to process all of this.

"See you back at the car," Jo called over her shoulder as she took off. She got a long enough glimpse to see Francis taking baby steps on aching feet. She'd have some time alone to think, knowing he couldn't lengthen his stride and had nothing left.

Her mind raced. Should she embrace this incredible man? Or walk away forever from this lying sack of shit? She lengthened her stride, the rhythmic slap, slap, slap of her feet sounded like a mantra. By the time she arrived at the car, she was no closer to knowing, and yet, she felt at peace.

The dogs raised their heads sleepily at her arrival. After taking a long swig of lukewarm coffee, Jo joined them in the back seat. She rested her head on Rufus' solid hindquarter and closed her eyes.

Jo awoke, rested but feeling a bit cramped, to the sound of tapping on the window. There stood Francis. His wet hair hung limply, his face glistened, his dress shirt was drenched and his tie wilted and wrinkled.

"Hang on a sec," he said. He walked around to the front passenger side, and opened the door to grab his industrial sized hand sanitizer from the glove compartment. Then, he disappeared behind the car. Jo heard him rummaging in the trunk. She dislodged herself from between the dogs, and got out of the car momentarily to move into the front seat. She sniffed near an armpit. She was relieved that the only scent was her baby powder fresh deodorant kicking in a bit. She'd gone only half her nightly distance, and most of it at half-pace.

Francis returned wearing a brown T-shirt with a stick-figure style drawing of a chick on it. The phrase "Talk is cheep" was printed above it.

_Ain't that the truth,_ Jo thought with a smirk. But then, she gave the saying a little more consideration. _They say God speaks in mysterious ways._ Whether or not it was divine or prophetic or just a dumb T-shirt slogan, Jo had to concede it was one's actions, not words, that mattered.

Francis gingerly eased himself into the driver seat. "Rosary...pah-leez. The Catholics could learn a thing or two about proper penance from you."

Jo almost retorted, but caught herself just in time. She wasn't quite ready to let him off the hook. Still, she had to admit he'd made a good effort.

"Thirsty?" she asked him cruelly.

"I guzzled down the melted ice water from the cooler. Hey, did you want some?" he asked apologetically.

"Me? No, I'm fine."

Francis searched Jo's face and asked in a grave tone, "So, back to Newton or should we keep going?"

In the long pause that followed, Jo decided she'd at least consider forgiving him. Besides the run had made her pretty hungry and craving carbs. "I suppose we can do the picnic or whatever corny thing you had planned."

Francis released the breath he'd been holding. A smile quickly spread across his face as he wordlessly strapped on his seatbelt and pulled back onto the road.

"So you want to get out of the family business?" Jo probed.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, "But it's not like quitting a regular job. I had to wait until I knew my replacement was the right man for the position. The same day that he started working solo was the very first time I let you see me on the train. I knew once I got to know you, there would be no going back to my old life.

"Jo," Francis said with a sigh, "it's been a good run, and I've done great things by the grace of God and the mounds of cash at my disposal. But, I'm tired and used up. And not just from running my first half marathon," he said with a faint smile, "way before that."

After they drove a while, they came to a brick red sign that read, "The Wayside Inn" and Francis pulled off the main street onto a dirt road. As soon as the place came into view, he resumed his familiar habit of fact sharing about their outing of the week. It was just as well, because it gave Jo some more time to think.

"This is a very special place. It's the country's oldest inn, built in 1716. There's the barn," he said as they approached a beautifully restored rusty red barn with a large open door bordered in white, a red fence going across the entrance, and a vent bordered in white above the door.

"And the ice house," he said, pointing to a grey one-story building near the pond. "They would cut ice from the pond and put it in there during the winter. It was so well-insulated that the ice would last through the summer and into the fall."

"And this is Josephine Pond," he announced as they rounded a bend in the road. It was postcard picturesque. There was a line of apple trees with a view of the inn to the left, and to the right was a tiny chapel with a white steeple, that looked just like the kind from a child's drawing or picture book. "It was built from trees," Francis said, "felled during the historic hurricane of 1938. In the spring, this is one of the most popular wedding places in New England." On this late fall day, even though it was unseasonably warm, they had the place practically to themselves.

They pulled into the chapel's empty parking lot. Francis opened the car's back door and the dogs jumped out, tails wagging and noses to the ground. He removed a blanket from the trunk and handed it to Jo, then took the cooler in one hand and the lunch basket in the other. Jo slammed the trunk shut.

