 
### Chips Off The Block:

### Short Stories, Novelettes, and a Poem or Three

### By Anna Scott Graham

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by Anna Scott Graham

Cover design by Anna Scott Graham

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It is the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this anthology, please encourage your friends to download their own copies at Smashwords.com. Thanks for your support.

These pieces are works of fiction. Names and characters, incidents and places, are either products of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Author's Note

All of these pieces have previously appeared in anthologies published by Top Writers Block, an international group of independent writers. This ebook includes all of my submissions, ranging on a variety of themes, in myriad forms. If you find these tales intriguing, please investigate the other collections, which can be found on the Top Writers Block site at Smashwords.com and at other online retailers. All proceeds from Top Writers Block publications benefit Sea Shepherd.

Dedicated with many thanks to Suzy Stewart Dubot, who invited me to take part within the Top Writers Block cooperative. Also to the other talented authors within Top Writers Block. And lastly, I dedicate these stories and poems to my husband, with special thanks to him for years of love, support, and the occasional cup of freshly popped corn.
**Table of Contents**

Why Me? – 50 Years Waiting

Fools Rush In – Pork Fried Rice and Recessed Lights

Trash Day! – The American Way

Loneliness – She Walked Along 14th Street

Poverty – His Beer Bottle, Her New Key

Out of the Ashes – He's Among Angels

Stitches – Various Little Birds

Meringue – The Todd Lambert Special

Pumpkins – Goodbye Miss October

Liner Notes
50 Years Waiting

Andrea was seventy-two years old that morning. She stared in the bathroom mirror, tucking short gray hair behind her ears, wondering if she looked any older, or was the aged glass part of the problem. Dim slivers were reflected like layers of her life. She smiled, unable to do anything else. It was her birthday after all.

Later over coffee, her daughters asked what she wanted for dinner. She requested spaghetti with plenty of parmesan, and Samantha, her eldest, smiled. "You have that every night Mom."

"Well, make it special. Throw in a meatball."

Catherine sighed. "For God's sake, can't we take you out or something?"

"No, too much trouble. Save it for Mother's Day."

Both women, in their late forties, grimaced, as Andrea never went out for that annual holiday either. As the coffee pot was emptied, they agreed that Sam would bring the pasta and sauce, Cat some bread, salad, and dessert. "I am baking you a cake and you are gonna have a slice," she said.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Andrea's tone was that of Cat's twenty-four-year-old daughter Laurel. They would all show up with cards, but no presents. Andrea hadn't wanted any gifts since Carl died.

But flowers didn't count. As the sisters left, Sam agreed to pick up roses, while Cat would grab gladiolas. Their girls would buy lesser bouquets, and their sons might remember a card. They would plan for an early dinner, so their mother wouldn't fall asleep in the middle of it.

Andrea spent her afternoon speaking to her grandchildren; she had been a relatively young mother, so had Sam and Cat. No great-grandchildren yet, for which Andrea rejoiced. Laurel had threatened, but Andrea wasn't sure if Cat knew her daughter had been pregnant at seventeen. Carl had been dead for three years then and Andrea had plenty of time to listen to a teenager's woes. An abortion was certainly dramatic, and Andrea had known similar heartache.

Until then Laurel hadn't, and that experience had straightened her out. Cat always wondered why her youngest had gone from being a slacker to earning solid B's, then attending nursing school. Laurel worked at the local hospital, but told her grandmother that she wasn't sure she could perform CPR on her. Andrea said she would try to die when Laurel wasn't on shift.

She wasn't that close to all her grandchildren, but didn't need to be. Justin, Laurel's older brother, was so much like his late grandfather, it was sometimes hard for Andrea to look at him. She had loved Carl with as much of her heart as what remained, but it was more than many men received. Carl still dwelled deeply in his widow, but he wasn't the only one.

As Justin looked like Carl, Laurel took after her grandmother, and why they were such spitting images, no one knew. It just happened sometimes, the way all of Sam's kids had Carl's crooked teeth, or how both of Cat's had Andrea's formerly red tresses. That was the only way to set Justin apart from Carl; he'd had nearly black hair, while Justin was a deep strawberry blonde. Every time Andrea laid eyes on that grandson, she thought of her late husband. Then she considered another man.

She never told anyone, it would be poor form. Besides, seventy-two-year-olds didn't go around talking about their past lovers. Andrea spoke about her children and grandchildren, and how glad she was that there weren't any great-grandchildren yet. She never said that around Laurel, only to Justin, Carissa, Megan, and Anthony. All laughed, in full agreement.

That evening Andrea received kisses and hugs as old vases were retrieved from cupboards, then filled with a variety of blooms. Justin surprised her with a bright spray of carnations, and an enclosed card: _Happy Birthday Grandma, Love Juss_. Andrea had called him Juss when he was little, and Laurel still referred to him that way. Dressed in scrubs, she teased her brother; he would always be Juss this and Juss that. Everyone smiled, and it wrenched an old woman's heart, seeing her spouse's face on this vivid young man.

Andrea was the matriarch, but didn't always feel her age. Seventy-two was a legal way to count the years, but she recalled feeling much younger, watching descendants who weren't little anymore. Justin was twenty-six, and Sam's girls weren't far behind. Anthony was nineteen, Sam's baby, but at nineteen Andrea had just met...

"Grandma, Grandma?"

"What?"

Megan smiled, those bent bottom teeth hidden by her lower lip. "You ready for cake yet?"

Andrea looked at the clock, six thirty. Then she gazed to her plate, a few bites left. Eager faces stared at her; they had places to be, things to do. "Yeah sure, let's cut that sucker."

All giggled, even the boys, then Justin set a gentle kiss on top of her head. "Who's the young'un Grandma?"

She smiled as he pulled out his phone. Andrea's cell didn't even take pictures. She had a digital camera somewhere, but her offspring and their broods chronicled the evening, telling her to check Facebook when she woke. All the photographic evidence would be waiting in the morning.

She suspected some was there already, as Carissa and Anthony tapped screens, then snapped more pictures. Andrea was caught blowing out candles, cutting the cake, eating part of a slice. She preferred ice cream; Carl had always bought extra, which they would enjoy for another week. Cat had picked up just one container. By the evening's end, it would be gone.

Cake would remain, but Andrea would insist it go home with someone. As they put away leftovers, she told them to take whatever they liked, watching as the empty ice cream box went into the trash.

By seven, the kitchen was clean, kids were itchy. Andrea wasn't tired, only because she had napped that afternoon. She had no intentions of being drowsy for her party, even if it was just spaghetti. She loved Italian food, Carl had hated it. Now she ate pizzas and pastas all the time, but not ice cream. That was for special occasions, and she always wanted a little bit more.

Cat sat down with a cup of decaf. "So Mom, what're you doing tomorrow?"

"Nothing special. Why?"

"You wanna go with me to the vet? I gotta take Ginger for her shots."

Was this what being in her seventies meant, traipsing around with Cat, or some silly errand that Sam might mention. "No, I'm going fishing tomorrow. But thanks all the same."

Everyone stared at her. "You're gonna do what?" Justin asked.

"Go fishing. Just 'cause I'm seventy-two doesn't mean I'm bored stiff."

She said it politely, but hoped the point was made. Her daughters had started bringing up these ridiculous outings last year, and while most of the grandchildren forgot she was alive except on holidays, Andrea had no intentions of being obliging. She had her own life, even if it meant watching TV or scant gardening on nice days.

"Okay, well, I was just asking."

"I know and I appreciate it. But I'm gonna dig up some worms and..."

The grandchildren laughed. Andrea could deadpan; Carl had taught her after years of dishing it out with a big spoon. It was one of the things she missed about him, something Anthony might not remember. But Justin and Laurel did, both blinking away tears.

Justin wiped his eyes, then kissed his grandmother. "All right, just don't dig all the way to China." He kissed his mother, waving goodbye to his sister and cousins. "See you all later."

"Drive safe Juss," Andrea said.

He stepped out as Laurel flipped on the porch light. Then she peered through the tattered screen door. "Justin?" she called, following him. "Juss?"

Anthony ran outside as voices flew, Justin and Laurel's against another young man, or maybe not quite as young as them. "Who the hell is it?" Sam stood, walking to the door.

"See anything?" Cat asked as her daughters joined the rest.

Andrea's hearing wasn't perfect, but sharp sounds carried; Justin was angry, Laurel confused, Anthony curious. Megan and Carissa were quiet, which allowed an outsider's words to be discerned, or a stranger to those grandchildren. Blinking, then pinching herself, Andrea headed for the screen door, disbelieving what her ears took as truth. Thom Sugerman stood on her front lawn.

Slowly Andrea approached the group, her daughters beside her. Thom was dressed as she last saw him; she had never forgotten that day, even after fifty years.

Jeans, a white t-shirt, boots; it was his James Dean phase, even if he was thirty-two. What stunned her most wasn't his apparel or the way he gaped at Laurel. What shocked Andrea was that he looked as though not a day had passed. He should be decrepit, or dead like Carl. Instead he shook with fear, similar to her last moment with him, as if no time had elapsed at all.

But five decades had moved through her world, the proof in young voices trying to project older. Justin shook his fist. "Get the fuck outta here before I call the goddamn cops! She's my sister, not, not..."

"Juss, step back. You all just step back and leave him alone."

Five pairs of eyes stared at Andrea, and Laurel's were the biggest. Justin's were a close second, and Andrea waved them off like pesky insects. "Go in the house now, give me a moment with this gentleman."

"Grandma, he thinks Laurel's..."

She smiled at Thom, who blinked. Then she looked at her oldest grandchild. "Juss, it's all right honey. Go inside."

Andrea reached for his face. Then she glanced to a relic from the past as youthful as her grandson. "Go on now Justin. Do what I say."

"Honey, come on," Cat called. "All of you, do as Grandma says."

Trudging steps were taken as Andrea stared at the frightened man trembling on the grass. "Thom, my lord. Is that really you?"

He nodded, then took small strides her way. "Oh Jesus Andy, is that, are you really..."

Her arms opened. "Oh Thom yes, my God. What'n the hell?"

Before he could answer, he was wrapped against her, weeping into her shoulder.

They sat alone, a plate of spaghetti remnants between them. He had eaten two helpings, what Laurel was going to take home. Instead it went into this man; Thom's gray eyes were ringed with dark circles, brown hair was unkempt, yet everything else was the same, from the mole on his right cheek to the cowlick that never laid flat over his left eyebrow. He had told her that cowlick was hereditary, from his great-grandfather. In all truth, he could be a great-grandfather; he was eighty-two years old. But he looked fifty years younger than that. He also looked weary, as if a week's sleep wouldn't be enough. He looked... Andrea sighed, then gently grasped his hands. His were tanned, hers were ancient.

"Where have you been?" she asked. Then she smiled. "Thom, oh Thom."

He glanced around the kitchen, which wasn't modern by normal standards, but to what he was accustomed, it looked positively new. Andrea had a dishwasher, but she rarely used it. The coffeemaker and toaster oven were her favorite appliances, but nothing remained of the early 1960s, when she had last seen him.

He found her eyes, then he gazed to the light fixture, wall switches, and toaster oven. Andrea preferred it over the microwave; reheated pizza came out crispy, breadsticks too. She would nuke pasta, but loved that little oven, last year's Christmas present from her grandchildren.

Her eldest grandson was in theory just six years this man's junior. Andrea didn't wonder why Thom was here and so young, how time had stopped for him and not her. Instead she studied his eyes, gray and so fearful. Then she gripped his hands, and he responded with strength.

"How, I mean, I don't know where I am, I mean..."

"It's 2012 Thom. It's been fifty years."

"Oh no, no, I mean, oh Christ no..."

His head went to their clasped hands. His tears were plentiful, her heart feeling each one. He had disappeared after a silly argument, over what she couldn't even remember, and no one knew where he had gone. At thirty-two years old, he had fled her life just as he had drifted into it, like some dream. Five decades later here he was again, but now he wept. She had never seen him weep before.

"Thom, can you tell me what happened?"

He nodded, then looked up. "You were so pissed at me, so I got drunk. I can't remember where I laid down, but I musta passed out, Jesus Christ." He gazed at her face. "I dreamed about you, like this. I swear to God Andy, I was dreaming of you the whole..."

He stroked her bobbed hair, then caressed her cheek. His hand remained, like touching reality. "Andy, my God, your eyes, they're just the same."

She smiled. "Thom, you're just as big a liar..."

"No, I mean it, I..." Then he shivered, as if authenticity was a slap along his face. "Oh Christ, what the hell's happened to me?"

She scooted closer, wishing for some answer. She didn't disbelieve any of it, for she knew this man, he had not changed. She had, and everything else too, but within her heart and mind, the time with Thom Sugerman was as fresh as yesterday. She glanced at the vases, flowers so lively, just like who she sat next to. He leaned into her. "Andy, what's going on?"

"I don't know honey, I have no idea."

He took her face in his hands, searching for what, she wondered, truth, lies, anything that might explain lost years. He had slept off one hell of a drunk, far longer than Rip Van Winkle, Andrea considered, as he moved toward her face.

What did he see? Her voice was croaky, her skin baggy, her teeth... She giggled, those were still her own, but everything else was another woman. "Thom, what're you doing?"

"What, huh?" He backed away, but still held her face. "Andy, I, I..."

She smiled, as if no time had slipped from their grasp. He was still amorous, she was edgy. But instead of it being due to her youth, now it was because she was older than him.

"Thom, you need some..." Had he actually been unconscious for the last fifty years, and if so, where? "Honey, where again did you wake up?"

"About a mile from here, in some barn, but it was like this place, new. Christ Andy, is this really 2012?"

The numbers were slow coming off his tongue, and she nodded. "Yeah, 2012. Been easier to say it since 2010, don't have to say two thousand whatever anymore."

"Two thousand, two thousand..."

She patted his hand. She had turned seventy-two that day, and what kind of present was this? "Thom, are you tired?"

"What, oh yeah. God, I'm beat."

She nodded. "All right, let me make up the sofa. No beds upstairs, grandkids don't spend the night anymore."

She stood, but he took her hand. His eyes were huge, and hopeful. "Andy, you really gonna make me sleep on the sofa?"

"My God Thom, are you serious?"

"Do you still, I mean..."

"What?" she said, hands on hips. "Do I still what?"

"Love me?"

She closed her eyes, wanting to fall into the floor. She gripped the chair, took a breath. "Oh for God's sake Thom, you don't expect..."

"Don't make me sleep alone, please. Oh Andy, Christ, sit down!"

Instead he held her close, his warm strong arms like those of her grandchildren, but with a different need. What did he see, who did he think she was? "Thom, my God, oh Thom."

He had started crying again, this time releasing a flood. She struggled to reach the living room, where they plopped onto the couch, his weeping deep and anguished. Andrea cradled him, shedding a few tears of her own.

He fell asleep on the sofa, an old tattered afghan over him. His boots were on the floor, and once he was out, Andrea inspected them, her heart skipping; she had bought these shoes for his thirty-first birthday. She had been twenty-one, and he had needed new boots. The ten years between them seemed erroneous; she was responsible, he was reckless.

Yet, he had taught her how to love a man, lessons not difficult. Her mother hadn't approved, and until Andrea was twenty, they met on the sly, slipping away from church, which he only attended to get on her mother's good side. He always left before communion, and once Andrea had taken the bread and wine, she exited the building instead of rejoining her family. Her father never spoke of it, but her mom...

They had been so relieved when he never returned, and when Carl began knocking on the door, they couldn't get Andrea married off fast enough. That had been two years later, and nine months after that Samantha arrived. In the mid-1960s children right after marriage wasn't an issue. And by then Andrea was almost twenty-five years old.

She knew why Thom mistook Laurel for her, and no one had called her Andy since he left, since that argument, the point of which she still couldn't remember. Thom hadn't mentioned the topic either. He had assumed Laurel was his lover, an honest mistake, if this night was to be believed. Andrea half-expected to come down in the morning to an empty sofa. If nothing else, seventy-two had started with a bang.

But he was real, her daughters and grandchildren had seen him. Justin looked ready to slug him, but Juss might have been in for a surprise; Thom had a mean left hook, although he was wobbly, probably would have gone right down. But he wouldn't have forgotten it, and at their next encounter, Juss would have seen stars. Their next encounter; Andrea clucked softly, then stepped away from the couch. Just how long was Thom going to be around?

She stood still, trying to reason his presence. Was it magic, some act of God? Had time really stopped for this man, would the authorities haul him away and she would never see him again? Her heart stopped; then as she took a large breath, he flopped over onto his back. She eyed him from head to those bare feet, his socks stuck in the boots. He wasn't overly smelly, like he had slept off a binge. She walked around the coffee table, and picked up one shoe, sniffing inside; she had bought real leather boots for him. She still knew the scent of his feet, of all of him. She shook her head, placing the shoe back on the worn carpet. Then she turned for the stairs, heading for bed.

She woke first, finding him facing the back of the couch, snoring loudly. She smiled, then nearly shouted; Laurel sat at the kitchen table, looking pensive.

"Good lord honey, you scared me to death!"

Laurel stood, leading Andrea to a chair. Then she peered around the corner. "Grandma, who the hell is that guy?"

"You make any coffee yet?"

"Grandma..."

"Start some coffee honey. I need some joe."

In jerky movements Laurel did as she was told, but Andrea was just as shaky from feelings not conjured since right after Carl died. A widow at sixty-two wasn't that old, but she wasn't a filly either, some odd stretch of years that to anyone younger looked like a vast field of emptiness. Sexual barrenness, Andrea sniffed. That sound caused Laurel to turn her way.

"What?" Andrea asked.

"Grandma..."

"Coffee first."

Laurel clucked, which made her grandmother smile. Then Thom choked, and Andrea nearly got up. They had slept together all night only a few times, and he had made that sound when he was close to waking. But she needed a few minutes with just Laurel, not that Andrea had any idea of what she was going to tell her.

As the coffee brewed, Andrea closed the door to the living room. Mostly to keep the scent of coffee away from him, also to give the women some privacy. Laurel didn't even let the pot fill, liquid dripping right into the cups. Both women took it black, and Laurel brought the mugs straight to the table, then reached for her grandmother's hands. "All right, coffee's cooling. Now who is he?"

Andrea stroked young fingers, then placed a soft kiss on Laurel's knuckles. Laurel sighed. "Grandma, you can tell me anything."

"Can I?"

Laurel glanced at the closed door. "You know all my secrets."

For the first time, Andrea wasn't staring at a child. "I suppose I do. But you won't believe me if I tell you, so..."

"Grandma," Laurel smiled.

"Honey, anyone else know about your baby?"

Laurel looked away, shaking her head.

"That's what I thought. And that's fine, it's your private business. That man in there, he's my private business. Now I'll tell you, if you really wanna know. But like I said, you won't believe me and..."

"Of course I'll believe you."

Andrea rolled her eyes.

"Grandma, what? Is he a criminal or something, or..." She giggled, then cut it off. "Did Grandpa, you know..."

"Did he what?"

Laurel sniffed her coffee, then tried the edge. "Did Grandpa, oh God, I can't even say it."

"Did he have an affair? You think Thom is Carl's illegitimate child?"

Laurel's nod was slight, her eyes on her coffee.

"No, he's not Carl's illegitimate son." Andrea snorted, then smiled. "Although that's a great excuse, maybe what I'll tell people."

"Grandma..."

"Laurel, you won't believe the truth. Let's just go with that. Carl had an affair and..."

"Grandma!"

"Well, it sounds plausible." It was probably the only rationale any of them would accept. Thom was some lost soul, and Andrea sighed. This wasn't what she had wanted to do that day. She hadn't planned to go fishing either, had thought she might watch an old movie, or maybe one not so old, so many channels, but nothing good was ever on. Instead she was going to try explaining how a man from 1962 had turned up at her house...

Laurel stood, then pointed to the door. Andrea turned to Thom in his bare feet, otherwise dressed as he was last night, gaping at Andrea's granddaughter.

Laurel helped the unstable man to a chair, his eyes all over her. He looked to Andrea, then asked for coffee. Laurel brought him a cup, black like theirs. He sipped it slowly, which made Andrea smile. "You always drank it so hot."

He nodded, then gazed at the young woman. "I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean to frighten you, any of you."

Andrea grasped his hand, then looked at Laurel. "It was just unexpected, for everyone."

He nodded, then gripped her hand. "I'm gonna get my boots."

"We'll be here."

He stood, giving Laurel another look. Then he left the room. Andrea heard him mumbling to himself. Then he headed up the stairs. "Probably forgot to pee," she said.

Laurel nodded, then stared at her grandmother. "He looked at me like he knew me. How can he know me?"

"He thought you were me." Andrea drank her coffee. "Honey, he's not from here."

"No shit." Laurel took a drink of hers. "Where the hell's he from?"

The toilet was loud, had been for years. Carl used to fix it, but that task had been lost, like so many other things. As Thom clomped down the steps, Andrea smiled, seeing more than fleeting interest in Laurel's face. That was just how Andrea had viewed Thom the first time she saw him.

He cleared his throat, then entered the room. "I might like a bath today. Or you might want me to take one."

"Both," Andrea said. "Thom, this's Laurel, my oldest granddaughter. I have three, and two grandsons. All of them were out with you last night. Laurel wants to know who you are. What should I tell her?"

In mid-drink, he struggled not to spit it out.

"I want the truth Grandma. If he's not Grandpa's..."

Andrea smiled. "I told you he's not Carl's son."

"Who's Carl?" Thom asked.

"Who do you think?" Andrea rolled her eyes again. "Carl was my husband and..."

Thom had grasped her hand, but he stared at Laurel. "Christ, you look so much like her."

Andrea blinked away tears, the scene as if Thom had woke in his own time, or maybe just a few years later, when Andrea was a little older. But she had married Carl, was already pregnant at Laurel's age. All of life's different paths swirled in the kitchen. Andrea took a small sip, washing them back down. "Laurel, if I tell you the truth, you have to promise to believe me. I won't lie to you, but it's pretty darn..."

Laurel nodded, still staring at Thom, his hands clasped around Andrea's.

"I knew your grandmother..." He gazed at Andrea. "Years ago." She nodded, and he continued. "We were..." He paused, then took a long drink.

He didn't speak again, and Andrea finished. "We were lovers honey. Thom was my first, but he disappeared. And now, well, he's here, fifty years too late, but there you go."

On the sofa, the story wound from Thom into Laurel with Andrea between them. Andrea received sensual squeezes from Thom, crushing grips from Laurel. Sometimes Andrea closed her eyes as he spoke, especially when he called her _Andy_. She could be sitting on her mother's couch, Thom trying to explain himself, once her parents let him in the house.

That yes, he was older, a whole decade, but Andy was so good for him. He had tapped his foot, clad in the boots she had purchased, then waved his arms, gesturing toward the ceiling as if showing how much he loved her. That spilled through his voice now just like it had then. He was still in love with her.

He began caressing her wrists, and she looked at him; his eyes were needy, his mouth twitched, he was so young. Then she peeked at her grandchild, who was crying silent tears. Andrea pulled from Thom's grasp, embracing Laurel. "Oh honey, it's all right, really."

"Grandma, this's, this's..."

"Crazy, impossible, I know. But honey, I told you I wasn't gonna lie. Thom hasn't either."

Laurel looked at him, then to Andrea. "Are you really trying to tell me he's from 1962? That's bullshit!"

Thom laughed, then slapped his leg. "Yeah, sure sounds nuts to me."

She glared at him. "Who the fuck are you?"

Andrea bit her tongue as Thom spoke. "That's some mouth on you honey."

"Don't _honey_ me, asshole!" Laurel stood, but trembled. "Maybe you've got her conned, but let me tell you..."

Andrea stood, then grabbed her granddaughter. "Stop that right now. If you don't believe me, then just go. I won't have that sort of talk here."

"But Grandma..."

"Laurel, I've told you once. I won't say it again."

The younger woman crossed her arms, then shook her head. She stomped off, slamming the kitchen screen door.

Thom raced after her. Andrea followed, finding him with the screen ajar, standing half in and out of the house. Then he turned to her, his face equally split.

"What Thom?"

"I, I..."

She approached with care. "Are you gonna stand inside or out? Make a choice."

"What choice do I have? I didn't do anything. Why'd this happen to me?"

She shook her head, then shrugged. Taking his hand, Andrea brought him back into the kitchen.

She didn't answer the phone until after lunch, by which time Thom was asleep. She spoke quietly in the kitchen, then stepped to the front porch, calling Sam back from her cell. The yard hadn't changed much since Carl died, but it was altered from when Andrea had lived here as a young woman, when she met Thom. She had been raised in this house, then reared her daughters here. Samantha only wanted to know if that guy was still around.

Andrea couldn't tell if Laurel had spilled the beans. "Yeah, he's still here. Napping on the sofa. What else you wanna know?"

"Mom..."

"Sam, he's here, and he's not going anywhere. Now this phone's beeping, probably needs to be charged. I'll talk to you later. Bye-bye." Andrea hit the red button, then closed the phone. She looked to the ragged grass, broken fence, the outbuilding which wasn't large enough to call a barn. When she was younger, she had necked with Thom in that structure. Then with Carl, maybe they even made one of their girls in there. She had been more careful with Thom, but they hadn't been married.

He had never asked, not that she would have said _yes_. Her mother would have thrown a fit, then her father would have run him out of town. Her daddy didn't get upset easily, but if Thom had actually proposed... Just like the fit that Juss threw, Andrea sighed.

She stepped back into the house, hearing Thom's snores. Setting the phone on the counter, she opened the fridge; enough milk for another day, and she could get out a jar of spaghetti sauce, add some chopped onions to it, making pasta for dinner. Thom had wolfed two peanut butter and jellies at lunch, a large glass of milk washing them down. Was he hungry from years of slumber, or just his usual hearty appetite?

She would see what he ate at dinner, wished she had some hamburger for the sauce. He had been a meat and potatoes man years before, but times weren't that way anymore. She looked at the clock, nearly three. If he slept much longer, he might not easily fall asleep later, and Andrea didn't want him roaming the house after she went to bed.

"Thom, honey." Her voice was soft, then increased as she approached the sofa. "Wake up sleepyhead."

He snorted, rolled to his side, then blinked. His eyes went wide, his mouth open. Andrea eased next to him, taking his hand. "Honey, it's all right, you just had a nap."

He burrowed into her, and she gasped, then let him continue. When he looked up, he wore a small smile. "God, for a minute, I didn't know where the hell I was again."

"You might wake like that for a while."

"Mmmhmm." He nestled into her side, then kissed her through her clothes. She giggled.

He continued those gentle motions. Andrea closed her eyes. She might be in her early seventies, but that didn't mean she couldn't desire a little affection. That was all he offered, then he sat up. "What time is it?"

"Nearly three. You mind pasta for dinner?"

"Pasta?"

"You know, spaghetti. With sauce."

"Like last night?"

She smiled. "Actually, not as nice as last night. No meat, but I'll put some onions in it."

"What, you don't eat meat anymore?"

"I just like Italian food."

"Was he a wop?"

She smiled. "No. Just hated pasta. I eat it all the time now."

He nodded, then looked grim. "How long's he been gone?"

"Ten years. Died of a heart attack."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

He stroked her hands. "You been with anyone since?"

She laughed. "Oh, I got several boyfriends. They all take turns, I never get any sleep."

One eyebrow rose, then he smiled. "You still got a sense of humor."

"I still do, just a little dryer now."

He gazed at her face, sometimes catching her eyes, but he took his time. Then he gripped her fingers. "Did you love him?"

"Yes."

"Was he good to you?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever..." He paused, then brought her hands to his lips, kissing them.

"Did I ever what Thom?"

"Think of me?"

"Yes."

He nodded, then gently squeezed her hands. "Funny seeing your granddaughter. Hell, it's funny saying that. You got a granddaughter Andy."

"I have a few of them."

"And two grandsons. Both would like to beat the shit right outta me," he smiled.

"Yes they would, Juss especially. Anthony's not quite twenty yet, but Juss is..." She cleared her throat. "He's just a few years younger than you."

Thom had been ready to chuckle, but he stopped, then traced her fingers. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why me?"

"Why you what?"

He stared at her. "Andy..."

"Thom, I have no idea." She stood, then looked around the room. "Is Jesus coming next?"

He stood, then approached her. "Hope not. I just woke up."

"Yup. You better take a leak. Then a bath."

"You don't like the way I smell?"

She giggled, heading to the kitchen. "You said it first, when Laurel was still here."

She reached the doorway, but he met her, blocking her way. "I see her, and she's you, but then I see you, and you're all I want. I want you Andy, I still love you."

Andrea closed her eyes, those words like knives. "Go wash up. Pasta'll be ready when you're done."

Cat called while Andrea stirred the sauce; Justin would have come over, but he had to work, and Laurel had spent her afternoon going through old pictures. Andrea wasn't surprised by either piece of news. She had given Cat all the old snapshots; the kids were supposed to scan them, then put them on Facebook. Andrea had never seen any up there, imagined those photos would never see the light of day. But something had piqued Laurel's curiosity, Cat said.

Someone, a grandmother knew. "Well, did she find what she was looking for?"

"Not that I know of. Mom, you wanna tell me what's going on?"

"He's just a friend."

"Mom..."

"Gotta drain the pasta. I'll chat later honey." Andrea hung up the phone, then stirred the sauce, onions sticking to the spoon. The pasta still had two minutes, but Andrea didn't have any more to tell her daughter. What Laurel might want to share made Andrea smile.

Thom's whistling made her knees knock. "You any cleaner?" she asked, her back to him.

"Come kiss me and see."

She grinned, then turned the sauce to low. "Gotta drain the pasta. Be right with you."

He laughed, stepping to her side. He smelled clean, also very familiar. He had liked looking sharp, had been a little vain. He still was, that hadn't changed overnight.

"That's a nice shower you got. Toilet makes a lotta racket though."

"Well, fix it. You got two hands."

"Yes I do."

He had set them on her hips, which almost tickled. She turned off the pasta, then rattled the lid against the pan. He chuckled, then moved away. "Shall I drain those noodles?"

"You can."

He poured off some of the water, then dumped the contents in a nearby colander. She dished up two plates; it was nearly four o'clock, she liked to eat early. She would watch some TV afterwards, find her bed by eight. That had been her routine, once she got used to living alone. As they sat to eat, he took the seat next to her, which pleased her, but also rankled. What did he actually want?

To sleep with her popped in her mind. "So Thom, here's the deal. I eat supper, clean the kitchen, take a walk round the yard, come back in. Sit on the couch, turn on the television, watch some of it, then turn it off, lock the doors, go to bed. Now you're welcome to join me for all those tasks except..."

He set down his fork. "Andy, oh God." He closed his eyes, then put his head on the table.

"Honey, I'm not my granddaughter, I'm an old woman and..."

When he looked up, tears on his face, she wanted to trade places with Laurel, just for one night. She wanted to be who he seemed to take her as, some figure from his memories, which weren't that ancient. They were from just days ago, so immediate that how he sat there, only weeping, amazed her. He should be drunk or in a straightjacket or...

"Andy, baby, I don't understand any of this. The only thing that's keeping me from getting loaded is your voice. Your voice, your eyes, your hands. These are the same hands Andrea, the same fingers, the same, the same..."

He took her left hand, then turned it palm-up. Tracing the lines, he hummed the same tune he had whistled. It was Buddy Holly or The Everly Brothers, something recent to his mind, something trapped within hers. If she closed her eyes, she could go back with him, as if together they could wriggle through time.

"I'm not that girl anymore."

"Yes you are."

She snorted. "Like hell I am."

He smiled, releasing her hand. Then he grew serious. "Did I fall asleep, lose track of time, shit!" He stood, stomping around the table. Then he took the chair across from her. "Everything's changed, nothing's what I know. All this technology, I can't begin to tell you what's different. But you say one little word, and I'm all right, I can breathe. I look into your eyes Andrea Watson; you're still Andrea Watson to me. But then you're not. You're Carl's wife, Carl..."

"Falstaff. I'm Andrea Falstaff."

He nodded, then looked away. "You were gonna be Mrs. Thom Sugerman, believe it or not."

"I don't believe it."

He glanced at her smile. "You would've been."

"Over my father's dead body. Or yours."

"Did they really hate me that much?"

"They thought you were too old for me."

"Am I too young now?"

His earnest voice pierced her. "Oh Thom, whatdya want with a shriveled-up old..."

"Don't say that. I love you, I know you. You're still the same woman."

"I am not."

"You are to me."

She stared at him, trying to decide what was more important, her pride or his sanity. He seemed to believe what he was saying, but maybe it was the only way to fathom what was quite improbable. All day she had overlooked that point, but when Juss came over, or when Laurel returned, maybe with pictures to back up Andrea's story, what then? For less than a day, Andrea's life was like some crappy made-for TV movie. Melodrama, Sam liked to sneer, as Andrea watched another lousy show.

But this wasn't fiction. The man across from her had drunk too much, then lost decades of his life, her life, what might have been their life; would she have actually married him, or more to the point, would he have really asked her?

"Thom, when you left, what had we been arguing about?"

"You don't remember?"

She winced; he sounded hurt. "No honey, it's been a long time."

He looked at the table, then picked up her hand again, caressing her left ring finger. "I told you I was gonna buy you a ring, but you didn't believe me."

All her life flashed, from that very night, to turning seventy-two. "Oh my lord."

"Andy, I, I..."

She took deep breaths to push back sobs. He moved to her side, pulling her close. She smelled his chest, felt him inhale, then he let it out, along with words; he was sorry for getting drunk, for leaving her, for taking so long to get back to her. That if she wanted him to go, he would. "I don't wanna hurt you again honey. Andy, oh baby, don't cry."

Where could he go, what sort of life waited for such a man? She bit her bottom lip, then met his eyes. "I shut that out, just completely forgot it."

"Or maybe you didn't take me seriously. And when I didn't come back..."

"I ached for so long after you were gone, even after I married Carl. He was a good man, but he wasn't you. And now I'm not who you loved, I'm not, not..."

"You are everything Andrea. You haven't aged a day."

His smile was truthful, so she nodded. If a man could slip through time, perhaps a woman could too.

She told him she was afraid of being hurt. He said that was the last thing he wanted to do.

She remembered her last time with Carl, four nights before he died. They hadn't made love often, maybe once every two or three weeks. She had no idea if that was normal for couples in their early sixties, but she wasn't bothered. Lovemaking had dwindled slowly, and by the time she realized how infrequent it was, it was like accepting rain in winter, just what happened.

She had no clue what would occur that night, one reason for her fear. The other was simple; what if in the morning, he wasn't there?

"Where else would I be?" he said, taking off his shirt.

"How should I know?" She watched him, felt giddy. "My goodness, you are just the same."

He smiled, scooting her way. She wore her nightgown, but had taken off her underwear. Her mouth trembled as he approached her face, his breath so warm and...

His kiss was tender, as if she was nineteen again, stirring within her all the dreams of an inexperienced young woman. Now she was an uncertain old lady, maybe there was little difference. He pulled away and she inhaled, then stroked his cheek. She had deliberately avoided these sorts of touches, but once breached, Andrea's heart raced, her mind a blur. "Thom, be gentle with me."

He kissed her again. "That's what you said the first time."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. I was then, I will be now."

And he was, which made her weep from joy and pleasure. His pleasure was satisfied over and over, but he never looked away from her, never seemed to be far from her skin. It was saggy and cool, yet under his fingers, she accepted new feelings, or restored sensations. In the last ten years, she had never dreamed of again knowing a man inside her, then falling asleep along her naked body. As Thom began to snore, his arm over her, Andrea shivered, wondering why this had occurred.

Warm sun flooded the room, what woke her. To Andrea's great shock, Thom was sitting beside her, eyes open, smiling down at her. "Good morning honey."

She blinked, then slowly grinned, getting her bearings. "How long you been up?"

"An hour. Sun woke me."

"I forgot to close the curtains last night."

He kissed her forehead. "Other things on your mind."

She nodded, then started to sit up. Then she recalled she was nude. She giggled, looking at his hairy chest. Carl had been hairless, but when Andrea had made love with Thom, curls stuck to her breasts, which at the time had been on the small side. Nursing and gravity had altered them; now she probably had his chest hairs caught everywhere.

"You want some coffee?" he asked, looking to the windows.

She smiled, pulling up the sheet. "Did you make some?"

He shook his head, then traced her cheek. "But I gotta start somewhere."

She wanted to say the biggest adjustment had already occurred. She blinked away a few tears, finally with a small comprehension of what he had faced when waking in a new century. She gripped his hand, still along her cheek. "You were gentle with me. I'll be the same teaching you whatever you need to know."

He had been very tender, nothing ached at all. But now fear sat in his eyes, not just of the coffeemaker. Waking with her had been some marker, proving that yes, she was still his lover, but so much time had passed him by.

"Let me use the bathroom and throw on some clothes. We'll go down together, I'll show you..."

Again he shook his head, then curled into her. "I wanted to make it, God, I need some joe. But I had no idea what to do. Then I wondered if Laurel might come over, or your grandson, so I just stayed here. Well, I took a leak. I think I fixed the toilet. It's a little quieter now."

She leaned over him as he spoke, stroking his back, then kissing his skin. All she had bottled inside had been let loose last night, was still being uncorked that morning. How many years, not just the ten that Carl had been dead, but ages of missing this man, longing for just this sort of moment, where they were free to love each other without the specter of her parents or maybe getting pregnant. Then she laughed out loud, but it was cut short by his sudden lurch forward. And thinking about Laurel, who hadn't been so lucky.

"What's so funny?" he asked, wiping his face.

She told him the first part, said nothing about her granddaughter. He smiled, then chuckled. "No one to tell us _no_ anymore."

"Not even Justin." She hoped to see him today, just to get it over with. "Thom, I want you here, in this house." She smiled. "In this bed, for however long I can have you. You stay here, live with me. I'll teach you to make coffee, use my cell phone, the TV, whatever you need."

He nodded, then looked to the windows. "What will you tell people?"

"What should I tell them?"

He breathed deeply, then got out of bed, pulling the drapes. Andy's vision was good, and she took in his sturdy frame. He was hard, but she didn't think anything would happen. Only that he was thirty-two, a youngster in her mind. She smiled as he faced her. He had been older than her for so long, and now he was just a kid.

But all man, as he sat on the bed, not losing any stiffness. "Tell them I'm the son of someone you used to know. No one would believe the truth, and I don't care what people think of me."

"What about what they think of me?"

Her grin was small, and he offered one. "They'll think I'm crazy, and that you are too. I can live with that."

She nodded, then kissed him.

They spent that day going over various appliances; she wrote down steps for the TV and microwave. He found those the most fascinating, was overwhelmed by her computer and the cell phone. He had fixed her toilet, the quiet catching her off guard, but her daughters had called, so had her grandchildren, except for Justin. Laurel was at work, but wanted to come by to speak to both of them. The pictures, Andrea knew. Laurel had photographic evidence, but her job intruded.

Maybe that was best, Andrea told Thom over lunch. Give Laurel a few days to let it sink in. Maybe Justin would show up, perhaps with some friends along. Andrea considered texting him, then left it. No need to drag him round unnecessarily.

Thom needed clothes and she needed milk and something more substantial than pasta for dinner, so after lunch they went to town. She drove, but he asked to drive them home, only because he missed being behind the wheel. He stood close to her at the store, was stunned by the amount of goods and how people, especially young women, were dressed. She didn't see anyone she knew well, but a few eyes darted their way. Eventually the talk would begin, but she didn't care. Thom had been right. They would think he had lost his mind and that she was a sex-crazed old woman. Neither was true, but parts weren't false.

Back in the car, he was skittish at first, then drove like she remembered, a little too fast. When they arrived home, Justin's car waited, but he wasn't in it. Andrea always locked her house, but all the kids had a key. She hoped he had gone hunting for Thom, but wouldn't be surprised if he sat at the kitchen table.