A meadow of green and brown grasses sprinkled with the season's last harvest of wildflowers encircled the chapel. Near the pond was an enormous, gnarled apple tree. The breeze wafted over them, carrying with it the faint smell of fermenting fruit. A few dried apples lay under the tree.

The dogs were not accustomed to running free and hung close by Jo's heels for a while. Then Ben caught scent of something. Francis said, "it's probably a woodcock." With only a little encouragement from Jo, Ben tore off across the field at full speed, Rufus galloping after him.

Jo shook open and laid out the blanket, and Francis put down the picnic basket and the drink cooler. He unpacked cold fried chicken, sandwiches, homemade potato salad, and a tall apple pie.

"Wait," Francis said, "The china." He laid out china dishes, crystal glasses, and silver flatware. He took a bottle of champagne from the cooler and put it in a silver bucket of half-melted ice to chill.

After enjoying the feast, they packed up the left overs and settled themselves on the blanket lying side-by-side. Francis took hold of Jo's hands, and, without taking his eyes off her, professed, "I want to live a normal life. I want to settle down with you, support you in collecting waifs through the night, open a school for wayward girls, do some hands-on do-gooding, and maybe raise a half-dozen kids of our own."

Francis, without loosening his hold, shifted onto one knee before her and pulled her up into a sitting position. For once they were at the same height, seeing eye-to-eye.

"So, will you marry me?" he asked.

It was hard to know whether all of his claims were so, or whether he was an amazingly creative, albeit deluded, storyteller. There was one thing Jo did know for certain. Over the past year, she had been becoming increasingly aware of an emptiness in her life, a void, and one that Francis filled perfectly.

Suddenly, it struck her. Rich and powerful or poor and misguided, what did it matter? Either way, she felt an inability to walk away from him any more than from a stray with a busted leg looking at her through soulful eyes.

"Yes," Jo responded with conviction.

Francis took Jo in his arms and held her close. It was so good. He felt, for the first time, whole. It was like being a prisoner on death row who'd received a stay of execution experiencing the first sight and first touch of the love of his life. This was a moment he'd dreamed of incessantly but never quite believed could be. As they embraced, he was overwhelmed with joy.

Her rose-petal-soft lips pressed firmly and insistently upon his mouth. Jo grasped him tightly, for once not holding anything back, as if momentarily forgetting how strong she was. Affection turned rough. Jo was crushing his bones and constricting his airflow. Francis did not register the sensation as pain, but rather felt a surge of euphoria. _If I die right now in her arms I will die completely fulfilled and happier than I thought humanly possible on this earth._

It wasn't until she saw Francis' eyes roll back that Jo realized he was on the verge of losing consciousness. She relaxed her grip just a bit and kissed him fiercely. Her insides exploded in ecstasy at the rough pressure of her lips upon his. Francis shifted his hold, cradled Jo in his arms, and coating her neck and shoulder with soft, open-mouthed kisses, began a slight rhythmic rock.

Jo felt every boundary dissolve as though she and Francis were merged into one being, a whole new creation. She felt safe in his sturdy arms knowing he would never let go, that he would do all in his power to never let her down. Feelings long dormant, desires that had been stifled, urges never fully explored, all of these blossomed in her groin and burst at once to the surface.

Every inch of her skin was on fire, cooled only by the touch of his mouth now traveling across her shoulder and down her neck. She longed to ravage his lips once more with hers, but laid still, biting her bottom lip, writhing just a bit and quietly moaning as his supple insistent mouth explored her burning flesh.

Lying on his back with his head propped against the tree trunk, Francis drew her to his side. They twisted to face one another. She rested her head on his shoulder and relaxed her body, molding it into the contours of his, swaying rhythmically. Each rock soothed the burning deep within, until many minutes later Jo was transfigured into a state of intense and complete relaxation. She closed her eyes and let time hang still, lost in his touch and a feeling of contentment that comes only with being inextricably bound up in the life of another.

Jo's desire for Francis was all consuming, and her mind swelled with one growing thought, _Don't leave me tonight._

Releasing him just enough to look into his eyes, she gestured toward the chapel with a tilt of her head and said grudgingly, "I don't suppose we could round up a minister."

"Actually," Francis said sheepishly, "we have an appointment for two o'clock."

Jo raised an eyebrow.

"I made one, just in case," he said hopefully.

Jo stood. Francis gave a worried frown and sat up straight, his body tense, as though ready to spring up and give chase.

Instead of retreating, Jo sidled between his open legs, pseudo-reclining so that her back pressed into his chest, and her neck lay against the front of his shoulder as he leaned against the smoothest side of the sturdy tree trunk.

They relaxed in the November sun, partly shaded by the tree branches stretching out above them. Jo had so many questions, but she decided not to bombard Francis with them yet. There would be ample time for that later. A warm and sunny autumn day in New England, perhaps the last until next spring, was not to be wasted. They sipped sparkling drinks from crystal goblets in the early afternoon breeze, watching the thin clouds drift by and listening to the songs of birds.

Francis looked at his watch and said, "It's time."

Jo nodded. "Okay. Let's do this."

Francis packed up the cooler and Jo folded the blanket. Standing, Francis reached out to help Jo up and then they walked hand-in-hand to the church. Jo whistled for the dogs. They burst into the meadow, loped to her side, panting lightly, and then fell into place at her heels.

They approached the classical New England style chapel with its tall steeple. To the right was the water wheel of the grist mill, slowly churning by the current of the small stream that wound through the grounds. They walked up a semi-circular red brick walkway leading to the entrance.

Jo hadn't heard other cars arrive, but four more had joined Francis' Nova in the parking lot. When they walked inside, Jo saw a small team of people sitting in the pews with portable equipment to sample blood and notarize forms.

"I told you I know people," said Francis.

Jo thought suddenly of Jay Yarmo and Simon Cowell, and wondered just how many people, and who, Francis knew. A nurse was there who expertly extracted small vials of blood. The town clerk from Sudbury pointed out where to sign a number of forms and collected the papers.

"I don't come out on a Sunday for everyone, Francis," she said, "But after all you've done for the town, for this place, well, it's the least I could do. There's a three day cooling off period. Then you can be married in any town or city in the Commonwealth within the next thirty days."

When the legalities were completed, everyone but the witness left, wishing Francis the best of luck and smiling at Jo.

Jo surveyed the chapel. It was basic, but elegant, with twelve boxed rows on each side. Above the altar was a simple wooden cross, similar in style to the one Francis wore.

Together, hands locked, Jo and Francis approached the altar. The back wall of the chapel was glass, looking out onto the meadow surrounded by woods. Far off in the distance Jo saw the apple tree where she and Francis had picnicked. The window and outdoors beyond framed a short Episcopal priest with silvery white hair. It was difficult to assess her exact size or shape within in the linen colored robe she wore. The sash over her neck showed images of animals and plants in shades of green, puzzled together into a pattern. It looked hand stitched.

"Hello, Jo. My name is Vicar Pat Huess. I baptized Francis," she said with a smile, "So, I've known him for a little while. I'm assuming since you are here that you're engaged?"

They both nodded.

"Okay. Let's get started. Francis, Jo, you just stand here." Ben and Rufus, not to miss out on the festivities, made a dash for the altar, and Rufus almost knocked the priest over. "No worries. I have two dogs of my own. You should've seen our church for the feast of St. Francis—we have the blessing of the pets, and our little church was teeming with animals. Your boys are part of your family and should share in this wonderful day."

Rufus took a few laps up and down the aisles before throwing himself down at the foot of the altar, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Ben sat straight and still next to Francis, solemnly filling his role as best man. Jo and Francis released their hands and then turned slightly to face one another.

"A betrothal ceremony is one of the church's oldest traditions," the priest began, "In the early church when there were arranged marriages, it was often the first time a bride and groom met each other. In the nineteenth century, it was a required part of the process of marriage. Today, couples use this ceremony as a sign that they understand the sanctity of marriage and the enormity of their commitment. Jo and Francis, you come before the Lord to affirm your engagement and your devotion to each other. Our first reading will be from the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 12."

Jo was only half-listening to the vicar. She had a lot on her mind. The one phrase that stuck with her was about God knowing the number of hairs on her head. Jo wondered if the count changed whenever a strand fell out or grew in and marveled that anyone would care to know her so intimately.

Afterwards, the priest talked of the worth of a sparrow, which made Jo think of each pigeon that she had nursed back to health or that had passed peacefully in her bedroom rescue.

Vicar Pat continued, "The next reading is from Mathew, Chapter 13."