Thom grabbed the bags while Andrea unlocked the door. The house was quiet, and she called Justin's name, but no one answered. She went upstairs to pee. When she came back into the kitchen, Thom was putting ice cream in the freezer. And Justin was standing just beyond the screen door.

"Well, you coming inside?" she asked him.

Thom turned, but Justin didn't move.

"Or are you just gonna stand there?" Andrea stepped toward Thom. "Justin, this's Thom Sugerman. Thom, that's my oldest grandchild, Justin."

"Hello," Thom said quietly.

Justin grimaced, then cleared his throat. "Hey."

"We gonna talk through the screen all day?" Andrea left Thom, heading to the door. "What's it gonna be?"

"Can I speak with you alone Grandma?"

Thom nodded, heading into the living room as Justin gazed at the stranger.

"For God's sake, Juss." Andrea went to the table, where groceries waited. All the cold stuff was put away, and she unloaded a bag; more pasta, which Thom had admitted wasn't half bad, microwave popcorn, which he couldn't wait to try. Boxes of Wheaties, his usual breakfast, and some saltines, what he used to eat by the handful when visiting her. Andrea's father would swear a blue streak when he found all the crackers were gone.

Those items sat amid extra coffee and Bisquick, grated parmesan cheese and jars of spaghetti sauce. They bought different varieties; he wanted to try them all. Several packages of ground beef waited in the fridge, along with mozzarella cheese, pepperoni, and mushrooms. Thom had decided to sample her favorites, but a five-pound bag of potatoes sat on the counter near onions and garlic, a chuck roast with the hamburger. They would alternate the menu.

Justin eyed all the dry goods, another package of toilet paper as well, something Andrea bought infrequently, but with another under the roof... "Justin, what?"

"Huh?"

He stared at her, then back to the toilet paper. Then he sighed. "Grandma, you don't know this guy from Adam."

She chuckled, then sat down. "Juss, I've known him longer than I've known you."

He rolled his eyes, but she didn't mind, he got it from her. Carl had never done it, but all the kids did, something she picked up from the man sitting in the other room. It had driven her mother up the wall, added to the list of Thom's irritating habits. Andrea wanted to tell Justin all that. Instead she smiled. "Juss, Thom's gonna be living with me, and if that's a problem..."

He blushed, then looked to the floor. "Jesus Christ Grandma!"

"Well, if he shows up, we'll make room."

Justin stood, heading to the doorway, then stopped. Thom tapped his boot, as if a warning. Justin turned around, kneeling by Andrea. "Grandma, who the fuck is he?"

His voice was soft but biting. "Like I said. I've known him a long time and..."

"That doesn't answer my question!" He stood, then glared at the wall separating the rooms. Then he gestured to the groceries. "And I suppose you paid for everything and..."

Andrea pushed herself from the table. Last night lingered in a sweet but tiring manner. "Justin, I am seventy-two and don't need to answer to you, your mom, your aunt, or anyone else. Thom's my friend, is gonna live here. If you don't like it..."

"Grandma, this's nuts! We don't even know who he is and..."

Thom cleared his throat, stepping into the doorway. "Can I say something?"

Andrea nodded as Justin shook his head. "Now Juss..."

Thom stared at Justin. "You've got a valid point, I could be anyone. I'll tell you exactly who I am, if you really wanna know."

"Yeah, okay." Justin crossed his arms, a small smile slipping over his face. "You tell me just who the hell you really are."

Thom took slow steps, then stood beside Andrea. "I'm..."

Laurel burst through the screen door. "Don't you say another word!"

Siblings stood far from the house; Laurel's arms went between gripping her brother to back around herself. Toes were dug into the ground, gazes went up and down, then back to the house, where from the kitchen table, Andrea couldn't do more than peek at them. Voices were too far away, not even Thom could hear their conversation.

"Whatdya think she's telling him?" he asked, a half-empty plate of saltines in front of him on the table.

"God only knows." Andrea sighed. "I hope she didn't tell him you were Carl's..."

"Oh Jesus no." Thom smiled, then took a cracker. "Maybe the truth?"

Andrea snorted. "Oh, he'd never believe that."

What could Laurel be offering, something plausible, as Justin hadn't come back immediately. Something not so shocking, or tires would have been spinning. Andrea wanted to stretch her legs, but that would have looked like eavesdropping. Then she found Thom's smile. "What?"

"Whatever it is has to explain more than just some stranger knocking on your door."

"Yeah?"

Thom ate the cracker, then stood, getting some water. He drank it near the sink, setting the cup on the windowsill. "If she's accepted what you told her, then she's gotta assume I'm here for, well, awhile. So whatever she's concocted's gotta be enough that they, you know."

"What?"

He returned, sitting beside her. Thom took her hand, then kissed it. "That I'm not just gonna be sleeping on the sofa."

They exchanged warm grins. She looked to the counters, food everywhere, that extra toilet paper almost indecent, like they had bought some rubbers. She stroked his face, then leaned his way, kissing him. Suddenly she wasn't looking at him with old eyes, or assuming he saw her that way. She was any age she wanted to be.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too."

Their heads came together at their brows, a gentle nuzzle. They only pulled apart as footsteps were heard, two pairs. Laurel came in first. She was tired, also looked successful. Justin stared at the floor, hands shoved into his pockets.

Andrea stood, kissing her granddaughter. "Well, you two hash it out?"

Justin looked up, clearing his throat. Then he pulled out his hands, cracking his knuckles. "I uh, shit." He stared right at Thom. "I'm sorry, very sorry. I had no right to come in and..."

"I told Justin that Mr. Sugerman was from church." Laurel glanced at Andrea. "And that you just hadn't gotten around to telling us about him."

"From church," Andrea said slowly. "And..."

"And again, I'm uh, I'm sorry." Justin's gaze darted between Andrea and Thom, then to the floor.

Thom stood, putting out his hand. "No trouble. I hope we get a chance to start over."

Justin met his eyes, then shook. "I'd like that sir."

Andrea nearly choked. "Well, yeah, that'd be good." She stared at Laurel, who didn't give anything away.

"Well, I should be going. Grandma, I'll uh, give you a call in a day or two. Laurel, I'll uh, see you later." Justin turned for the door and Thom walked him out, asking about his car. The chatter was stilted at first, what Andrea could hear. Then it grew warm as Thom's laughter rang all the way back to the house.

Andrea smiled, then pointed to a chair. Laurel shook her head. "I need to get something first."

"What'd you tell him?"

"That he was a recovering alcoholic and had been helping you out, and now he needed a place to stay."

"Oh good lord!" Andrea sat, shaking her head.

Laurel looked at the screen, then back to Andrea. "I have the pictures Grandma."

"I wondered. Did you..."

"I didn't say a word to anyone."

Andrea nodded as Thom returned. "Well, he's got a nice car."

"Thought you might like that pony." Justin owned an old Mustang, which was still a few years after Thom's era, but definitely something Thom would have wanted to drive. Andrea looked at Laurel. "You wanna get them now?"

"Get what, and what'd you tell him?" Thom asked.

"I'll let Grandma tell you." Laurel headed outside.

Thom took a seat next to Andrea. "So?"

"You're a recovering drunk, just like their father."

"Jesus Christ!" Thom looked to the door. "Well, that explains a lot. He even patted my shoulder."

Andrea nodded. "Cat divorced Mark before Carl died. Mark got sober about five, six years ago, has a good relationship with the kids now. But you showed up looking pretty rough, probably reminded Justin of his dad, you know, from the old days."

"What'd she go get?"

"Proof," Andrea said, squeezing his hand. "It might hurt."

"Yeah?"

She didn't say anything as Laurel returned, a cigar box in hand.

The box had been Carl's from after they had the girls. He smoked cigars for a time, and Andrea liked the containers. The scent wasn't ordinary tobacco, but she hadn't put these photos into it right away. She liked to air the boxes out. Then she had placed pictures into one, sliding it under old pantsuits in her second to bottom drawer.

After Carl died, she had inspected them. Before that, she couldn't remember when she had last seen these snapshots, all from 1960 through 1962, the years Thom was her boyfriend. She explained all that, then looked at Thom. "You wanna see these?"

He nodded, then cleared his throat. "You think I shouldn't?"

What was more painful, the ancient past, or days recently lived? "I just wanted to ask."

"Open it up."

Andrea nodded to Laurel, who lifted the lid. They were organized by date, the newest picture on top. Thom was standing next to Andrea, taken by Andrea's older sister Donnie just a few days before Andrea turned twenty-two.

Thom stared at it, then held it by the edges, as it was fifty years old. Yet he wore the same boots, probably the same jeans, standing beside not Laurel, although she could pass for her grandmother. He glanced at Laurel first, then to Andrea. Then he returned to the photograph. "Donnie took this just a few days back. Film's probably still in her camera."

"Probably," Andrea said.

His recent history was in these dog-eared snapshots with curling edges. He set that one down, then took the next, examining it as thoroughly as the first. Andrea saw how badly he wished to weep, but wouldn't do so with Laurel there.

He only looked at one more picture; he was standing with another man, both grinning. A lump went to Andrea's throat, but she didn't say anything. When Thom gazed her way, the question was obvious; what had happened to his youngest brother?

"He died in a war in Asia, the Vietnam War. 1968 I think." When she went through these after Carl died, she felt like mourning three men. That one sat near her almost wasn't real.

Thom set the picture on the table, wiped his eyes, then stood. "I'm going for a walk."

"We'll be here honey."

He kissed the top of her head, didn't look at Laurel. Thom exited through the screen door, careful not to slam it.

Andrea collected the snapshot, then gazed at Laurel. "That's Jack, his youngest brother. Musta been nineteen in this picture, maybe twenty. He wasn't young when he was sent over there, got killed anyway. Thom hasn't asked about any of his family yet, probably assumed they were all dead. I think they are." She picked up a small stack of pictures. A few were of the three of them together, taken by Donnie, who had liked Thom. She had consoled Andrea after he...

He hadn't run away. He had fallen asleep, waiting for her now. "Shit. What the hell sense does this really make?"

"Grandma..."

"No, I mean it. Okay, so you told Juss some BS story, and it'll probably be enough. You know what, I don't care if it is or not. He's here." She waved a photo. "This's him, the man who just went out that door, and fifty years have gone by, but damnit Laurel, he came back. I never, ever thought he was gonna come back to me."

"Grandma, I'm sorry, I'm..."

The women sobbed, holding each other close. Andrea pulled away first, then set the pictures back in the box. "Keep these at your place. I don't wanna see them again and he probably won't either."

Laurel nodded. "I'll go put them in my car."

"Thank you honey."

After Laurel left the kitchen, Andrea sighed, then ate a cracker. Then she went to the sink for some water. She drank it, staring out the window. Thom and Laurel spoke in the side yard, then Laurel grapsed his hands. He looked to the ground, then at Laurel, and Andrea wondered who he saw.

She sat back down, felt tired. If he wanted to make love that night, it would be have to be early, she needed to sleep. The door opened, but it wasn't Thom. Laurel gently rubbed Andrea's shoulders, then took her seat.

"Well?" Andrea asked.

"Just wanted to thank me for showing up and running interference. Said he'd be in the outbuilding for a while."

"He'll have a good cry, get it out, or some of it." The worst wasn't the complicated cell phone or computer. The worst was facing so many losses.

"Grandma, what're you gonna do?"

"Live with him."

Laurel rolled her eyes, then smiled. "You're not gonna outlive him."

"I might." Then Andrea chuckled. "Honey, all I'm gonna do is think about today. He's gonna need some space, has a lot to ponder. In the meantime, there's groceries to put away, maybe a good old movie to watch, or a lousy new one. He'll find things to keep himself busy. Maybe I'll even get him on the computer one of these days."

"Grandma, he doesn't have an ID or papers or..."

"I'm not gonna make him get a job honey. He's gonna look after me."

Laurel giggled. Then she sighed. "Grandma, it's one thing for Justin to accept him, but..."

"The rest will too. Or they can find their own spaghetti and meatballs." While Laurel was right about the paperwork, they didn't live in a big city, could skirt around those issues. And if an issue did arise, Andrea probably wouldn't be here to fret over it.

Laurel took a deep breath, then ate a cracker. "Grandma, I'm sorry I was so awful."

"Honey, no one's to blame. I have no idea what's going on, can't even begin to fathom it. I felt the same when your grandpa died, also when Thom left the first time. I couldn't believe he would actually leave me, either of them. I know Carl's dead, I lay next to him for half a night. As for Thom..."

She stood, looking out the front door. She hadn't chased after him fifty years ago, wasn't about to start now. Once Laurel left, he would probably come inside. Maybe they would lie down together, or just sit at the table, talking or saying nothing at all.

Then Andrea looked at her granddaughter. "Laurel, I'm gonna ask you something, and if you can't say yes, that's fine. But if you think maybe someday you could, well, that's like saying yes. And if you can say yes right off the bat..."

"What?"

Andrea sat down. "He'll need someone to look after him when I'm gone. Honey, do you think that's something you could consider?"

Phrasing it that way had come to her watching them just moments ago. If Laurel could just consider it, that was all Andrea needed.

Still that drew a long sigh. "Oh Grandma..."

"Just think about it. I don't need an answer today or next week. Get to know him, see if that's something you might be able to do. You're right, he doesn't have anything proving who he is. Maybe tonight I'll look up fake IDs on the internet."

Laurel stifled a laugh.

"In the meantime, I gotta make dinner. He likes pasta, which is good. But I think I'll fry up some burgers, make some gravy. God, I haven't made flour gravy in years."

Andrea stood, then opened the bag of potatoes. "I'll see if he's happy with boiled spuds, not gonna matter with gravy all over them. But tomorrow night's pizza. I don't want those mushrooms going bad."

Laurel said nothing, but reached for a napkin in the middle of the table, then blew her nose.

"Honey, you run along now. I gotta start cooking, and you're probably tired, working so early today."

Laurel nodded, then stood slowly. She stepped to her grandmother, a hug offered.

It was reciprocated with older limbs just as needy.

Thom hadn't been hungry at first, but finished all the potatoes and gravy. A burger remained; he said he would have it tomorrow for lunch. Andrea put it in the fridge, then washed the dishes as he wandered around the house.

Sam called. Andrea told her that yes, that man was staying with her, and yes, he was recovering. Sam said she would tell her sister, letting Andrea off the hook with Cat. Yet three other grandchildren waited, neighbors and acquaintances, but no one would probably intrude on an AA meeting and ask about Thom. Laurel had been smart about that.

At seven that evening, Andrea and Thom took a walk around the yard. Thom mentioned his brother, then asked about the rest. Andrea knew about some of them, but not all. He was quiet, Jack's death the biggest blow. Thom didn't ask about the other photographs, and when they went back inside, he locked the doors.

She waited on the sofa. Thom sat next to her, taking her hand. "Dinner was good."

"Gravy was lumpy, but tasty. I'll have to practice."

"But pizza tomorrow, right?"

"Uh-huh. I froze that chuck and the rest of the hamburger. Whatever you like Thom."

He nodded, then looked into the room.

She did too, trying to imagine it through his eyes; her grandparents' piano had sat where the TV now rested. Bookshelves were gone, that ugly wallpaper stripped years ago. He stared that way and Andrea smiled. "You still thinking _why me_?"

"What?"

She kissed his cheek, rousing a grin. "I told Laurel I had no idea why this'd happened. But here you are, you really are here."

He chuckled. "Sometimes I wonder if I'll walk into a room and it'll look like what I know, what I remember." His voice went low. "Those are just memories now."

"You were just a memory too, you think about that?"

He smiled. "But I've always had you."

"Not the same me, but..."

His kiss was soft, but Andrea responded as if she was younger than Laurel, a woman who this man now considered a memory.

They parted, then he leaned back, taking her against him. "I'll never be there again, never see those people, those places, it's all gone."

"Yes it is. You'll need to let it go, like grieving."

"And someday I'll mourn you."

"If I'm lucky, yes."

A few quiet seconds passed. Then he sighed. "And if you're not lucky?"

"Oh, I think I'll be getting lucky."

"Yeah?" he said grimly.

She set her hand on his thigh. Stroking softly, she inched toward his groin. He uttered a small moan. "I think so Thom Sugerman. Lucky might be my new middle name."

He smiled. "If I could marry you, I would."

"We'll just live in sin. Everybody else does."

He laughed, then placed his hand over hers. "Is it bedtime yet?"

She peered at the wall clock. "Looks like eight to me."

He stood, then helped her up. As he checked the doors, she closed her eyes, conjuring that dreadful wallpaper, her annoyed parents, Donnie's slightly jealous smile. Then she thought about Laurel's curious eyes, and how tenderly she had held Thom's hands in the side yard.

"You ready Andy?"

She nodded, grasping his arm. "Take me to bed Mr. Sugerman."

"My pleasure, Miss Watson."

She let him lead, their steps slightly out of time, but close enough. Andrea headed into the bathroom as Thom turned on the bedroom light.
Pork Fried Rice and Recessed Lights

"Man, are you serious? _An Apple Juice Story_?" Jeff shook his head, then took another bite of pork fried rice.

Across from him, Marlon was busy on his laptop. "What else should I call it?"

Jeff furrowed his brow. It was the ninth of November, and Marlon had been on this book-kick since the beginning of the month. Jeff hadn't expected Marlon to actually write anything more than reality TV reviews; Marlon didn't do much except watch those crap shows, well, there was Hannah. Then Jeff slapped his forehead. "This's that writing thing she's always talking about isn't it?"

Marlon smiled, brushing jet-black hair from his eyes. "Yup."

"Shit man, what're you doing?"

"Gonna make a hundred bucks, if you'd just shut up."

"So, what's it about?" Jeff asked, with his mouth full.

"Nothing."

"Whatdya mean nothing? It's gotta be about something."

"No it doesn't."

Jeff swallowed, then stared at Marlon. "Of course it has to be about something. It's a novel."

"I'm a rebel."

"Oh jeez." Jeff took another bite. "You're a slacker, but you aren't a rebel."

"I'm a NaNo rebel. I'm writing reality TV in prose."

"Jesus Christ Marlon." Jeff leaned back, then gazed at the large, foil-covered pan of pork fried rice between them. Marlon wasn't directly across, more in the middle of the table. His empty plate was to his left, a laptop in front of him. Since the beginning of October Jeff had been hearing about this writing competition from Hannah; did Jeff want to join them? _Them_ , he had asked, with a smile. Yes, Hannah had smirked, tugging on Marlon's arm. Her boyfriend was going to write with her in November.

Jeff pulled out his phone to investigate. Participants of National Novel Writing Month were supposed to compose fifty thousand words in thirty days. Jeff stared at Marlon; he could barely write his way out of a paper bag. Yet he hadn't stopped typing since Jeff had poured himself more apple juice, and that was twenty minutes ago.

Jeff drank what remained in his cup, then finished his lunch. Two nights back, recessed lights were installed in Marlon and Hannah's kitchen. Workmen had been around all day, and when Jeff and Eileen stopped by to see the results, Chinese food had been ordered. Marlon liked pork fried rice, but what he loved was not having to plan dinner. Hannah had put him in charge of the nightly meal after he got fired two months ago. Since then, Marlon hadn't looked for a job, spending most of his time watching reality TV programs. Jeff knew this from all of Marlon's inane texts read as Jeff made UPS deliveries. Every half hour Jeff had been updated on a variety of crap television shows. What Jeff most wanted to know was when Hannah was going to realize that her boyfriend hadn't done jack squat over the last several weeks.

"That's why you're writing, to get on Hannah's good side," Jeff said with disdain.

"To _stay_ on her good side," Marlon smiled, then went back to typing.

"What, you make a bet with her or something?"

"Something," Marlon mumbled. He looked at Jeff, then to the apple juice container. Then back to his story.

"What, whoever gets to fifty K first wins something?" Jeff glanced at the ceiling; the new lights were bright and modern. Two months ago the landlord had replaced aged tile counters with granite. Three months before that, maple cabinets were installed. "Hey, maybe your rent's gonna go up. Maybe that's why the new lights."