Jo listened politely to the parable of the mustard seed, and was drawn in by the end of the reading. During that part Francis' eyes gleamed as he fixed his gaze on Jo, as though for the first time. "The kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it."

_That's what Francis did,_ Jo thought, _He gave away everything he had._ She still was fuzzy as to whether or not he'd gotten a pearl out of the deal. Francis couldn't take his eyes off her. Every time the word "pearl" was said, his head bobbed in her direction. Maybe she was it? Or at least part of it. Maybe the pearl was their lives together? Or perhaps it was participating together in some greater good, a plan or a lot of plans orchestrated by God himself. Yes, that was it. Somehow, she felt sure of it.

After the reading, the priest called out, "Quique," and nodded to the man seated in the back of the church. The man approached with a guitar in hand. He looked as though he were walking straight out of the pages of a fashion magazine. He was impeccably groomed, each windswept hair in its place and had a carefully cultivated seventy-two-hour stubble. He looked about Francis' age. Jo had thought, when she first saw him from a distance, that he was Italian. Up close she could see he was Spanish, or perhaps of mixed descent. He had deep brown eyes flecked with gold and a quiet demeanor.

As Quique strapped on his guitar, Jo realized that he was an entertainer, not a witness. Jo braced herself for a sentimental ballad. Francis could be such a sap at times. She supposed, though, that this was not the place for sarcasm. Swallowing the biting remark forming on her tongue, she closed her eyes to better hear the words and tried to keep an open mind.

Quique started with a familiar pop song tune as he whispered the words in Jo's direction: "Would you dance?"

Jo thought his voice sounded just like a performer on the radio. _Hmm..._ she tried to remember. _What was his name?_

Quique had amazing talent; his acoustic rendition sounded even better than the radio. He had a rich, smooth tone. He sang some of the words in a tremor and held onto others just long enough to express a passionate, limitless, and never-ending desire for another, the one other.

From the first sung line, Jo realized these were not lyrics she'd heard before. And, clearly they were words written for her. These were Francis' wedding vows.

" _Would you twirl, if you saw I was there?_

Could I lope with you through the night?

Would you weep, if you knew how I care?

Kiss me in your arms tonight.

" _I will stand beside you always._

I will share in all your pain.

I will hold you through the bad times.

I give you all that I am."

As the verses continued and the chorus replayed, Jo let the music wash over her and the words reach her. She still was not completely accustomed to Francis' exposing his heart. His honesty and outspoken feelings for her were at times overwhelming. But on that day, she soaked in his words like a renewing rain. She felt serene.

As the song came to a close, Jo slowly opened her eyes. She peered at Francis through the veil of her long lashes. He was staring intently and freely at her, drinking in every nuance of her face. She opened her eyes fully, and he mouthed the words "You're so beautiful" giving Jo's hands a tight squeeze.

Releasing them, he turned to the singer and said, "Hey, Quique, I appreciate your coming up. I know you have to run."

"No problem, man," he replied, removing the strap but still holding onto the neck of his guitar.

He exchanged a side-on embrace with Francis, and they clapped each other roughly on the shoulders.

Jo overheard Francis say quietly, "And just talk to Philip about whatever you need for Haiti."

Taking a step back, Quique said to Jo, "Ciao Bella." His Italian was laced with a Spanish accent. Then with a nod to Francis, he slipped out the back exit.

Jo thought the lingering melody of their wedding hopes and promises was the most wonderful and welcome gift imaginable, even without knowing it was the songwriter Enrique Iglesias who had co-wrote the lyrics with Francis and sang on their wedding day.

It was just the three of them now. Francis immediately returned his full attention to Jo. The priest continued the ceremony with a gospel reading that she said was one of Francis' favorites.

"Next, we have a reading from 1 Corinthians Chapter 13."

Jo face became stormy as she braced herself. This was one scripture she recognized, one that was laden with the hated "L" word. She'd noticed that, up to this point, any mention _love_ had been thankfully omitted.

With Jo's discomfort readily apparent, Vicar Pat added hastily, "This reading has been adapted to be more suited to our ceremony."

" _God is patient and kind;_

God does not envy or boast;

God is not arrogant or rude.

God does not insist on His own way;

God is not irritable or resentful;

God does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.

God bears all things, believes all things, hopes all

things, endures all things."