"Nah, he just wants to improve things." Marlon sat back, then sighed. "You believe the BS they put on apple juice; my dad used to make it in the fifties, blah blah blah. What shit!"

"Just like reality TV," Jeff smiled.

"Exactly. Advertisers think we have the mental acumen of earthworms. Whatever they sell, we'll buy." Marlon wore an icy smile. "Chicks aren't any different."

"Yeah?"

"Hannah bugged me about this last year. So this time I said sure, said I'd even beat her. Then she got cocky, bet me a hundred bucks that she'd come up with fifty K before I did. She's got some wig-ass story all plotted out, and I know she's been writing at work. She keeps texting me: _Check my word count._ Last time it was at nineteen thousand something. No way she's getting all that typed lying in bed next to me."

Jeff looked at the juice bottle, read the story; was there really a family connected with this particular brand? Or was it just bull as Marlon said?

"So I read the rules; you don't have to write fiction. You can write whatever the hell you want, so that's what I'm doing. Yesterday I wrote about how nice the kitchen is now. Today it's how Hannah's gonna get her ass fired for writing her novel at work," Marlon chuckled.

"And if she does, who's gonna pay the electric bill?" Jeff crossed his arms. Why did he bother with Marlon? Why did Hannah? What drew people like them, who went to work and played by the rules, to those like Marlon, who was happy to do absolutely nothing as long as others allowed. "If you win the bet, you gonna buy dinner for a while?"

Jeff had given Hannah fifteen bucks toward sesame chicken and what he and Eileen ate of the pork fried rice. Jeff didn't expect Marlon, if he actually won the bet, to part with any of the money other than for beer and the occasional bag of chili and lime sunflower seeds. Why would Hannah bet him one hundred bucks in the first place?

"If I win, the beer's on me. Now listen, I gotta get back to typing. This's my life, reality TV-style. If you have something interesting to add, great. Otherwise, don't let the door hit you on your way back to work."

"Well, thanks for that warm and fuzzy _see you soon_." Jeff rolled his eyes, took his empty plate to the sink, then left his friend's house with a definite slam behind him.

On the fifteenth of November, Jeff and his girlfriend Eileen brought Indian food to Hannah and Marlon. Hannah's word count had stalled after she hit twenty K, but Marlon was still on track, at twenty-seven thousand.

After dinner, Eileen and Hannah spoke in the kitchen. Marlon was sprawled across the sofa, a laptop perched on his gut. "So, how's the book?" Jeff asked.

"Good." Marlon leaned forward, wearing a crafty smile. "She quit," he whispered.

"Maybe it's just writer's block." Jeff knew this; Marlon had texted him about Hannah's slump not long after it became a certainty.

Marlon chuckled. "She gave up. Says she'll give me the hundred bucks as soon as I reach fifty K."

Jeff rolled his eyes. "Aren't you the least bit..." Then Jeff sighed. Of course Marlon didn't care that Hannah hadn't been able to muster any more of her story. His only concern was the money.

The women's voices were soft, but Jeff picked up something serious being discussed, something Hannah had brought up; Eileen was using her _I'm so sorry_ tone. Once they were in the car, he would ask, but for now he was stuck watching Marlon gloat all over his laptop. His fingers flew, probably all shit, Jeff sighed quietly. He watched crap shows, was writing a BS novel. A reality TV novel, and Jeff rolled his eyes again.

"What?" Marlon asked.

"What?"

"I saw that."

"Saw what?"

"Saw you rolling your eyes. Do you realize how much you do that?"

Only around you, Jeff chuckled to himself. "I didn't know it was flagrant."

"If you did it around Eileen, I'd be she'd let you know."

I never roll my eyes around my girlfriend, Jeff nearly said, but as Hannah's voice grew louder and more anguished, he kept those thoughts to himself. "So Marlon, how much do you have left?"

"Twenty-three thousand words."

"No, I mean, how much of your story?"

Marlon looked up, then shook his head. "I told you it's not a story. It's just stream of consciousness."

"No apple juice bottles today," Jeff smiled.

Marlon sat up, setting the laptop beside him. He cracked his knuckles, then motioned for Jeff. "I'm writing about how Hannah's novel's gone down the toilet."

Jeff coughed, then cleared his throat. "You're writing what?"

"She thinks she's so superior with all this writing, been bugging me about it for ages. So finally I get on board, and she craps out. I love her, don't get me wrong, but..." He smiled. "Sometimes she just needs to lay off, you know."

Hannah's voice increased, sounding even more plaintive.

"Marlon," Jeff whispered tersely, "she's right in the next room. This's important to her, and you're acting like a ten-year-old."

"Hey, if she can't take it, she shouldn't dish it out."

Jeff stood, looking around the tidy living room. Marlon still wasn't working, but he probably hadn't lifted a finger in the cleaning. Hannah worked all day, then came home to her slob of a boyfriend, who was writing utter swill. For the first time, Jeff wondered why Hannah hadn't kicked Marlon's lazy butt to the curb. Or maybe she had tried, and Marlon was impossible to move.

They had been dating for eighteen months, a little longer than Jeff and Eileen. But Jeff was starting to talk marriage, and Eileen was picking up the hints. Hannah and Marlon seemed to be heading the other way, if word counts were indicative of anything.

"Hey, you going in the kitchen?" Marlon asked, resettling into the sofa.

"Yeah." You want me to apologize on your behalf to Hannah, Jeff felt like saying.

"Can you get me a beer?"

"A beer. You want me to get you a beer."

"Well, unless you got a broken leg all of a sudden."

Jeff rolled his eyes. "A beer. Sure Marlon. I'd love to get you a beer."

Ten days later, on his way home from work, Jeff stopped by Marlon and Hannah's. Jeff hadn't spoken to Marlon since handing him that beer. He had kissed Hannah's cheek, then listened to Eileen all the way home; initially Hannah had been thrilled Marlon was going to write with her, but his callous indifference to the spirit of the competition had stolen her muse. Eileen thought Marlon was a complete asshole and that Hannah should leave him.

Jeff knocked, but no one answered. Maybe he's writing, Jeff wondered, using his key. "Marlon, Hannah? Hey, if you're getting it on, I'm here!"

White noise stirred in the background. Jeff poked his nose into the kitchen; the table was covered in styrofoam containers, flies buzzing over the open ones. Empty sunflower seed bags and beer cans littered granite countertops under the bright glare of LED lights.

Jeff turned around slowly, looking back down the corridor. Then he took hesitant steps into the living room; the TV blared, some insipid reality show. "Marlon?"

He lay on the long sofa, dressed only in boxers. Jeff gazed around the house, a few items askew. The kitchen had certainly been the worst, as if Marlon had been left alone since Jeff last saw him. "Marlon, shit man, what'n the hell happened?"

"She left me."

"She left you?"

"She left me. For him."

Marlon pointed to the TV; it was a home restoration show. Recessed lights were being installed in someone's kitchen.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jeff sat near Marlon's feet, which were more than a little smelly. When was the last time he had showered?

"Have you looked at her Facebook lately?"

"Uh no, we were at Eileen's parents for Thanksgiving. Marlon, what's going on?"

He sat up, stubble on his face, eyes bloodshot. A small paunch hung over his ratty boxers. Marlon was twenty-eight, but looked twice that age. Jeff inhaled; no, his friend hadn't recently bathed.

"She posted it all on Facebook; she did hit fifty K, wrote some chick-flick crap about a gal who'd been cheating on her longtime boyfriend for the last six months with the owner of her house. That's why we got the new cabinets and granite counters and fucking recessed lights!"

He threw a bag of sunflower seeds at the TV, the scent of chili and lime wafting as seeds fell to the carpet. The star of the show stood on a ladder, showing how easy it was to set the lights into holes already prepared in the ceiling, just like what had happened a few weeks ago in Marlon's previously tidy kitchen.

"So, if she left you for him, why'd he put in the lights?"

"The lights are for them. I'm supposed to move out by the end of the month and they're gonna live here. I guess he left his wife for her, was getting this place all ready. She said he's writing a novel this month, a real novel. What a bitch!"

Jeff nodded, but wanted to smile. "So what now? I mean, what're you gonna do?"

"Fuck if I know. I never should've agreed to write that stupid story."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, if I hadn't been busy writing, I would've seen this coming."

Jeff laughed. "She's been sleeping with him for months Marlon, Jesus Christ!"

"Yeah, but if I hadn't been spending all my free time writing, I'd have been checking out her Facebook more. Or reading her novel; she put up excerpts on her goddamned NaNo page, you realize that?"

Jeff took a long look at his friend; Marlon had spent the last few months sponging off Hannah, wheedling more than a few bucks from Jeff when Hannah said _no_. Who had paid for all the take-out dishes in the kitchen, he wondered. "I have one question."

"Just one?"

Jeff chuckled. If not for Eileen, he would probably end up with Marlon on his sofa. Eileen would take a hard stand, even in December, if Hannah's ultimatum was real.

"Just one question. Who shelled out for all the food in the kitchen?"

"Hannah."

"Hannah?"

"Well, I did win the bet."

Jeff nodded slowly. "What bet?"

"You know, the NaNo bet. I hit fifty K before she did."

Jeff repeated it half to himself. "And she still gave you the hundred bucks?"

"Yup." Then he looked toward the kitchen. "A broken heart too."

"Uh-huh." Jeff doubted that very much. A bruised ego, maybe. "Well, I guess that's the breaks."

"The cheating girlfriend story," Marlon said, looking glum.

"Maybe you can get it published or something."

"Maybe I'll do that. I'll have plenty of time to kill, you know, in December."

Jeff could hear the request already. He stood, then gazed around the room. "Well, you've got till the end of the month here. Good luck man."

"Yeah, thanks."

Jeff saw himself to the door, hearing the TV's volume increase. If Eileen ever asked him about writing a book, Jeff would smile, remembering this day. Then he would kiss his girlfriend and tell her _No thanks_.
The American Way

She looks like a she

but who can be sure?

She's small, like many in the neighborhood

wearing a mask, gloves, short dark hair under a baseball cap.

Maybe she's not a she after all

but I don't stare, that would be rude.

Not that going through another's recycling bin is considered in good taste.

The rubbish belongs to the city, once the container sits on the street

but she doesn't care about that.

Once it's behind our car, waiting to be collected, it's within her domain.

Her bike is sometimes piled high with see-through plastic bags stuffed with

plastic bottles, either milk or soda.

Glass bottles aren't preferred, they weigh her down.

She's small, sturdy, but realistic; plastic is easier to tote down the street

going from house to house in near dusk, as cans await the next day's collection.

Her job is to forage, retrieve, then cart home.

Her job is to beat the rubbish men before they abscond with her treasures.

Is it a game, municipal employees and recent immigrants trying to best each other

to what rightly belongs to the city?

Yet she's nimble, able, willing.

She's willing to rummage through bins looking for what is light enough to carry home.

What will earn her pennies on the dollar

and the stares of those from windows, watching her thievery.

Or is it first come, first serve?

If we waited until the morning to put out our cans, would the contents belong more to the city

or would we be thwarting her endeavors to make easy money?

She trudges along on that bike, it's not a large bike.

She hauls away plastic, maybe paper, I don't pay enough attention.

I prefer to look away, only noting her presence if I happen to step outside when she's there

taking gallon milk jugs, gallon water bottles, half-liter water bottles.

My husband prefers bottled water; I like what emerges from the refrigerator.

She probably doesn't care what we drink, as long as it's not heavy.

She probably doesn't care what we think, as long as we keep it to ourselves.

She probably doesn't care what any of the neighbors say, as she pedals away

to the next overflowing wheelie bin, where pennies await.

She doesn't leave trash on the ground, she doesn't make any sound.

She, if she's a she, goes about her business, which isn't legal, but it happens every day

in every neighborhood, right before the garbage men do their job, which is sanctioned

and compensated.

She's just beating them to it

making ends meet the American way.
She Walked Along 14th Street

She walked along 14th Street, wondering where she put that grocery list. Checking pockets, she mumbled something that to others was gibberish, but she understood herself. Yet it didn't help her find that grocery list.

"Hey Grandma, whatcha talkin' 'bout?"

The men went unnoticed. All she could think about was that grocery list.

"Don't go talkin' to that old bat. She'd bite your head off as soon as look at 'cha."

She jammed hands into pockets, feeling lint and ragged seams, but no list. She mumbled something else, her words drawn away by the wind and voices that tried to capture her mutterings. She kept walking, paying no one no mind.

After what were moments to her, minutes to others, she stopped, smiled, frowned, then again shoved hands into her pockets. Beyond frayed cotton fragments lie something that to the touch felt like a list. If she dug deeply enough, fiddled with the lint long enough, those weather digits could fashion a list, her past, a life. How many times did her daughter-in-law scowl, putting the bus token in her palm, folding fingers around it like protecting a jewel. How many times did her niece tie the house key on a single-stitch yarn chain and slip that necklace around the woman's head. How many times... She played with the fray in the deepest corner, then stopped. Someone, her mother or great aunt, told her time after time she would put holes in her dress, and no one wants a holey dress, not even for Sundays. She smiled, wishing she could find her list. She would put _hat_ on it. She hadn't worn a hat in years.

If she had a hat, maybe she could find the list. A bean cover, her father had called it, but until she was much older, she wondered what bean was he talking about? Beans were covered in dirt in spring, planted well into the damp brown soil. She stared at the street, strewn with refuse. No dirt here.

And no list. Again she rummaged into her pockets, hoping, hoping... But no list appeared. She looked behind her, no one close. No one was around her, no one for years or miles or...

"Miss Margaret, Miss Margaret?" Suddenly a woman appeared, like how her daddy's beans popped through the earth not long after she had helped plant them. A bean cover, she had asked her daddy, and he sighed, then wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Then he kissed her forehead: _No Maggie, just beans._ Her father always called her Maggie. But others used her long name. And some added _Miss_.

"Miss Margaret, we've been looking for you. C'mon now Miss Margaret. We need to go back."

"List," she said. "I need to find my list."

The woman sighed, just like Margaret's father used to. But the woman didn't kiss Margaret's forehead. She did grasp her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Miss Margaret, what are we gonna do with you?"

As they started walking, Margaret recalled her name. She had forgotten about the list. Within moments for her, minutes for others, Margaret's own name slipped far away. She put one hand into her pocket, playing with the frayed lint, while her other hand was clasped gently, how her daddy used to hold it, walking back from the field, talking about the beans.
His Beer Bottle, Her New Key

He sat on the front porch, a beer in hand, but it was empty. Still, it felt good to hold it. He liked the feel of glass, albeit hollow, under his fingertips and against his palm. It wasn't like holding her, but a damn sight better than a lot of other things.

Baby, he'd tell her, if she was around, you know I'm sorry, Jesus effing Christ I'm sorry.

She didn't like it when he swore and used JC together. Still, that's how he felt, so effing sorry. Then he smiled – she'd nearly purged the fucking F word from his vocabulary. Nearly, he sighed.

He tried for another sip, but not even a hint of liquid landed on his tongue. "Shit." He stood, stretched, then peered through the shrouded window, the curtain thin and frayed, but still as thick as lead, as if he was Superman, what she used to call him after a long night of... He sighed again. He still loved her, Christ, would it ever stop?

A breeze blew, cooling the back of his neck, sweat having collected as he'd sat on the porch, thinking about her, grasping that empty bottle, which was still in his hand. He set it down, next to the side of the house, then he took three steps away from the window, toward the front door. She had changed the goddamned locks, that stupid... He stopped, the wind cooling more than his neck. Temper, temper, he inhaled, so wishing for a drop of beer.

But not one speck remained; he couldn't even inhale anything, well, especially not with the bottle on the porch by her bedroom window and him a foot from the locked front door. He couldn't even get inside the fucking house, that goddamned...

_Hush your mouth_ rang in his head. _Stop that kinda talk, you hear me?_

He glared at an imaginary figure whose authentic tone calmed his forked tongue. Only she did this to him, only she made him feel so...

The engine's roar caught him out; he hadn't expected to be there when she got home. But if that was true, why had he been loitering on her porch? He didn't look at her, hearing the engine die, the car door open, then slam shut. He was looking at the empty bottle. She would stare at him first, but as soon as she was close enough, that effing empty beer bottle...

"What're you doing here?" she yelled, halfway to the house.

He sighed, then glanced at her. Goddamnit but she looked good – tight jeans, high heels, a low-cut top covered by a sheer blouse that didn't conceal everything. She had lost a couple of pounds, but all it had done was hollow out her cheeks a little, which made her look a bit tired. Or maybe it was from being on her feet all day.

"I was just..."

"Drinking on my goddamn front porch." She reached the steps, but came no closer. "Do I need to call the fucking cops?"

He wanted to smile. Her language was no better than his, but if he smiled, she'd get even more pissed. He frowned instead. "Go ahead, call 'em. I don't give a fucking shit..."

She pointed at him. "Don't you talk to me that way!"

"What way?" Now anger flared; he hated it when she waved her hand at him, and he really hated it when she pointed at him like he wasn't a man but a misbehaving child or a dog.

"You know damn well what way." She crossed her arms, like putting away a sword. He inhaled, thankful those weapons were laid down, also grateful for another cool breeze. Not that it calmed her fury, as she tapped her foot. But he felt better.

Sometimes, even when she was irate, he felt okay. It was from how she tried not to irritate him. She was like that sometimes – sometimes she didn't mean to make him so mad.

Then she pulled out her key. It was a new key, not that it shone, but he had tried his, no luck. She dangled hers like a red flag.

He longed for the wind, or a smile. Even if she flashed that _I'll get you asshole_ smile, at least she was grinning at him. If she was grinning, and not pointing her finger, half the battle was won.

And she knew it too. She sighed, stopped tapping her foot, then dropped her hand, holding the key at her side. She looked defeated, which pierced him. She was beautiful, also depleted, because he was there; she had to face changing the locks in front of him. She had been threatening to do it for years, and she finally had, and hadn't told him. Now she was telling him, that somewhat shiny key all the words necessary.

He said nothing, no words like no more beer. But he sighed, a language all its own. Peevish inhalations and weary exhalations were code for _I'm sorry_ , _Why'd you do that_ , _I don't give a shit anymore_ , _Fuck you_. _Get the fuck outta my house_ had turned into _I'm the only one with a key_.

Well, her sister probably had one too. But he didn't.

He didn't have a key, maybe Glenda didn't have one either. She and Glenda were always bitching at each other, behind their backs or right to their faces, just like she did with him. But that key, glistening in the late afternoon sun, was more like a brick up his head. His face hurt on both sides, one for finding his key didn't work anymore, the other for the new key still tight in her hand.

"So, you gonna stand there all day?" she said, resignation in her tone.

"Dunno." Which was the truth; he didn't have any other place to go.

"Well shit." She nearly pointed at him, but stopped herself. Her shoulders slumped, the key almost falling from her grasp. He stared at that key, an interloper. Then he heard a strange sound, as if she had cried _uncle_.

Tears were rolling down her cheeks. "What?" she said, sounding eleven or twelve, just when girls don't want anyone, especially adults, to see them lose control.

"What what?" he said, trying not to stare at her, but failing.

"You know the fuck what." She so badly wanted to wipe her face; she hated crying.

"Lemme come in, we can talk."

"Oh sure," she laughed, brushing the back of her left hand against her cheek like shooing an errant fly. "You'll just come back in and..."

"Baby, shit. I'm sorry. How many goddamn times you want me to say it?"

"Don't you fucking swear at me!"

"Christ," he muttered. "Okay, I'm sorry. Look..."

She started to point again and he wanted to knock her hand down, wanted to twist that arm behind her until she did cry _uncle_. He wanted to...

Die. Hurting her again, even in his head, was like killing himself. "Fuck it." His voice wasn't loud, but it wasn't quiet. He walked to the far end of the porch, past the beer bottle and her bedroom window, from where he had seen the sun rise countless times. Reaching the edge of the porch, he jumped off, less than a foot to the ground as the yard wasn't level, rising on that side of the property.

"Where you going?" she hollered.

He turned her way. "What's it matter to you? You changed the..." He almost said _fucking lock_. "The front door lock. What do you care where I'm going, huh?"

She glared at him, her full lips trembling. Then she shoved the key in her jeans' pocket, crossed her arms, marching his way. "Don't you walk away from me when I'm..."

"What, huh? When you're what?"

By now she was two feet away, smelling like perm solution and hair dye and sweat. Those three together made him weak; she could knock him down with one touch of her hand.

And she knew it, raising a hand his way. But she didn't strike him, instead reaching for his grimy face. She traced around his eyes as her lips quivered again, then her voice emerged, soft and curious and generous. "When did you eat last or..." She cracked a thin smile. "Bathe?"

Weeks, months, years he thought. "It's been a few days."

"Uh-huh." She nodded as she said this. Then she wiped away stray tears. "So, you hungry?"

"A little."

"Mmmhmm." She brushed away more tears. "And probably thirsty, although..." She gazed back to the house. He knew she was looking at that beer bottle.

"Listen, you're tired. I'll get outta your hair."

All day she did perms and colors, cuts and blow dry's. She nodded, as if he was right, but her mouth trembled again, as if he was wrong. "I've got some leftover spaghetti," she mumbled. Then she cleared her throat. "Was gonna have it tonight, take the rest tomorrow for lunch. It's pretty dried out, but..."

His stomach rumbled loudly. She started to giggle as he looked at the ground, which was just dirt. She wore heels; they were hard on her feet, but she wore them anyways.

He wasn't easy on her either, but... "Well, if you don't mind, I mean..."

"I wouldn't have asked if I minded."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't have."

It was quiet for more than a minute, but not quite two. Then she sighed. "Look, you can get a shower while I heat it up. I think some of your clothes are still in the..."

She was crying as she spoke, as he nodded, then as she led him back to the house. She was still wiping her face when he got out of the bathroom, the scent of spaghetti sauce in the air. And she was still sniffling as he lay beside her naked, caressing her soft skin. His calloused fingers didn't seem to hurt her, although they had in the past. She seemed more bothered by his bony frame, or maybe his few words, which were spoken gently and repeatedly all night as they made love. "I'm sorry baby, I'm so sorry."

"I know," she warbled, still wiping her face with the back of her hand.
He's Among Angels

Recently my two sisters

have mentioned our brother,

who has been dead for

going on sixteen years.

He was younger to one

older than another

younger than me

but then I'm the eldest –

they're all my junior.

But that those two sisters

just happened to mention him

within two weeks of each other

is the sort of thing

that means something.

But what?

He's been dead

since autumn 1997

which now is a while ago.

Not _a long time_

but not _only just_.

He's been gone for most of my youngest daughter's lifetime

although she remembers

sledding with him

in December 1996

in Britain.

She was four, he was twenty-four.

Less than a year later

he was gone.

Now in 2013

1996 and 1997

aren't quite ancient history

but I don't think about those days,

unless someone brings it up.

We had just moved to Yorkshire

in the spring of 1996

and while both of my brothers shared our first English Christmas

only one visited in 1997

and again in 1999.

But in 2013

that's been years ago.

Now it's water under the bridge

(unless someone mentions it).

Yet, thinking about it

(about him),

what does it mean

to consider a life

water under the bridge?

Does it mean I didn't love him,

that I've blocked him out,

forgotten him...

No.

It means

I've moved on

(not without tears and gnashing of teeth).

It means

I accept that

shit happens

but good things too

(Romans 8:28).

It means...

Sometimes people are lost along the way.

It also means I have four siblings

three living

one dead.

I can't hack him off

like a diseased limb

(although at the end

he was a mess).

I also can't

bring myself to mourn him endlessly.

But that sounds callous,

as if he meant nothing.

He meant a great deal

yet in that absence

his life has taken on

a deeper meaning

exacerbating

how fragile

we all are.

It's a wonder

any of us

manages

to make it

one more single day.

But some of us

were meant

for longer distances

to be traversed;

the elder of those two sisters

posed this query –

what would he be doing

if he had lived

(if he hadn't taken himself out)?

Would he be ranching with Dad

would he be...

I smiled, but

said nothing of significance.

He was an insulin-dependent diabetic and

a meth addict.

If he hadn't

died when he did

it was just a matter of time.

Yet she spoke

of his death

like it was a freak car accident

or that lightning had struck him,

like he was as firm on his feet

as the rest of us.

Her questions

revealed more about her

than the answer she was

rhetorically seeking.

She's not a sentimental type,

she can be hard as nails.

But the loss of a little brother,

no matter how fucked-up he was,

tends to leave lasting scars.

Tender were her inquiries

made while walking around a mall

as if that site

was innocuous enough

to bring it up at all.

My reply was pithy,

like our location,

the perfect setting to say

he wasn't meant to live long

like he'd wasted years

as a mall rat.

She took it without incident;

maybe she just needed to say it

and the surroundings were

safe.

Easy to bring up the black sheep of the family

far away from home

at a mall.

Easy to think about him

with many years

dangling in the interim.

Then out of the blue

less than two weeks later

my other sister,

the youngest of us all,

sent an email

about that brother.

Again I smiled

as if he stood behind

my computer chair

tapping my shoulder

(the little creep).

The gist of her note

wasn't the root –

more was the timing.

It's not that we don't talk about him anymore

but it has been over fifteen years ago.

I don't wax lyrically

about events from

those days –

I'm too busy trying to

sort out life in 2013.

But he wasn't wiped from our

collective memories, he didn't

vanish from existence.

My now nearly twenty-one-year-old

still recalls that day in the

English snow

at the top

of a small hill.

She sat in front of him,

held tightly,

then was told –

_Here we go_.

She just mentioned this,

but it came on the heels

of me sharing the elder of her two aunts' queries.

Yet, even my not-so-baby girl

recalls that uncle.

Her uncle,

our brother,

still deader than hell

(the little bastard).

I'm not bitter,

just acknowledging

the waste.

Yet, he's not the only one.

And neither are we.

Hearts are broken

all the time.

And many years later

we still think of him,

wondering what he might be doing.

Curious as to the effect of

his life,

but more importantly,

what influence his death

has had on

our lives.

Which brings me

to the crux of this poem:

who I am today

is chalked up to

a myriad of

occurrences

from my entire past.

And hands-down,

like bestowing

a blue ribbon,

my brother's suicide

three days' shy

of his twenty-fifth birthday

is the winner

of the

Life Changes on a Dime

Award.

Meeting my husband

and birthing our children

hold other top honors.

But if I want to be honest,

and I do,

when that beloved little brother

for whatever reason

shot himself in the head

my world turned

from the moment my father called to tell me

in the middle of the night,

UK time.

But while existences

can end

by a bullet

traveling faster

than science can say

other alterations

occur just as quickly.

Not the cessation

of immediate grief

gut-wrenching

and so cold.

Suddenly

as he no longer breathed

my inhalations

had changed,

as if living

for two.

As if all my subsequent

actions

mattered more.

As if I too stood on a precipice

but instead of jumping off the ledge

I stepped up.

Sometimes

in the aftermath

of brutal tragedy

a brighter fire burns.

Yes, I fell some rungs

yes, I wept long and hard.

But years later

he doesn't hurt

(me or himself).

He's alive

(behind veils)

loitering in malls

and in emails.

He's not the agony of old

because seconds aren't static

(thank God).

Thank God I wasn't trapped in

the autumn of 1997 –

he wasn't either,

although he's not ranching with Dad,

or recklessly harming himself.

He's... an angel,

believe it or not.

Well, that's what I think.

How can he not be,

how can he be anything else?

(Romans 8:28)

How else could my usually

emotionally reserved sister

just happen to mention him

at a lousy Southern Californian mall?

How could my youngest sister

who was so devastated

she couldn't even go to his funeral

name her firstborn

for him?

How could I write this

unless I was fully expecting

to catch up with him someday,

flick him upside the head,

then hug the stuffing out of him?

How could any of us

think back to how we learned the news

losing our minds and

our hearts

as a part of our souls

had to be

extricated

without anesthesia

as if on a

battlefield.

Recently my two sisters

mentioned the most

altering moment of our

collective lives.

Sometimes things don't come in threes

and sometimes they do.

This poem is the third,

because as the eldest,

I get the proverbial

last word.

He's an angel,

'nuff said.
Various Little Birds

It's a lost art

like writing letters

or baking bread for daily consumption.

I started stitching

in England

all by accident.

Mum was graduating from university

and I wanted to send her

something special.

She stitched various little birds –

she painted them too,

in watercolours.

But a cross stitching kit

was easier to send through the post.

One such store

was prominent in my

wanderings along the High Street,

just down the hill

from my favourite tea shop.

I spent far more time at Bettys café,

but over the years

that needlepoint store

became like a second home.

The initial introduction had nothing to do with me

or the three children tagging along.

But something about the kits and colours,

especially the colours,

seduced and intoxicated.

All four of us were enchanted

by soft, satiny DMC threads and

old-fashioned samplers that screamed England

where nothing ever changes.

It was fairly early in our

UK sojourn,

as I chose a kit

or two –

I don't recall, although

the subject was birds.

I also purchased

three small kits

one for each child,

all clamoring at me to show them

how to stitch.

I don't remember if the clerk smiled,

perhaps she'd previously seen

how Americans living in Britain

were called to forgotten pastimes

as if castles and abbeys

were still in use,

as if the New World

was still concealed,

or just to when

the sun rose and set upon

the British Empire.

Suddenly, threads and needles were my life.

The children's enthusiasm waned,

although my eldest still has her

scattered projects

that will probably remain unfinished.

But there in Yorkshire,

where I learned to savor tea and the BBC

I began travelling a path forged by

intricate crosses

carefully laid into

Aida cloth.

I stepped into a timeless, magical world

steeped in endless hues

and countless images

which sprang to life

via delicate cotton string,

usually two strands,

sometimes three.

The needles have accumulated,

those large and child-friendly

to DMC 28

which I can no longer thread

due to dodgy eyesight.

But needles, while necessary,

are just the figurative tip of the iceberg.

I have more thread than...

more than I could ever possibly snip into a myriad of lengths

for a plethora of projects.

Blues (which are my favourites), pinks, and greens

yellows, oranges, browns, and purples

in all conceivable shades –

each separate DMC colour rests in a

small plastic bag

hung on a round metal ring.

Rings are sorted

according to lot numbers –

100s, 200s, 300s... you get the picture.

Or maybe you don't –

an entire canvas tote bag

is stuffed with much smaller

clear plastic sacks

each harboring one or several packages of floss.

I have just about every standard hue,

plus special variegated tones

and a host of subtle linen shades

which are stiff

and difficult with which to work.

Needless to say, I possess all the thread

I could ever use.

Floss and needles galore,

but they would be redundant

without the cloth upon which to flesh out

various little birds.

Fowl are Mum's forte –

I prefer samplers

either from an established pattern

or my vivid imagination.

I've stitched a variety of images

from tractors, deer, and fishing accoutrements for Dad

to a panda and dolphins for my two youngest kids.

The eldest daughter received a sampler

done in a flower motif

bordered by small multicoloured butterflies,

a piece I worked out myself,

with just a little assistance from

a big book of designs.

I've stitched English cottages and Jesus Christ,

teapots and Mackintosh roses and best friends gazing at the sea.

Recently I made a leap into linen,

previously only employed

for small bookmarks.

That eldest daughter moved house,

earning herself and the new husband

a sampler celebrating

the best beverage in the entire world

(tea).

I hadn't stitched in several years,

accessories gathered in bags and a

large wicker basket

stuck in the corner of the lounge,

near a big coal bucket

we brought back with us to America.

Like souvenirs, all that stuff crowded the hearth of a

fake fireplace

like ghosts of

eleven years' worth of

rain, bangers and mash,

and Yorkshire puddings.

Of tea and scones and double cream,

granary bread and the most delicious

strawberries and carrots I have ever eaten.

All those remnants unable to be transported across the ocean

sat amidst threads and needles or

swirled inside the empty coal bucket

waiting for California's shine to wear off

this native of the Golden State.

Writing takes up plenty of my time

but it's not the only distraction.

Clearing a space on my worktable,

I hauled all those unframed tapestries,

the bag of floss, needles, and British cross stitching magazines,

making an inventory.

Did I actually bring all this back,

was I truly that much of a stitcher?

Perhaps I'd forgotten

all the days and nights

as rain poured down windowpanes,

as the AGA constantly radiated heat

into an otherwise cold kitchen,

as the BBC aired various programmes

sans commercial interruptions.

But at one point,

not all that long ago,

this was my lifeblood

in cotton colours

and Aida cloth.

Before the writing blossomed.

I was telling stories in stitches

placed as succinctly as language.

Tapestries conveyed tales of their own,

for where kits were purchased

to how I chose unrelated designs

to form a greater whole.

But a few things have changed,

in addition to using the more temperamental linen.

My eyesight has indeed deteriorated;

I can't hold a project as closely as before.

My arms stretch at a different angle, but

I'm not as young as I used to be.

I'm not yet as old as Mum was

when completing uni,

what started all this cross stitching drama.

But no longer am I 31, 32, 33.

I'm transitioning from

my mid-forties

into my late-forties –

one of these days I'll be the

gran sitting in the lounge,

fashioning various little birds.

It won't occur in my beloved Great Britain.

But as it comes to pass

I hope to entice my grandchildren,

when eventually they arrive,

with a lost art.

I'll teach them the wonder of actual correspondence,

we'll bake many loaves of bread.

And when those tasks are finished

we'll gather on the sofa

or at a table

strewn with small slips of

large-holed Aida cloth

and big needles

easy for little fingers to grasp.

Maybe they'll have trouble threading their needles,

I probably will too.

But with each X made,

a picture will emerge,

another generation gripped by an ancient craft.

And as we stitch,

stories will unravel

about tea and rain

and of various little birds

forever flying on Great-Grandma's walls

all the way from Yorkshire, England.
The Todd Lambert Special

The morning was cool, with a slight breeze from the west. Tommie Smith stood on his front porch, taking a deep breath. It smelled like rain, but being it was Oregon, many days carried that damp, earthy scent.

Tommie went back inside and started the coffee. As his wife Rae shuffled to the bathroom, Tommie got out another mug. A few minutes passed, then Rae joined him, walking slowly with a cane in her right hand. Tommie mumbled _good morning_ , and Rae nodded. She sat at the table as Tommie brought them each a cup of black coffee. Then he sat across from her.

For ten minutes neither spoke, which was odd in that Rae could talk a streak, her booming voice not having lost much of its spark, even for her age. It was age that kept them hushed, age and death and reality. Not that Todd Lambert was a part of the family, or not by blood. But then, within this clan, blood counted for so little. Todd was a part of them due to... Tommie smiled. "I hope they buried him with a few spliffs for the road."

Rae nodded thoughtfully, tapping the top of her cane.

Tommie sipped from the edge of his mug. Then he smiled. "I can see the kids now, shaking their heads, thinking that'd be a waste. You could make a batch of pound cake instead, send him off with a real tribute. But damnit, Todd should get to take a few joints with him."

Rae kept quiet, which bothered Tommie. She'd been hushed since the middle of last week, when Todd died suddenly of a stroke. They had just seen him the week before, at the family barbecue, and he looked fine, that thin gray ponytail not tucked into the back of his collar. He had spent most of the evening speaking with Sam and Jenny Cassel, whose son Eric had taken over for Todd, at least within this family. Todd had grown the best medicinal weed within Oregon's Willamette Valley, probably some of the best pot in the whole state. Of course, it wasn't for just anyone's use; it was for Rae and Jenny, and whoever else needed a healing boost.

But since last week, Rae had barely had a toke, nor had she baked any pound cake. Not that she cooked like she used to; she had just turned seventy-five a few days before Todd passed away. But Tommie knew it wasn't another birthday to quiet his wife. And it wasn't all about Todd dying either, but that was a notable chunk of her mood.

He gazed at her cane, then into her tired gray eyes. He wouldn't say anything that early in the morning, he might not mention it for another day or three. Todd's funeral had just taken place yesterday, quite a crowd for the seventy-six-year-old. Few Lamberts had been there, most of the mourners were Smiths and Cassels. It hadn't been the kind of service that called for black suits and ties; Todd Lambert wasn't the sort to demand fuss and feathers. That it had been held at the local Catholic Church was as elaborate as it got, and Tommie still hoped three or four joints had been waiting in the casket. Todd deserved a proper send-off.

Most mornings Tommie woke with one ache or another, but he refrained from getting high. Abstinence had been a hard-fought battle, with a few spills along the road. Only if he got a terminal disease would Tommie light up, or indulge in his wife's famous chocolate pound cake. Everyone in Linn County quietly raved about Rae's specialty, which according to Rae had changed a little when Todd handed over the cultivating duties. It was sweeter now, and certainly more potent. How one variety of weed could be sweeter than another, Tommie wasn't certain. As for the strength of the herb...

Tommie smiled, then finished his coffee. He poured another cup, then glanced at his wife. Rae wasn't even half-done with her first mug.

She didn't meet his gaze, but nodded her head. So many years they had been married, and while the last few had been filled with great-grandchildren, death was never far away. It had steered clear of their inner circle, but Todd was like one of the family, and if nothing else, there weren't too many old-timers left. If not for all of Tommie's clan, the church would have been nearly empty, but kids had jostled amid the priest's solemn words. Tommie had been glad for the buzz, it reaffirmed that life continued. Others Tommie had loved, then lost, were probably helping Todd get acclimated to where joints weren't necessary, although God probably wouldn't mind if they all lit up right before St. Peter led Todd through the pearly gates.

Tommie nearly chuckled, then he sighed. Down here, where physical ailments were prevalent, it was the women to suffer. Rae hated her cane, but it was better than a walker, or God forbid, a chair like Jenny's. Yet, pot kept Jenny on her feet most of the time, and it had done wonders for Rae's bad leg, the injury a remnant of childhood polio. Tommie glanced back at his wife, who was dabbing her eyes with a napkin. Soon enough Rae would have a good cry, but that would be behind their closed bedroom door, long after the last great-grandchild had said goodnight. And once that was over, Tommie hoped that Rae's recent malaise would lift. Life and death intermingled, no way to get around it.

Tommie spent most of that morning checking the cows. When he came in at ten, Rae was on the phone, probably with Jenny, from the sounds of the conversation. Tommie poured more coffee, but didn't sit. The women were jawing about Thursday's lunch, which according to Rae would be chicken soup. Tommie sighed inwardly; that meant Rae would be on her feet for much of tomorrow, her cane set aside. Rae had only been using the cane since spring, when Jenny was bedridden from a bad flare-up of her multiple sclerosis. Jenny was better now, although she had been in her wheelchair at the funeral, at her husband Sam's insistence. Rae hadn't said anything about that chair, nor did she speak much about Jenny's walker. But a walker was looming for Rae, and probably not too far off in the future. While Jenny had accepted her illness's demands, Rae had fought accessories tooth and nail.

Tommie never chided his wife, for only in that manner had she balked. It had taken ages for them to get Jenny to try cannabis, yet Rae had first used beer, then weed, to remove the edge. But self-medication was one thing, equipment was another. Rae hadn't permitted a ramp to be built at their farmhouse, nor did she allow hand rails installed along the toilet or in their shower. Tommie didn't fear she would slip, only because if he did, he would then worry about another dozen possible scenarios in which Rae might lose her balance, then break a hip. If she broke her hip...

Tommie inhaled, still smelling that dampness from the morning. He sniffed again, but didn't note the distinctive whiff of pot that permeated his kitchen when Rae got high, or every few months when she and their daughters made a batch of cannabutter for Rae to bake with. The scent was new to Tommie, and not altogether pleasant. It was change, he realized, as Rae shifted from foot to foot, trying to ease her sore leg.

"All right honey, we'll see you and Sam tomorrow." Rae huffed slightly, only because she was tired of standing. She hung up the phone, then gripped the counter, gazing for her cane, her good right leg taking the brunt of her weight.