As Francis took two dollar store rings from his pocket, he whispered to Jo, "These are just fillers; I figured you'd want to pick out the rings."

The priest assured them, "As I told Francis, the blessing will carry though from these symbolic pieces to the real thing. No worries."

Francis put on one of the rings and slipped the other onto Jo's finger.

"Bless these rings," the priest prayed, "O Lord, as a sign of the vows that this man and this woman take when they bind themselves to each other through Jesus Christ our Lord."

_A little religious,_ Jo thought, but it was church after all, and Francis was happy.

The priest ended with, "Francis and Jo, you are now betrothed in the eyes of the church and the Lord."

The couple hugged tightly, and then kissed deeply. Francis, after taking a moment to recover and before growing too excited, made a quick check on whether there were lingering rules. "What about the cooling-off period?"

Jo quickly replied, "As far as you, me, and God are concerned, we've made our choice. As for the state of Massachusetts well, I really don't give a," she paused, "damn?"

Francis nodded. While he always avoided using even the milder swears, Jo thought for her it was a definite improvement. They shared another long, hard kiss. And kissed again.

Noting that the priest was starting to look away, Jo relaxed her embrace. They thanked the priest, who hugged them both. Vicar Pat reminded them to meet her Wednesday at ten o'clock at Boston City Hall to exchange legal vows and pick up the license. Jo and Francis loaded the picnic supplies and two tired dogs into the car and headed back into the city. Francis and Jo still wore the dollar-a-piece rings Francis brought for the ceremony. He had guessed right that Jo would want to pick out their wedding rings.

"I want to do it right away," Jo told him, "I know a place."

Jo and Francis stopped briefly at his aunts' tiny house, where Francis picked up three cleaned and pressed suits, a pair of shined shoes, a change of casual clothes, a pair of pajamas, his laptop, a briefcase, and a leather travel case packed with toiletries. After disentangling themselves from the embrace of the aunts, who cycled between screaming, crying, and laughing, they headed for Jo's apartment. There they dropped off the dogs and Francis' belongings. Leaving the car parked, Jo and Francis took two subway trains to a not-so-nice part of the city.

On the way, Jo sent a single text announcement. "Hey Nick guess what? Just married Francis. How about the four of us get together to celebrate?"

When they arrived at the still-undisclosed destination, Jo led the way down a side street. The sun was setting, and questionable people were emerging onto the street

"I'll keep an eye out for you," Jo reassured him. "Some of these ladies are eyeing you like a stray dog for a cheeseburger."

Francis figured it was not a Tiffany Jewelry store she had in mind. He suspected they'd be selecting rings from a pawn shop. Jo stopped in front of a store front with iron bars over the windows and a neon sign that read, "Sins on Skins."

"Our shop isn't open on Sunday, but I figured one of these sketchier places would be," she explained. "Most tattoo places are basically the same," Jo said, "Tons of designs on the walls and in giant books to choose from. And an entry way that looks like a waiting room at a doctor's office."

Francis thought this one looked more like a free clinic.

Looking around, Jo said under her breath, "The clients are pretty much the same, too: tough dudes coming out with tears in their eyes and people getting one stage completed of huge tattoos that go all down their backs. And, there are always some chicks getting cute flowers or hearts."

As they sat in the waiting room amidst a smattering of obviously repeat, heavily tattooed customers, Francis asked Jo to talk him through it.

"It won't take that long," she said matter-of-factly. "Not more than five to ten minutes for small, single-color ones like these."

"What does it feel like?" Francis asked.

"They tell me it hurts," she said.

Jo's name was called and the two headed into the back. The artist was the stereotypical burly, hairy, tattoo-covered, leather-clad man. Seated at his left was a muscular Rottweiler.

Jo called out a greeting, "Hi there, Spike."

Francis wasn't sure if she was addressing the man or the dog. The several half-empty drink bottles and discarded food wrappers littering the room made Francis question whether this was really someone he could trust to stick needles into him. Dozens of random facts about the risks and consequences of contracting Hepatitis C popped into his thoughts.

First, though, was the design. They talked to Spike about getting the rings done, and he showed them some options. Francis was relieved to hear that tattoo rings are not done all the way around the finger, just on the back.

"The skin on the inside of the finger is always shedding," Spike explained, "so any tattoo there would just fade fast."

That was fine by Francis. Less tattoo, less pain.