Tommie brought the stick to his wife, but didn't say anything, as Rae noted that the Cassels were bringing dessert. Tommie nodded as Rae grasped the cane's handle with as much force as Jenny gripped her walker. Change was indeed afoot in the Smith household, but perhaps Rae wouldn't fight it the way Jenny had bristled about smoking pot.

Two days later, Sam and Jenny came for lunch. For many years, Tommie and Rae had gone to the Cassels every Thursday for the noon meal. But when Jenny got her walker, Rae had insisted that the location change. Tommie hadn't missed how Rae took umbrage at Jenny's decline, and once Rae made up her mind, there was no changing it.

To Rae, it was silly for Sam to make lunch, but left unstated was that for the last several years, Jenny had stopped making her usual contributions to the August barbecue and other family functions. Sam fixed the potato salad and baked the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies with assistance from many grandchildren. Sam was seven years younger than Tommie, and he'd gotten a much later start on fatherhood. As Tommie bobbed great-grandchildren on his aged knees, Sam was still gathering grandsons and granddaughters onto his lap.

But those years mattered not to Rae, who had assumed the Thursday luncheon duties early in 2011. Now in September of 2013, it was like Sam and Jenny had always been coming to Tommie's. Maybe that was due to how this house still hosted a raft of familial get-togethers. As they sat for chicken soup and crackers, Tommie considered the recent barbecue; everyone had been there, even the farthest flung members. The grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren, were usually split at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, but every Smith and Cassel came together in summer. Thinking about the recent reunion, Tommie laughed out loud, and three faces turned his way.

"What in the world's gotten into you?" Jenny asked.

"You realize everybody was at the reunion?" Tommie squeezed Jenny's hand, then smiled at Sam. "Even Todd. We're gonna remember that party for a long, long time."

Tommie then considered that it was also the first barbecue where Sam and Jenny did not dance together. They had gracefully excused themselves, while their children and Tommie's twirled all across Tommie's front lawn.

It had been a night full of reminiscing, but two weeks later, Todd was dead. Yet, as Sam smiled, grasping his wife's hand, the better memories prevailed. "You're right, farmer," Sam said, finishing his soup. "I'll remember that night until I can't anymore."

Rae rolled her eyes as Jenny chuckled. Jenny then she steered the conversation to some of the newest Smith descendants. As Rae started talking about great-grandchildren, Tommie observed his wife; her demeanor hadn't picked up since Todd's funeral, but chatting about toddlers lifted her. Jenny mentioned that her youngest daughter was starting to hint about having another baby, and that Eric and his wife were thinking similar thoughts, which was news to Tommie. He spooned a last bite of soup as the women began to laugh.

Once lunch was finished, Tommie and Sam took all the empty soup bowls to the sink. The women were still jawing about their descendants, but Tommie wasn't quite ready for dessert. Sam stepped out of Tommie's back kitchen door, and Tommie followed, the day bright and warm. Yet Tommie felt chilled, and he wondered if Sam had picked up on his mood. Maybe Todd's passing was hard on all of them, and perhaps for Jenny and Sam it was most difficult. Since Jenny's multiple sclerosis was diagnosed, Todd had become a part of their circle, although often staying on the outskirts, just like he'd lived his whole life about a mile and a half out of Arkendale, down a deserted lane, in an old trailer. His isolation had initially been to thwart law enforcement, but over the years, Todd had preferred the solitude, breached only by those in need. Tommie had approached Todd first, not long before Jenny fell ill. Rae's nightly beers had stopped easing her pain, and Tommie had wondered if pot might do the trick.

Just over the last couple of years had Todd accepted Tommie's invitation to the barbecue, at about the same time Sam's youngest son had started growing weed. It was relatively legal for Eric to do so, on behalf of his mother and her medical marijuana card. He didn't till a big patch, just enough for Jenny and Rae to smoke, and for Rae to bake with. Todd had wanted to cut back on his clients, and Eric had the time, when not busy helping his dad with their apple orchard. Tommie had smiled when learning of the handover; it was in Eric's genes to be a tiller of the land, even if cannabis was the crop.

Tommie didn't know who was taking over the rest of Todd's exploits; those sorts of questions weren't important, not when compared with the women Tommie and Sam loved. The men kept glancing at the kitchen, and finally Tommie spoke. "Jenny doing okay?"

Sam sighed. "Yeah, but it's strange. She never had any deep love for Todd, but his death hit her hard, or harder than I expected. Rae seems the same."

"Yeah, I can't say she loved him either." Tommie smiled. "But she respected him. I suppose at the end, that's something."

Sam thrust hands into his pockets. "Gonna be weird, not seeing him around. Not too many of us left, you know."

"Oh now Sam, you're barely seventy." Tommie grinned, then kicked the ground with his boot. "But you're right, not gonna see that long ponytail blowing in the wind anymore."

The only hint to their youth was that slender gray braid that had dangled from the back of Todd's head, often tucked into his collar. Yet, his marijuana use hadn't all been for personal relaxation. Initially Todd had started growing pot to ease the suffering of his sister Brenda, who had died of multiple sclerosis before she reached thirty years of age.

Tommie shivered; Sam and Jenny would gain a few more grandchildren before it was all said and done, but if Jenny lived another eight or ten years, Tommie would be giving thanks. He rarely thought about it so blatantly, but she had been confined to bed for much of spring, not even pot alleviating her aches. That was when Rae finally agreed to use a cane, accepting that while she wasn't as spry as before, at least she could still get around on two feet and one stick.

But a walker was waiting, because once Rae acquiesced to a cane, it was as if her bad leg had grown weaker. After Sam and Jenny left, Rae would smoke a joint, then take a long nap. She might wake for dinner, but Tommie would spend much of the day by himself, which wasn't altogether bad. There were cows to check, perhaps a visit from one of his kids, or from one of Sam's kids. Tommie saw as much of the Cassels as he did his own. Living just a couple hundred yards down from Sam was part of it. That these two families had been in each other's back pockets for nearly forty years was another. Then Tommie stared at Sam, saw the same ideas on his face. And the least favorable one, that these two men might be living alone in their farmhouses one day while the women they loved were up smoking joints with Todd Lambert and the rest.

"There's nothing we can do about it," Sam said, as if having read Tommie's mind. Sam scuffed his foot against the dirt, then wandered toward the barn. Barring some unfortunate accident, it was going to be Jenny or Rae next. And to Tommie, who thought of Jenny as his sister, he wasn't quite sure which would cut him the deepest.

There was no question, however, for Sam. "There might not be too much time left." Sam's voice cracked, then he gazed at Tommie. "She says she doesn't think she can use the walker anymore. Says the chair is easier."

Sam cleared his throat, then coughed. "She says if Rae needs it, well, best to keep it in the family."

Tommie nodded, noticing how Sam couldn't utter his wife's name in conjunction with this information. Jenny hadn't looked particularly weary at the barbecue, but that she and Sam hadn't danced together had been telling. No one had said anything aloud, but later Tommie had mentioned it to his daughters. He hadn't said anything about it to Rae.

"Can Eric do something, I mean..." Then Tommie sighed. Pot wouldn't heal Jenny, but it kept her feeling good, and fuzzy. But she had decided it was better to be light-headed than constantly stuck in bed. "Is she really gonna give up the walker?"

"She's telling Rae right now. And she's hoping Rae will take it, God knows she could use it. She gonna get high after we leave?"

Sam wore a small smile, which roused Tommie's. "I bet she's already broke out the goods. By now they're both probably three sheets to the wind."

Sam's ensuing laugher was honest, and it stirred some relief in Tommie. Only Jenny would be able to convince Rae to use a walker, but Rae had twisted Jenny's arm about trying pot. Her Todd Lambert special, Rae had called that batch of chocolate pound cake that Jenny had been tricked into tasting. Now Rae also baked it in cookie bars, and at Christmas she made a fruitcake that was shared only between a few. But while chocolate pound cake possessed the most medicinal properties, even that enhanced dessert wasn't enough to halt an illness that in all likelihood would separate Sam from the woman he loved.

Tommie blinked away tears, then nodded. "Well, about time to get us an oatmeal cookie, doncha think?"

"Yeah, the grandkids helped me bake them yesterday when they got done with school." Sam smiled, wiping the corners of his eyes. He listed names Tommie knew well, a growing brood who would never recall Grandma Jenny taking that task, but at least she was still here, even if it meant spending the rest of her life seated in a wheelchair. Tommie let that idea slip away as he and Sam reached the house, hearing their wives cackling like two old hens as the familiar scent of pot wafted through the back screen door.

Two days later, Rae was standing behind Jenny's walker, and less than a week after that she was actually quite capable with the contraption, as she called it, negotiating Sam and Jenny's kitchen at Sam's seventieth birthday party. Rae directed the kitchen traffic, gripping the sides of the walker like a general. By the time dinner was eaten, she was seated, gabbing with her daughters and nieces. She had been much like her old self, bossy and slightly acerbic. And everyone was glad to see her that way.

Those most pleased were Tommie, Sam, and Jenny, who chatted with their relations in the living room amid wobbly toddlers and swift youngsters, who nimbly weaved around those elders. Tommie smiled, gripping Jenny's hand. She had used the wheelchair exclusively since speaking with Rae, but while Rae had graciously taken to her walker, Jenny was having a harder time no longer being vertical.

Tommie saw it in her cloudy brown eyes, and the way her shoulders slumped. She was trying to hide it, especially on Sam's birthday, and maybe from most she had. Tommie stood, then got behind her chair. "Gonna take Grandma here for a little stroll."

Sam nodded, fully aware of the toll the chair exacted. "Well, don't be too long, or Rae'll make a fuss."

Tommie smiled. "Won't be more than two shakes of a lamb's tail." He wheeled Jenny from that corner, then past kids calling for both of them. Then Tommie maneuvered through the open front door. They took the ramp all the way to the grass, which was covered in children's toys. Then Tommie inhaled the heady scent of roses, and he smiled, thinking about others that had at one time graced this house with their presence. Tommie swallowed hard, not wishing to think of Jenny amid those who no longer stood on this farm, within that house, next to him. Tommie walked to where he faced Jenny, then on aged, creaky knees he knelt in front of her. Tears pooled along her cheeks, reaching her jaw, where Tommie caught them with his wrinkled hand.

They didn't speak, but he knew her thoughts. After so many years, he knew her nearly as well as Sam did. Then Tommie felt a piercing ache in his chest. Only this woman's death might bring him to get drunk. Rae's passing wouldn't, which didn't make him feel guilty. But Jenny, and all she had suffered before reaching this farm, when she died... Tommie inhaled, then let it out slowly. "How's it going honey?"

Her smile was weak, then she snorted, much in the manner Rae did. "You know Tommie, I'm just not sure anymore."

The chill started at his spine, traveling all through him. He wasn't at death's door, but Tommie would be seventy-seven before Christmas, and here was Jenny, a decade younger, talking about... "Honey, I don't know what to tell you."

"Stand up before you fall over," she smiled. "Then take me over to the roses."

Tommie grinned, then chuckled, glad to get back, albeit slowly, on his feet. He stepped behind her, then pushed with some force, reaching grooves that had been worn in the grass. The path led right to the fence, where a winding ribbon of roses in a variety of shades had grown for over thirty years. The aroma was powerful, also healing.

"Help me up," Jenny said. "I wanna stand for a minute, about all I can manage."

Tommie came to her side, hoisting her shaky frame. Her legs were weak, her hips aching, which he could tell from how she trembled, and from her tears. She took shuffling steps to the biggest plant, drenched in creamy yellow blooms. Then she leaned toward the largest flower. She took a long sniff and smiled. "I told him not to plant any after I'm gone. God, can you imagine how long that would take, and what this place would smell like afterwards?"

Her voice was light, also honest. And like Sam, Jenny didn't use her spouse's name in relaying this unpleasant information. Tommie nodded, then cleared his throat. "Whatever you want honey."

She gazed at him, then stroked his cheek. "I told him I didn't want him to suffer. I can take a lot, but Tommie, he, he's..."

That they had discussed this topic made Tommie crave a beer, three or four of them actually, then another six-pack to boot. Then he smiled. In the old days, that would have just dulled the edge. Now that much alcohol would put him six feet under.

That's what she meant; Tommie knew that as sure as standing. And bless Rae's heart, but this woman here was the best of her gender. Tommie loved Rae, but Jenny meant more.

When she died, he might just get plastered, he and Sam both, along with a collection of their sons and grandsons, and a few of the women as well. Or maybe they'd get as stoned as this woman sometimes did, alongside Tommie's wife, just to function. Sometimes Jenny and Rae were higher than kites simply to manage one more day.

"Honey, that's a good ways away, I mean..."

"It's not as many days as you think."

He stared at her, then wiped away the last of her tears. "Yeah?"

She motioned to the chair, and he helped her to get seated. She sighed. "I told him I didn't wanna live constantly in bed, out of my head. When it gets to that point, it won't be me anymore."

Tommie's stomach rolled. He gazed at Jenny, her face still dotted with freckles, just like when he'd met her nearly four decades ago. But time stood still for no one.

"Hey you two," Sam called from the front porch. "Rae says it's about time for cake."

Tommie nodded, then forced a smile. Sam's face was hard to read, but distance played a part, also the grandchildren tugging on both of Sam's hands. Sam's voice was light, but as Jenny sniffled, Tommie heard a different message in Sam's tone.

"Tell her we're on our way," Tommie called.

Sam nodded, then headed back inside, as kids hollered for their uncle and grandmother to hurry.

Over the next few days, Tommie pondered Jenny's request, wondering how Sam felt about it. Tommie also wondered if they had actually spoken those sentiments, words that near the roses Jenny hadn't had time to say. She'd had just enough time to release the idea, which hit Tommie like a sledgehammer whenever he went to the Cassels that autumn. That autumn Tommie felt Jenny's unstated appeal with each aromatic breath taken.

Walking through his own pastures, Tommie considered Jenny's passing; it would signal the end of an era, yet, no one lived forever. Still, just thinking about it made Tommie's flesh crawl. If Jenny was gone...

He didn't imagine her falling into a severe decline immediately, but the stark truth remained; she didn't want to live in a fuzzy twilight, incapacitated in bed. He knew why; it would remind her of that helpless, futile existence that had only been broken when she left home at seventeen. Her father had threatened to divorce her mother, and take Jenny with him. The idea of such carnal brutality had made Jenny flee with little more than the clothes on her back. No matter how much she loved her husband, their children, and grandkids, or even him, her brother separated at birth, Jenny Cassel couldn't live as a shell of herself again.

Blinking away tears, Tommie removed his glasses, then took an old handkerchief from his back pocket. He wiped his eyes, then blew his nose, gazing toward his farmhouse. Rae had been baking since lunch, and Tommie smiled, wondering how many loaves of chocolate pound cake now lined the counters, maybe some lemon pound cake too, what he enjoyed, as well as their grandkids and the rest. Tommie sighed, then felt a spark in the center of his chest. There had to be something Eric could do, Eric or... Tommie shook his head, scattered _moo's_ ringing throughout the field. Rae could bake all the damned pound cake she wanted, but at the end of the day, all it did was alleviate symptoms. What Jenny needed was more than relief measures.

When Tommie stepped through the back kitchen door, most of the chocolate pound cake was wrapped up, the cookie bars too. A slice of lemon cake was waiting on a plate, the sweet citrus scent leading Tommie to his chair at the kitchen table. Rae didn't ask about the cows, but she gently tapped her foot. Tommie took a bite, then smiled at her. "Well, you left it here. I'll eat my dinner too you know."

She sat across from him, then cracked her knuckles. "You need to leave this to the expert."

"Leave what?"

"You know what. Why do you think I was baking all day, to fill your face?"

He took a sip of decaf coffee that had also been waiting for him, then he stared at her. Gray irises were similar in color to Sam's, but weren't as wary. Then Rae rolled her eyes. "I was talking to Jenny's girls today, said they'd been investigating all sorts of MS remedies, and I told them the same thing I'm telling you. Let me sort this out."

"What, you gonna bake some super-stoner pound cake that's gonna make MS disappear?"

Rae snorted, then stole the corner from Tommie's slice. "Like I said, you just leave this to me."

Tommie sat back, then gazed at her. Rae could bake pot into a variety of goodies, but it wasn't how she employed the weed. Eric had learned plenty from Todd, but cannabis couldn't heal multiple sclerosis.

Rae snorted, as if she'd been reading Tommie's mind. "You men, think you're so goddamned superior. You don't know anything about making pound cake. Shit, you're not good for much more than..."

"Making babies," Tommie teased.

Rae's left eyebrow shot up. "Who's pregnant?"

"Well, nobody yet. But..." He reiterated the desires of the two youngest Cassel kids, which Rae had forgotten. That made her smile. Then she stared at Tommie's lemon pound cake. She pinched off another corner, popping it in her mouth, humming as she ate. Then she slowly stood, grabbing her walker, moving to the stove where her recipe box waited.

Tommie chuckled as she thumbed through to the back, where those special concoctions were noted. Copies were stashed at their daughters' houses, with Jenny's girls too, as if chocolate pound cake was a national secret. Tommie knew the ingredients; instant chocolate pudding and chocolate cake mixes, plenty of eggs, hot water, and cannabutter. Chocolate was best for baking, for it concealed the small hint of green that permeated the butter. Rae always made fruitcake at Christmas, which was packed with nuts and dried fruits, but still it looked green. Sometimes she made it on St. Patrick's Day, just for laughs. Only those with a strong constitution enjoyed a piece, but Tommie had never tasted any of his wife's illicit efforts.

Then Tommie stared at what remained of his pound cake. "Did you put something in this?"

"It's not green, is it?" Rae said, tapping her foot.

"Well no, but you seem to like it all right."

Rae turned around, giving him a look. "I like lemon, I always have."

"I know," he smiled. Jenny had been the one to bake with chocolate, until Rae made her first Todd Lambert dessert. "I'm just teasing."

"Humph." Rae returned to the table, the recipe box in hand. She set it down, then took her chair, gazing at Tommie. "Like I said, you leave this to the expert."

Rae pulled a card from the middle of the box and studied it. "What's that one?" Tommie asked.

"Lemon meringue pie," Rae said quietly.

Tommie laughed. "Lemon meringue pie? How in the hell are you gonna get weed into lemon meringue pie?"

But Rae didn't answer. Instead she glared at him, then gazed back at the recipe. Tommie finished the rest of his pound cake, then stood for another cup of decaf. Rae gripped the card, then wiped her eyes, which Tommie missed as he refilled his mug, setting the pot back in the coffeemaker.

Throughout the rest of autumn, Rae baked more lemon meringue pies than pound cake, and often Tommie was shooed away, as well as the rest of Rae's usual assistants. Every Thursday, when Sam and Jenny came for lunch, Rae had a freshly baked pie waiting, and while Tommie and Sam munched on oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, the ladies enjoyed pie, sometimes with cookie bars and thin slices of chocolate pound cake on the side. By Thanksgiving, rumors swirled about that altered lemon meringue recipe. Jenny's improved health and demeanor were proof enough, as well as slices sampled by the rest of Rae's circle. Her giddy daughters all agreed that the pie had been juiced, and not just with ordinary lemons.

Thanksgiving was a small gathering that year, what with various members celebrating with their in-laws. After dinner was served, those in attendance were eager for dessert, and Rae's pie was the main feature. Relatives giggled at white meringue, yellow filling, even the golden crust, which seemed like every other meringue pie Rae had baked. If it had been chocolate, the weed could have been concealed in the pudding base, but no hint of green could be found.

Much teasing ensued, then those with small children made their farewells. Tommie walked those families to where their youngsters were strapped into car seats, then he stepped back as vehicles ambled down his driveway. The night was quiet, and he peered into the sky, stars dotting the darkened heavens. Jenny was indeed feeling better, for which he quietly gave thanks, then he smiled. "What did Rae put in that goddamned pie?" he said aloud, as if beseeching all of those just beyond the veil.

But their collective voices were silent, although Tommie heard faint chuckles. He gazed at his house, seeing Jenny being walked out by his sons, as Sam waited at the bottom of the steps, gripping the handles of her wheelchair. Rae had agreed to a ramp being built, but not to accommodate Rae. It was for Jenny, who was livelier since eating Rae's altered pie.

Tommie met them at Sam's car, then he helped Jenny into her seat while Sam put the chair into the trunk. Tommie wanted to kneel in front of Jenny, but his legs ached. Then Tommie found himself squatting. He wanted to see Jenny's face, even if the only light was from his front porch. Yet, her wide smile was like a shining sun. "Tommie, what?"

Sam was sitting beside her, and he leaned toward his wife. "Tommie, you okay?"

Tommie stroked Jenny's cheek. She was high, yet not in a manner that muddied conscious thought. That night she had been witty, not dulled in a stoned haze. "Honey, you seem..."

Sam's laughter rang through the car's interior. "Tommie, what the hell's in that pie?"

Tommie smiled. "I was just asking Todd the same damned question."

Jenny chuckled. "Well, good luck getting an answer outta him, or any of the rest. Although, maybe God knows."

Tommie nodded. "Yeah, maybe he does. I sure as hell don't. She didn't write it down, 'cause I looked all through her recipe box. She didn't even give it to our girls."

"Well, if they don't have it, it's going with Rae to..." Jenny smiled, then squeezed Tommie's hand. "Only Todd knows what she put into it."

"Todd and Jesus Christ," Tommie grinned. "Now, how the hell am I gonna get back on two feet?"

"Just a minute." Sam got out of the car, then walked to where Tommie crouched. Sam hoisted Tommie aloft, then gave him a hug. "You find out what she put in that pie, I'll give you ten bucks."

"Oh now, that's big money Sam. Shit, I'll start torturing her tonight." Tommie stepped away, letting Sam return to the driver's seat. Then Tommie shut Jenny's door, waving to that couple the short distance down the driveway. Tommie stayed outside, watching as Sam turned left. Then he took a quick right, into their farm. Tommie stared into the twinkling night sky, again asking that question. But no one answered him.

A few weeks later at Tommie's seventy-seventh birthday party, everyone pestered Rae, who rolled her eyes, saying nothing about any illicit ingredients. Lemon meringue pie was served alongside Tommie's cake, and the pie's effects were plain on Jenny and a few others. Even Eric had a slice, and he was helped to the family car as his wife Pru got into the driver's seat. Eric couldn't stop laughing as Tommie said _goodnight_ to them. Pru gave Tommie a look, but Tommie still had no answers for her or anyone else. Rae always made the pie when he was out, and while he had searched all through their kitchen, nothing seemed out of place.

On Christmas, everyone was in attendance, and the weather was similar to temperatures of an August barbecue. Many of the younger members congregated outside, sitting at hastily cleaned picnic tables that Tommie's older grandchildren retrieved from the barn. Tommie visited with those in the front yard, another generation playing hide and seek, but these were Sam and Jenny's grandchildren. Jenny sat in her wheelchair, which was pulled up to the end of a table that had already been staked out by Sam, and Tommie headed their way.

Sam stood, meeting him a few feet from the table, his grin infectious. "She didn't wanna sit inside, said the day was too pretty not to be enjoyed."

Tommie nodded, gazing at Jenny, who smiled at him. Tommie sat next to her and they gabbed for ten minutes, then were joined by Sam and Jenny's offspring and a plethora of little ones. Then all were called inside; dinner was ready.

An hour later Tommie's plate was mostly empty, but the chatter was lively, and so was Jenny. She cuddled small grandchildren on her lap, then all were taken for a spin by Eric. While they were gone, Tommie asked Sam if Jenny had been this well all day, and Sam nodded. She hadn't had a toke that morning, or any pound cake.

Yet now she was ready for dessert, and the adults didn't need to ask what she wanted. Tommie went to fetch the pie, Sam at his side. When they reached the kitchen, Tommie's daughters and oldest granddaughters were busy arranging various treats. Tommie asked for peach cobbler while Sam grabbed two slices of lemon meringue. "One for Jenny and one for me," he said.

"Well, good thing you don't have far to drive home," Tommie smiled.

"It's a damn good thing," Sam chuckled, grabbing two plastic forks. "So how many pies did you make Rae?"

"I made enough," Rae smirked. Then she gave a broad smile.

"Well, I hope one of them is for Jenny and me to take home," Sam teased. "But if there's a big rush, a half will do us."

"One slice will do you," Rae said to Sam.

"You got that right," Sam laughed. "Maybe a sliver, but I'll let you know."

"Well, you just do that," Rae said as those around her giggled.

Sam nodded, then kissed Rae's cheek. Then he slipped out of the kitchen, pie and forks in hand. Tommie watched him go, then gazed at his wife as daughters and granddaughters begged to know what was in the pie. Sam rarely drank, although sometimes he lit up with Jenny, sympathy tokes they joked. But Sam never ate chocolate pound cake, or cookie bars, or Christmas fruitcake. Perhaps he wanted to see if Eric's jovial mood on Tommie's birthday was an isolated case. Or maybe Sam felt that what was good for the goose was good for the gander.

Tommie took one bite of cobbler, catching Rae's gaze. She had made this too, but it wasn't off limits. "Well, as usual, this's the best damned cobbler I've ever had."

"Uh-huh," Rae nodded. "You need some coffee to go with it?"

"Tell you what," Tommie said. "I'll fetch some for Sam and Jenny too."

Rae rolled her eyes. "You won't be able to carry all that." She poured three cups, then set them on a tray. Then she cut a sliver from the lemon meringue, placing it and a cookie bar on a small plate. "Can you take all this?" Rae said, putting his cobbler on the tray next to his mug.

"And who are those goodies for?" Tommie smiled.

"Certainly not for you. Or for Sam. If Jenny needs seconds, well, none of you will have to make an extra trip."

"I'll carry it Dad," one of Tommie's daughters said.

Rae handed over the tray as Tommie stared at her. Rae said nothing more, huffing as she turned to face one of their grandchildren, who asked for dessert.

Right before Tommie went to bed that night, Jenny called. Sam was already snoozing, she chuckled, but she wanted Tommie to thank Rae for the extra pie. Sam had enjoyed another half-slice once they were home, and he had fallen asleep not long afterwards. Tommie had seen Rae wrap up more than half a pie, then hand it to Sam, her eyebrows raised, but no verbal admonitions spoken. If both Sam and Jenny got something out of that dessert, where was the harm?

Where was the harm indeed, Tommie wondered, hanging up the phone in the kitchen, then turning off the light. Jenny's health was vastly improved, and Sam could use a lift too. Jenny's battle with multiple sclerosis had taken a toll on a wife and her husband, and letting down one's hair every now and then wasn't a bad thing.

Tommie locked the front door, then joined his wife, already in bed. Rae spoke about how wonderful it was that everyone had been there. They discussed the plethora of descendants in attendance, also that Sam and Jenny's youngest daughter was expecting a baby next summer. Then Rae had to reach for a Kleenex, blowing her nose, then wiping her eyes. Tommie wondered if that was her way of opening the door to a question he'd set aside, until Rae allowed Sam to take home extra pie. Jenny had only been eating lemon meringue at the Smiths', but maybe it wasn't much different than the chocolate pound cake or cookie bars that Rae sent Jenny's way. Yet, the pie looked exactly as it always had, and Rae had been baking lemon meringue for years. With Jenny's obvious improvement, Tommie had been happy to let his wife keep her little secret, but now all he wanted to know was... "So Rae, I'm only gonna ask you one more time. After tonight, que sera sera, but honey..."

"Nothing Tommie. There's nothing special in it."

Tommie smiled. "Now, don't tell me there's nothing in that pie."

"There isn't. It's the same recipe I've always used."

"Humph. Don't give me that line of bull..."

Rae sat up and glared at him. "Tommie Smith, have I ever lied to you?"

Her tone was hurt, and he winced, for gazing into her eyes, he saw she wasn't being deceitful. Yet, flickers in those gray irises caused him to wonder. "No, you never have, but everyone who's had a slice acts like they're stoned outta their gourds."

"Well, they might act that way, but it's not because of my pie."

Tommie heard her indignation, also some pleasure. He sighed, then sat up, taking her into his arms. "All right then, why is Jenny so much better and why'd you let them take home pie? If there's nothing special about it..."

Rae blinked away tears. "Tommie, there's no way in hell I'm going to Jenny's funeral."

Rae's tone was often blunt, but this time, Tommie heard more than her candor. "Honey, we don't get to make those kinds of choices."

"Well damnit, I am. I will not watch Sam and those kids mourn her. I cannot do that Tommie, I cannot..."

Her tears were soft, at first. Within seconds a dam burst, but Tommie didn't lose his grip, tenderly kissing Rae, telling her that he loved her, and that it would be all right. Perhaps after this meltdown, one of her biggest ever, she would accept that in all probability, Jenny would be the first of the oldsters to go.

But he hated thinking of that, not that he wished ill for Sam or himself or the woman still trembling in his arms. But one of them would pass away, then another. Life was a cycle, nothing to change it.

Once Rae had stopped crying, Tommie released her, reaching over her for the box of tissues. She used several, then she stared at him. "Tommie, I meant what I said."

"So you gonna take yourself out before she dies?" His tone was slightly flippant.

"No, just that I'll be gone long before she is."

Now Tommie rolled his eyes. Then he stared at her. "There something else you gotta tell me?"

"No." She shook her head. "Just that Jenny will be keeping an eye on our great-grandbabies after I'm..." Rae paused, cleared her throat, then clucked. "After I'm here, haunting you."

"Uh-huh." He inhaled; had Rae put something into the pie? He'd found her with a generous slice after everyone else had finished. "Are you sure there's nothing in that pie?"

"Nothing but eggs, lemon juice, and the usual. And," she sniffed, "faith. Tommie, I'll love you till the day I die, but there's just some things I can't do. Watching Jenny deteriorate is one of them."

Rarely were Rae's words so plain, or her words about death. Tommie nodded, wondering if she had made a deal with God, or maybe with Todd Lambert. While Tommie believed her about the pie, there was still something squirrely about how everyone who ate a slice seemed high. The power of suggestion was one thing, and prayer was good too, but...

"I know what you're thinking," Rae said. "Tommie, I had a long talk with... with God. I told him everything I've told you, and that if there was anything I could do to make her better, to just give me a sign. Whatever it takes Tommie, that's what I'd told him I'd do, even lying. One little lie isn't gonna hurt anyone."

Rae smiled. "You think I'd let just anybody have a piece of that pie if there was something strong in it?" She shook her head. "I don't think so. No use wasting good weed on those who don't need it."

"You let Eric sample a slice on my birthday," Tommie smirked. "And a cookie bar too."

"Well, he'd been bugging me about trying that pie, and he's my supplier. Gotta keep him thinking what he's doing is the right thing. And it is," she said. "He's been working his tail off, and as long as Jenny keeps having pound cake here and there..."

"But Sam said she didn't have anything this morning, not even a joint."

"Tommie, did you see her yesterday?"

"Well, yes, we had dinner with all of them."

"Did you see how many slices of fruitcake she had?"

"I wasn't really paying attention to Jenny's culinary choices."

Rae huffed, then she grew quiet. "After Annette Funicello died, Eric told me about some special pot he was growing. He wasn't sure if it would help his mother, or me." Rae permitted a small smile. "He brought me some after Jenny gave me her walker. I wasn't so sure about it at first, but let me tell you, whatever he did, it's the real deal."

Tommie recalled that when Funicello died in April, the mood at Sam's had plummeted. The plucky Mouseketeer and 1960s beach-movie star had suffered greatly in her battle with multiple sclerosis, losing the ability to walk in 2004 and to speak in 2009. She was completely incapacitated when she passed away at the age of seventy, which wasn't that much older than Jenny. Tommie wondered how much of Annette Funicello's death had hastened Jenny's decision to use the wheelchair full-time, to conserve the energy she still had.

"So that's what you've been putting in stuff lately?" he asked.

Rae nodded. "I didn't wanna use it until it was necessary. I wanted to, well, try an experiment."

Tommie smiled. Most took for granted Rae's baking prowess. Eric garnered much of the respect, just as Todd Lambert always had. Yet what about those who combined the cannabis with flour and eggs, pudding and cake mixes? "So, you put some of that super-pot into a few selected items and..."

"Well, Eric got pretty loaded just from nibbling one of those cookie bars. Jenny had a couple too. Then both had a slice of something they thought was even more potent." Rae chuckled, then shook her head. "Humph. People will believe anything if you sell it the right way."

Tommie laughed out loud. "So all this time I've been living with a marketing genius, as well as a master chef. I'll be goddamned. What's next?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out." She sighed, then smiled. "But I plan on making fruitcake for St. Patrick's Day. Whatever you do, don't you touch one bite."

"Oh, I won't." Tommie caressed her cheek. "But will it beat lemon meringue pie?"

"I doubt it. But maybe I'll add green food coloring to the meringue, that'll make them wonder."

"Oh Jesus, you do that, God only knows what'll happen."

Rae nodded, turning off the lamp. She snuggled into his side, then cleared her throat. "I mean it Tommie, about Jenny."

He stroked her hair. "I know you do, but honey..."

"We don't get to choose who we love, or our kids, or how they live their lives. But we get to make a few decisions. I love you, and I know I haven't always been..." She sighed. "The easiest person to live with."

"Well, neither have I."

"No, you haven't," she snorted. "But I'll be eighty in a few years. It's a good age to..."

He nodded, but it felt strange, as if she was planning the end. "We'll just take each day as it comes, one slice of pie at a time." Then he smiled. "Speaking of that pie, any of it left?"

"About a quarter. I let Sam and Jenny have most of it."

"It won't last long," Tommie chuckled.

"Well, if they're not going anywhere tomorrow, Sam might have another slice."

"Rae, I'd like to."

She moved away, then clucked. "You wanna do what?"

Tommie laughed hard. "Have some pie. If there's really nothing in it, I'd like to test your theory about the power of positive thinking."

"Well, hmmm, I don't know." She sighed several times, making Tommie again wonder if perhaps she had tinkered with it. "Tommie, all I can say is that on our great-grandkids' lives I did not add anything to that pie that isn't on the recipe card." Then she nodded. "Maybe you should have a piece. That way we'll know just how special it is."

"A Todd Lambert kind of special," Tommie grinned.

"Something like that," Rae huffed.

At that late hour, the couple got out of bed, put on their robes, then headed into the kitchen. Tommie took the pie from the refrigerator, slicing himself a thin piece as Rae sat at the table. "Cut me one too," she said.

He nodded, then took another sliver from what remained, which was a good-sized serving. "If all goes well, I'm having this for breakfast," Tommie quipped.

"You do that, you'll make yourself sick," Rae replied.

Tommie smiled. "Well, let's see."

He brought their plates to the table, sitting across from her. Taking the first bite, Tommie savored the familiar lemon, tangy and delicious. As the meringue dissolved against his tongue, he closed his eyes, memories from many years spent on this farm swirling through his head. More bites led to further recollections, and always the good outweighed the bad, even if at the time, Tommie had no clue where to go next.

Then he gazed at Rae, who seemed lost in her own thoughts. Tommie smiled, reaching across the table, gripping her hand. She grinned at him, then took a bite. After she swallowed, she spoke. "So, how do you feel?"

"Good. Pretty damned fine actually. You're right. This pie is special. But not toxic," he chuckled.

"I should think not. But we should give it time to settle, make sure you're really okay."

Tommie laughed. The few times he'd gone off the wagon, the effects were immediately noticeable, a tiny sense of relief engulfed by an overwhelming notion of futility. He felt none of that now, just a rising pleasure, and the knowledge that he would only eat this pie in secret.

Then he grinned at Rae. "You know, I do feel something."

"Yeah?" she said, raising one eyebrow.

"Yup." He finished the last morsel of crust, setting his fork on the plate.

Rae stared at him. "So you gonna tell me, or make me read your mind?"

"Merry Christmas Rae."

She glared at him. "Tommie, what?"

"You're looking mighty pretty tonight."

She sighed, shook her head, then gazed at him again. Then she giggled. "Oh Tommie, now it's late and I'm..."

"You're absolutely beautiful. C'mon, let's go back to bed."

"I haven't finished my pie, thank you very much."

"Well, you can have it in the morning while I'm eating that last slice. We'll both start off the day with something sweet."

"After ending this day with something sweet, I imagine?"

Her tone wasn't chastising, but eager, which made Tommie laugh. He stood, putting his plate and Rae's fork in the sink. Then he set her unfinished pie on top of foil-covered leftovers, then closed the fridge. Tommie joined his wife at the table, offering his hand. "Let me make love to the best baker this side of Portland."

"Just Portland, huh?" Rae said, slowly getting to her feet.

"You're tops all along the West Coast, but thank God only those south of Portland know it. Otherwise we'd never have any peace."

"Mmmhmmm," she murmured in a seductive tone that made Tommie shiver. Then he chuckled, walking at her side, until they reached their bedroom. The walker was abandoned as Tommie escorted his wife into bed. Then he stripped off his clothes, and got in beside her. Maybe there was something in that damned pie, he thought, as Rae removed her nightgown. If nothing else, Rae's latest Todd Lambert special wasn't just for Jenny's benefit. Tommie was planning on having a nightly slice of lemon meringue pie, once all his kinfolk had said their farewells for the evening.
Goodbye Miss October

Leaves shook in the breeze, causing Ryan Puckett to shiver. The zipper on his jacket was iffy, so he jammed hands in his pockets, bringing the worn brown leather together. The jacket was at least ten years old, but sentimental value was more important than keeping warm, especially in coming home. Ryan would rather be caught dead than be without this jacket.

He'd left his car at his parents' house, didn't want Jane to see it. Better for her to see him slightly chilled in the early autumnal winds, not that he actually wanted her to see his teeth chattering. Only that he was still wearing the jacket, which she had given to him as these October sojourns became the rule. He'd been twenty-one then, feeling like the whole world was in his grasp, which had included her. Her smile, when he opened the box to reveal this gift, well, it was like the first time they'd made love, back in high school. She'd given him the sort of grin that made the five-block walk in the wind preferable to her seeing the piece of shit car he was driving now, a vehicle that had barely gotten him home. His father was already grumbling about it, and the last thing Ryan wanted was to hear any crap from Jane.

She might say something, although it wouldn't have to do with his car. Or his jacket, even if several rips were visible. But he didn't want to think about that, as cool air seeped through the leather, making him wish he could have zipped it up, or that his car was presentable enough to drive those measly five blocks, or that it had enough gas to do so. Reaching the town limits, he'd been coasting on fumes. He could wheedle some cash out of his dad, when Fred needed more cigarettes, and was too lazy to run to the liquor store to get some. Ryan wouldn't offer to make the trip, but let his father bring it up, then Ryan would sheepishly note he was nearly out of fuel. Fred would shake his head, pull a twenty from his wallet, telling his son to get two packs of Camels, and put the change in his gas tank. Ryan would shrug, like he was doing Fred a favor. Then he would pray to reach Ernie's Liquors first, thankful that if he didn't make it, Big Boss Gas was right across the street, and an empty gas can waited in Ryan's trunk.

But that was for later; Fred had been finishing a pack while asking his son what was up. The same-old same-old, Ryan had wanted to say, but words weren't necessary. He always came home as leaves fell from trees, dusty sidewalks and streets aching for cleansing rains. Baseball playoffs were battling with football to make the most noise, while his mother's crock pot was pulled from obscurity. That morning it had been full of cheap cuts of beef and the usual root vegetables, but the scent had been captivating, onion soup mix a staple of Ryan's childhood. It was the second of October, and Fred and Hannah Puckett had been waiting for their son's return. Not that Ryan was a prodigal, but as their youngest, and the only male, they were probably hoping he would win the lottery or at least get a better job to support them in their old age. Keep dreaming, Ryan thought, passing by the Shulman's house, seeing Jane's up ahead. Then Ryan grimaced. Did Jane feel the same?