Jo and Francis looked at a number of designs and didn't like any of them enough. Francis was partial to a wave pattern, but it was something they wanted to agree on. Jo ended up designing the rings for them. She traced her and Francis' hands on pieces of paper so that he, too, could visualize what was in her head. She relayed to him her image of two hands reaching and fingertips touching, merging under a mighty protection as she sketched two black lines with three dots above them.

Using a black felt tip pen, she drew the same design for both rings, making hers more feminine with thinner lines and smaller dots; on her ring there were additional, tinier dots on each side. The result was simple, but somehow profound. Francis nodded emphatically, and Jo created the patterns for Spike to trace.

Francis knew it would be painful, but figured that this was as good a way as any to embark upon on a lifelong commitment. Jo went first and showed no reaction, nor emotion. Then, it was Francis' turn.

Spike dispelled with any niceties and, without giving Francis any more time to reconsider, got right to work.

"Gotta shave the skin first," he said gruffly. He pulled out an electric razor and swiped Francis' finger a few time. Francis could feel his heartbeat pulsing in his throat. He was slightly reassured as Spike swabbed disinfect onto the area and, after pressing the pattern onto Francis' skin, unwrapped fresh one-use needles from a sealed plastic bag. The tightening in his throat returned the moment the needles started to hum.

Jo's description of the experience was spot on: "It feels like being burned while a bee stings you over and over again."

Francis knew if he moved and the design got messed up, he'd have that mess for the rest of his life. So he stayed still, fighting the pain. _Don't be a wuss,_ he told himself, holding back tears that he could feel at the back of his eyeballs.

Francis automatically fell into silent prayer and before long was pulled out by Spikes words, "Okay, you're done."

Francis couldn't take his eyes off of his ring finger. _So cool._ The black lines pressed up from the surrounding angry pink skin as though they had been stitched with shiny black embroidery thread. The fresh tattoo looked crisp and sharp.

"It won't always look like that," Jo said, "When the scab falls off it will look a little dull. But by then, you'll love it so much you won't care."

Francis hoped Jo would always feel the same way about him.

# CHAPTER 10: The Dream

That night Jo lay asleep in her bed... _and suddenly there he was, coming towards her, carrying a dollhouse stretched out across two arms, enormous, pink, him peering over the side, an excited grin._

Jo was jolted awake as though from a free-falling dream, the instant before hitting the pavement. Her heart pounding, she backed her large frame into the curve of Francis' sinewy one. Francis draped an arm across her and sleepily kissed the nape of her neck. She twisted to face him, and he drew her into his arms. His steady breathing warmed her shoulder as he slept.

Jo said to herself, "Oh God, keep me safe, make me strong." She drew in a long breath and exhaled deeply.

All of a sudden, Jo was not afraid. She thought back to the dollhouse episode. She allowed it to play through to the end. Rather than the terror or rage she normally experienced, she felt pity for a father who had squandered all he was given. In a moment of clarity, Jo saw the enormity of the blessings in her life. She was determined not to make the same mistakes her parents had.

She randomly picked another episode. Number 68. There was a bit of sadness, some pain, but no fear. Then 125, 87, 4. Nothing. It was as though she were watching the scene, but for once was not a part of it. She cut-off episode 4 midway through. It was the first time she was able to stop a memory, without the ending forcing itself upon her. With that she knew the chains that had held her prisoner for so long had dissolved.

She resisted the urge to nudge Francis awake. Tomorrow she would tell him the wondrous news, "When I think of the episodes, I'm not afraid."

Speechless, for once, he would hold her tight and cry joyful tears. Jo was free.

She felt her thumping heart slow with a sudden and absolute knowledge, "It is finished."

Then, she received an idea, "Stay here in the now."

To pull herself into the present, Jo reached for a mental joy fix. She turned her mind to a vision of the foolish rattie boys running free. She breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. The rats were playing in a field of grasses and wildflowers, a ways off in the distance. Catching sight of her, they scampered towards her for tickles and some peanut butter toast.

It was then in the stillness that Jo heard a small voice, "And see the to-be."

In her vision the rats stood up on two legs, and with outstretched arms grew into humans, girls, rushing her, hugging. She knew in that moment that she would have a second childhood; one lived through the eyes of her own children. She would experience nurturing mothering; she would be that mother for them.

She gathered the girls up in her arms, murmuring into coarse hair, "I will keep you safe, make you strong."

Jo drifted into a peaceful sleep.

# EPILOGUE

Jo sat at her dressing table with her back to the mirror, facing a teenaged girl who was brushing peach-colored blush lightly along the side of Jo's face. Erin was not Jo and Francis' youngest child, but she was the most immature of their girls and the newest addition to the family. Behind Erin, on Jo's dresser, was a framed photograph of all five sisters.

Francis poked his head into the bedroom. He was dressed in his Louis of Boston tuxedo and carrying a slice of cheese pizza.

"Pizza's here," he announced, taking a bite.

"Francis, that's for the girls. You know this is a dinner thing," Jo scolded.

"I was hungry! It's just a snack," he said with his mouth full, hurrying back to the kitchen to do some crowd control.

Jo thought Francis looked fine wearing his new tux and with the extra twenty-five pounds he'd put on since he'd discovered snacking. Erin did not join the other girls scrambling in the kitchen for the largest, cheesiest pizza slices. She sketched the edges of Jo's mouth with lip liner.

Jo gazed at the picture of the girls on her dresser. Had it really been three years? It was hard to remember a life without Francis; it seemed they had been together forever. And yet, she remembered every detail of the day he proposed, as though it had happened the day before.

Jo examined the photo of their five adopted children. The girls were seated, not by height or age, but by seniority: each girl knew almost to the day how long she and each of the others had belonged to their family. Pictured first was Naran, now sixteen, with silky black hair, dark almond eyes, and the same slight build as when Jo had first encountered her during the street fight so many nights before. Then there was Tanya, their oldest, with rich coffee-no-cream colored skin, tight braids, and a biting sense of humor. Next was Shaina, who by her dental exam was eleven or twelve. Seated beside her was Sarai, just turned twelve, orphaned in Sierra Leone, who danced as she walked and was effortlessly picking up the English language and US social customs, and finally, fourteen-year-old Erin.

Erin stepped back and took a critical look at her work, glancing back and forth at one half of Jo's face and then the other. The girl frowned slightly. She added another coat of blush to the left side.

"This will bring out your high cheek bones," Erin said knowingly, quoting Carmindy, the stylist on the makeover show she watched with Jo every Friday night. "And done."

Jo twisted around to gaze at her reflection.

"Wow, I look hot," Jo remarked.

Erin glowed under the praise. But as Jo stood, the girl started to shift from one foot to the other and chewed on her bottom lip. Erin had been pacified up to this point by being allowed to do Jo's hair and make-up, but with the distraction complete the resolve waned.

"Can't you stay home tonight until I fall asleep, like always?" Erin begged.

Jo could relate to the girl's need for regular routine, but said firmly, "No, not tonight. You know Daddy and I need to go listen to his speech. Your aunties are already here and will take good care of you."

"Will Angie be coming home tonight?" With a faraway look in her eyes, Erin recited a story Jo had heard many times, "We always told everyone we were sisters, and that her skin is darker cause we had different dads. We promised we'd always stick together. When you came and got me she wasn't around. And I said I'd come with you, but only if you were gonna go back and get her too."

"Yes, I did promise. And I'll bring her home, just as soon as she's ready. I hope tonight is the night, my little lovey." Jo pushed the girl's overgrown bangs off her forehead. "It's her choice, but if I can find her I'll invite her again."

"Tell her I miss her," Erin asked.

"I always do," Jo assured her.

The girl continued to hop from foot to foot. Jo eyed the bedroom door. Then Jo sighed and shook her head. She settled back into her chair. She gazed up at the adolescent standing in front of her, and the corners of her mouth upturned slightly. She stretched out her arms, and Erin immediately launched herself into them. Wrapping her arms around the girl, Jo breathed in the sweet scent of cherry blossom body spray and Herbal Essence shampoo as mother and daughter shared a long, unhurried embrace.

# ACKNOWLEGEMENTS

This fully expanded and revised work _Spin the Plate: A Novel_ was possible only through the motivation, guidance, and words provided by the following authors, editors, and reviewers: Holly Robinson, Becky Regaldo, Jennifer Walker, Michy Devon, and Carla M. Proffitt.

A special thanks goes out to my husband Tom Anastasi, professor, playwright, and author, who gave me much of the dialog and all the fun facts.

And finally I want thank Deacon John LeSueur for his "Spin the Plate" sermon and allowing me to reprint a portion of it.

www.spintheplate.com