Her car was parked in front of a brown picket fence, no concrete sidewalks in this part of town. None waited where he lived either, the houses all built in the 1930s, some still looking that dated. Not Jane's, although it wasn't brand-spanking new; it had been renovated in the... Ryan wasn't sure, but he could smell that savory goodness drifting from Jane's place. Onion soup mix had been the backbone of Jane's culinary upbringing too.

He knew most of the neighbors, or assumed it was all the same people as last year. Small towns in Middle America didn't alter much; people died, of course, but this wasn't the West Coast, or New York, or Chicago. This was... Ryan smiled as cats darted across the road, a yappy Chihuahua to the right of Jane's house barking wildly at one particular tabby. Ryan didn't know the animals' names, but maybe he should, for they were the same pets he'd seen for at least three or four years running. Well, maybe the cat wasn't the exact same feline, but that yippy Chihuahua; how did Jane not poison that damned dog just to bring some quiet to her street?

Then Ryan trembled; she tolerated that dog for the same reason that allowed him to again approach her brown picket fence. A few weeds grew between the slats, and leaves gathered inside the yard, which made him relax. No one had been around to clean up the outside.

Jane had little free time, or Ryan assumed her days were just like the last time he had been here, in October, during baseball playoffs and the second month of NFL action. Not that he'd called or written to her, nor had she contacted him. They just waited, as if the whole year boiled down to four weeks culminating in Halloween and Ryan's annual _I'll see you around_. Since Jane gave him the jacket, that had been their routine. She would kiss him goodbye after a month of spectacular sex, then their worlds separated as if by a surgeon's knife. He never knew if she continued watching _Monday Night Football_ , or all the Sunday games. He never knew what she did, or with whom she associated, for it was as if time had stopped. Then every October, Ryan and Jane picked right up where they had left off last October. And in four weeks, once again Ryan would hit the road.

The roads he traveled looked nothing like the pavement in front of Jane's house. This street was quiet, but it was mid-day, people either at work or... Or inside, filling crock pots with onion soup mix and whatever else was handy. Jane liked vegetarian food, but she wasn't adverse to meat, made a mean pulled-pork dish that called for a can of Dr. Pepper, if Ryan remembered correctly. His mother would never stoop to putting soda in a recipe, but Jane was creative, or at least open-minded. He smiled. She had put up with him for long enough.

But then, he accepted that she wouldn't go with him on the road, that she preferred living in their small hometown, working at the bank, she must still work at the bank. Yet, it was a Wednesday, and her car was parked in front of her house. He studied the lot; same pomegranate bush to the far right, heaving with ripe fruit. Same honeysuckle along the fence, brushing up against the pomegranate, but spreading the length of that side of the property. It stopped where another fence, and door, led to the backyard, but honeysuckle edged the entire perimeter of Jane's lot. Rose bushes intermingled in front on the left side, and a few still bloomed, red and pink and yellow. They had no fragrance; the honeysuckle overwhelmed everything in the area, except for that yapping dog. Maybe the Chihuahua was allergic to honeysuckle, Ryan smiled.

The house itself was simple; three bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, living room, dining room. The front porch was Ryan's favorite place, other than Jane's bedroom. They would sit in the porch swing that faced the road, holding hands and sipping beers, observing all the comings and goings of this tiny section of... The United States, the North American continent, Earth. But it was only a street in another ancient town of another small state, even if on those cool evenings it felt like the most important place in the whole frigging solar system. It was the most precious spot in the universe, for it was where Ryan felt most at home, alive, necessary. He inhaled deeply, noting honeysuckle, dust, and onion soup mix. Then he started walking the last few yards to Jane's house.

Without thinking, he touched the hood of her car; it was cold. He stared at the vehicle, then stepped through the small front gate, and the Chihuahua barked louder. Ryan smiled. Even if the yips were muffled by honeysuckle and pomegranates, Jane had to know someone was approaching.

Her front door was closed, so he rapped on the screen door. Tapping his foot, he wondered if he would upset his mom by not having dinner at home. Salty onion soup wafted through the bottom of the doorframe, or maybe he had carried it within the holes in his jacket. Jane would give him hell about those, as she did every single...

The door opened, and the blast of MSG struck Ryan with force. Then he cleared his throat, gazing at the frayed screen, but not right into Jane's eyes. "Hey, long time no..."

She didn't answer him, or throw open the screen door. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her long hair cut short, barely brushing the tops of her shoulders. A scoop-neck top exposed her collarbones, and Ryan stared at how sunken those bones looked; was that because of how she guarded her upper torso, hands curled into the crooks of her elbows. He swallowed hard, for she remained silent, but the dog yapped, and the honeysuckle fought with onion soup mix for supremacy. Ryan coughed, wondering if he had interrupted something. But it was October, she knew he was coming...

"Hey, uh, if this's a bad time..." He could barely get the words from his throat, dry and scratchy. He wanted a beer, or some juice. Even a glass of tap water would do.

She sighed, then closed her eyes, then opened them again. He watched as a light went out, then flickered back to strength as those wide brown eyes stared at him, then past him. Her hair was the same shade, but it seemed rough, or just so abrupt, and her words were like her hair, as she cleared her throat. "What do you want?"

Her husky tone was the same, but she didn't say his name. The dog kept yapping, the scents of flora and hearth turning into a misty toxin, coating the insides of Ryan's lungs. And her hair, so abbreviated, yet still curly, just at the ends, but it wasn't pretty on her, as if she'd had her wavy tresses butchered. How many times had he run his fingers through those soft, seductive curls, setting kisses along her sleek neck, down to those collarbones...

"Oh well, I uh..." He shook his head. Jane didn't have a twin sister, but that seemed the only rational excuse, or maybe she had fallen victim to a head injury, losing her memory. But Hannah would have written him an email, someone would have mentioned something about the fact that thirty-one-year-old Jane Crowlie had suddenly turned into a short-haired, mean-spirited version of her usually loving self.

"Look Ryan, I'm busy right now. Unless it's really important..."

She trailed off, or had he stopped listening? She was busy; maybe she was trying to figure out how to return her hair to normal, or how to quiet a barking dog. Or how to... Get rid of a long-time boyfriend who was maybe no more than some guy who showed up annually to get laid for thirty days straight. Ryan shivered, then gazed behind him. The pomegranate tree looked the same, the honeysuckle and roses, fallen leaves and weeds between slats, and her car; everything was exactly as he had left it, eleven months before. Everything except the angry short-haired woman glaring at him through an aged screen door.

"What the hell?" he said without thinking. "Shit, I just got into town Jane. Can't I even come by and see how you're doing without getting my fucking head chewed off?"

A slow, knowing grin spread over her face, warming her cheeks, lighting lively sparkles in her eyes, which no longer seemed cold. Warm chocolate pools made him hungry, also frightened, as she didn't unfurl her arms, that screen door staying firmly closed.

Then she chuckled, a deep, haunting sound like Halloween was that very day. Ryan blinked, but nothing changed, not the yapping Chihuahua, or the now overpowering aroma of dying honeysuckle, nor Jane's obvious mirth. But it wasn't a joy she wished to share with him. "Ryan, it's over." She slowly uncrossed her arms, jamming fists into her sides. "Go back to your parents', 'cause you aren't sleeping here tonight."

Her tone was like nails being pummeled into a casket. He stared at her, unable to look anywhere else. If he gazed long enough, maybe she would stop this shit and...

Then her armor broke, as her tears welled, then spilled, down her face. But her voice was still stoic. "I mean it. I should've sent you an email. I don't wanna see you again, I can't, I, I..."

He stumbled backwards from the force of her honesty and the crashing waves gathering at her jaw, then rolling down her neck. Then he looked away, not wishing to see those tears fill the crevices of her collarbones. Ryan nodded, uncertain how else to respond. He almost tumbled down the porch steps, then affected an awkward gait as he exited the yard. But the yapping didn't stop, and the scent of honeysuckle clung to him, as Jane's tortured voice rumbled through his head.

Several hours and many beers later, Ryan weaved on a bar stool at Posney's. Nobody he had talked to, when he was capable of rational conversation, knew why Jane was so pissed, or why she had cut her hair, just a few weeks back, Mickey Shulman said. Mickey sat on Ryan's right side, and for the last half hour he had kept Ryan from falling to the floor. Ryan stared at Mickey, his hair in a buzz cut, his blue eyes sharp. Mickey had dated Ryan's sister Shannon in high school, and while Mickey and Shannon hadn't lasted much past senior year, Mickey had remained Ryan's friend, for what were high school romances but a way to learn the basics about women. That was how Ryan and Jane had started and...

"She's totally fucked," Ryan muttered slowly, gazing at the empty beer mug in front of him. "Fucked up her hair, fucked up everything, the goddamned..."

Mickey sighed, moving Ryan's glass toward the bartender. Ryan waited for Mickey to ask for another, but Mickey didn't. The bartender, Jake Hillerman, took the glass, and walked away.

Ryan stared at Mickey, then shook his head. "Nah, you're right. I'm shitfaced enough already. Should be going home soon, try and get some..."

"We'll be leaving in another minute or three," Mickey said.

Ryan patted his jacket pockets; no keys. Then he grinned at Mickey. "How the hell am I getting home?"

"I'm driving. Last thing you need is to kill somebody."

Mickey's tone was affable, but the words struck Ryan. Not that the last thing he needed was a DUI, but to harm someone else. There had been enough hurt spread that day, and Ryan nodded. "Shit man, no kidding. No shit Mickey." Ryan laughed, making his head ache. He hadn't gotten this wasted in a long time.

But he was still cognizant enough to realize it, which meant he wasn't nearly drunk enough to fall asleep in the room his parents kept just for him. Well, Shannon's kids slept there, when she visited, so did his sister Kelly's kids. But they never came in October, busy with school. And that because in October, Uncle Ryan came to see Grandma and Grandpa and Jane. But Jane had never been _Aunt Jane_ , just Jane, the love of Ryan's entire adult life, the woman who meant as much as breathing. "That stupid mother..."

"Shut up Ryan." Mickey stood, then gazed around the room. Then he grasped Ryan's shoulders. "Time to get you home before you really say something dumb." Mickey motioned to the bartender. "Jake, here's his keys. Don't give 'em to him until late tomorrow afternoon at the earliest or whatever happens'll be on your head."

Mickey tossed car keys to Jake, who caught them in mid-air. Ryan thought the jangle sounded like a warden locking a convict in a cell, although Ryan had never gone to jail. He laughed, feeling incarcerated, and all because of that dumb...

Her laugh smashed into his skull, shattering bone into tiny slivers, all of which pierced his brain. Very slowly he turned to face the door, and there she stood, that short hair bobbing along her shoulders, but her collarbones were covered by a blouse, or maybe it was a sweater. Ryan didn't know the man who stood beside her, couldn't tell if Mickey knew the guy. But Jane knew him pretty damn well, grasping his arm, smiling like he was the sun. Ryan felt sick, but didn't vomit. He inhaled, then tried to step her way. Mickey held him back, also keeping Ryan on his feet. "Let's go Puckett." Mickey spoke softly. "My car's out back."

"I ain't leaving through the goddamn back door."

"Ryan..."

Ryan nodded, staring right at Jane. He couldn't tell if she was looking at him, but there was no way in hell that he would slink out of there like a child. "Mickey, you can drive me home, but we're leaving through the front door."

"Well, shit. All right." Mickey released Ryan's arm, then stood aside. "Lead the way asshole."

Ryan smiled. He was being a prick, but if she was going to... He took wobbly steps, then found his bearings. As they reached where she stood, talking to someone else Ryan remembered from high school, Jane's voice grew louder. Ryan paused, not three feet away from her, as time felt to have stopped. Just like last autumn when they went out, she was wearing jeans and her best brown boots, leather boots. She liked leather, boots for her, the jacket for him. This guy wore a denim vest, seemed older than Mickey even, maybe pushing forty. He didn't look at Ryan, but Jane finally did; she wore a lot of makeup, not just her usual black mascara. Ryan wanted to say that between her overdone face and that asinine haircut, she seemed about the same age as her... Was he a boyfriend, a date, or just some SOB she pulled off the street? Ryan smiled, winked at her, then nearly patted her butt. But Mickey jerked him away, making time restart, and they were out of the bar before Ryan could say anything at all.

The scents of cigarette smoke, over-brewed coffee, and greasy hash browns woke Ryan, who stirred with a tremendous headache and a woozy stomach. The daily hot breakfast was Fred and Hannah's routine, especially at this time of year, and Ryan clenched his eyes shut, wondering if they ate something different in spring and summer. Probably not, he thought, needing to pee, and maybe to puke. He hadn't thrown up at home in... A very long time, he smiled weakly. The last time he threw up in this town, in October, he'd been sleeping at Jane's house.

He grimaced, then stood slowly, taking note that he was still dressed in yesterday's clothes. He shuffled to the bathroom, peed for a long time, then stared at himself in the mirror over the sink. His brown hair was long, well, it was usually to his shoulders, but the front was shaggy too. Sometimes when he came home Jane trimmed it. Maybe Ryan would ask Mickey which barber he used, not that Ryan wanted to look like a marine, but he looked like shit now, his gray eyes rimmed in red, his cheeks sunken and pasty. He smiled, but it made his face hurt. He wanted another beer.

Then he laughed, which also pained him. The last thing he needed was a drink, but he wouldn't be able to choke down breakfast, maybe just some heavily sugared over-brewed coffee, with milk, if his mother had any milk. There was creamer; usually it was a few days old, but Hannah and Fred used it anyway. "Good morning," Ryan mumbled, heading straight into the kitchen.

"Well hell, look what the cat dragged in." Fred stubbed out his cigarette, but didn't meet Ryan's stare. "Your car over at Posney's?"

Ryan sat on his dad's left, as Hannah brought him coffee. "Yeah, Mickey drove me home."

"Well thank God for that. The last thing you need's a DUI."

"No shit," Ryan muttered, adding three heaping spoonfuls of sugar to the mug. "Mom, you got any milk?"

"No, but there's creamer right in front of you."

Ryan had seen it, also the date, which had expired days ago. He smiled at his mom, who seemed to have put on another ten, maybe twenty pounds. Hannah wasn't a tall woman, and the extra weight made her look downright fat. Or maybe it was her hair, freshly cut and permed, those gray tight curls clinging to her scalp for dear life. "You get new glasses Mom?" he asked, not reaching for the creamer.

She smiled. "I did. Mary Ellen says they make me look younger."

Fred shook his head and Ryan stifled a chuckle. Mary Ellen Shulman wasn't just Mickey's mother, but Hannah's childhood best friend, and the biggest gossip in town. She was a good liar too, or else Hannah preferred the false compliment. Maybe it was better for Mary Ellen to mention the new glasses, and not Hannah's weight gain.

Ryan sipped the coffee, which wasn't as strong as the aroma suggested. The sugar helped it go down; usually he drank coffee with some sweetener, but rarely was the coffee this hardcore. Normally Ryan enjoyed lattes or cappuccinos, even when on the road. The band he worked for liked those upscale touches, and they made a point of stopping at places where more than regular and decaf were served.

But every October the band took a break, sending their road crew back to wherever they called home. For many, home _was_ the road; it was for Ryan, except that home was also this town, still this house, but no longer Jane. That name burned a hole in Ryan's stomach, or maybe it was his mother's coffee. She bought the cheapest house brand, just like she bought crap creamer, then kept using it even if it had expired. That Hannah and Fred hadn't succumbed to food poisoning was one of the world's seven wonders.

"So you seen Jane yet?" Hannah asked, keeping her back to Ryan.

"Uh, yeah, saw her last night." And yesterday afternoon, Ryan thought, but you probably know all about that because Mary Ellen lives on Jane's street.

"She sure looks different with her hair short," Hannah said. Then she faced her son. Her pronounced jowls were the most striking difference, closely followed by her small slouch. Hannah had always prided herself on a fairly youthful face and good posture. But now his mother looked seventy years old, she looked...

"You okay Mom?" Ryan wondered if he had taken more than just Jane for granted. His parents weren't that aged; Fred was sixty-one, Hannah sixty in May. Ryan glanced at his dad; Fred's thinning grey hair was still at the same place, half-way back along his scalp. Glasses dipped down his nose, plain brown frames as always. But Ryan's mother appeared unwell, still in her robe and slippers, while Fred wore a blue faded work shirt, jeans, and shoes. Ryan blinked, wondering if all the women in town had decided to screw with him.

"I'm fine honey. You sure you don't want some hash browns?"

"I'm sure, but thanks." Ryan sipped more coffee, trying to clear his head. He stared at his father again, but Fred didn't meet his eyes. Then Ryan drummed his fingers on the table. Was something wrong with Hannah? Ryan assumed that if his mom was sick, somebody would have told him, one of his sisters at least.

Slowly he stood, stepping Hannah's way. She was a good foot shorter than him, his sisters all inheriting their mother's slight stature, although none were this pudgy. But Hannah wasn't just plump; she now carried a good number of excess pounds. Ryan fought the urge to hug her; they weren't a demonstrative bunch, well, he was very expressive with Jane, or he had been. Ryan sighed, so wishing to stroke his mother's face, feel some human contact. The only contact had been when Mickey pulled him back last night at the bar, then helped him into the car, then walked him to the back door. Ryan had managed after that, his parents having left that entrance unlocked. Otherwise nobody had physically touched him since he came home.

"Ryan, what?" Hannah stared at him, an odd look upon her face.

He ached, wasn't sure if it was from the hangover, Jane's dismissal, or that something was indeed wrong with his mom. "Nothing, I just... Yeah go ahead, dish me up some spuds."

Hannah's smile was that of relief. "You want toast too?"

"Sure. Toast too."

"All right, but sit down, I don't like people hovering over me." Hannah stepped to the toaster as Ryan took his seat. He watched all her actions, as Fred announced that he was going to check _The Weather Channel_ , which actually meant that he was heading upstairs for a prolonged session in the bathroom. Ryan wondered how much of his life had been lived in code, and what did Hannah's altered appearance truly mean?

By Saturday afternoon, Ryan still wasn't sure about his mom's health; she took several pills throughout the day, kept in a daily pill container in the kitchen. He had inspected the container's contents, six pills per day of various shapes and sizes, but he was at a loss to their importance. His dad took a baby aspirin each morning, a blood thinner, Ryan knew. But last year Hannah hadn't been on all these medications, and he desperately wanted to ask, but felt it would be an intrusion. He didn't call Kelly, Shannon, or even their oldest sister Tess, not wishing to worry them, plus he didn't want to note that again he was home, in October, not that it seemed to matter to the person he most wished to speak with. Not that Jane would know what in the hell was wrong with Ryan's mother, but at least she would actively give a shit.

Or maybe not; perhaps Jane had written off all the Pucketts. But Ryan didn't think that was possible, unless she had lost all her memories, or some other stupid-assed reason that he considered late at night, when sleep was hard to find. No, she wasn't an alien, and no, she didn't have a twin sister. She was the only Jane Crowlie in town, in the county, in the whole goddamned state probably. Well, the only Jane Marguerite Crowlie, Ryan assumed. And she was the only woman he loved, even if the way he demonstrated that affection was pretty pathetic. That was the only idea he had concerning her change of heart, or at least of attitude. There was no way she had stopped loving him, Ryan decided. He certainly hadn't stopped loving her.

And no longer was he pissed at her. Once his hangover faded, and he'd had a few days of decent sleep, he accepted that their arrangement of the last several years probably needed some fine-tuning. For him to show up in October, expecting to sleep with her all month, was somewhat... He smiled, getting in his car, having spent most of the day at Mickey's garage. Mickey had needed help with his computer, and when not hauling amps and musical instruments into and out of vans, Ryan was pretty handy with software and laptops. He'd always had a knack for technical things, but had been too lazy to stay in school. It was much easier to hang out with a band, becoming a roadie, than go to class. Jane hadn't seemed to care, not in the early days, and by the time she might have raised an objection, they were too dependent upon the other for her to raise a huge stink. That was when she gave him the jacket, like an engagement ring, although he was the one who should have given her a symbol. But Jane was already a bank teller by then, she had the ambition, and the steadiness. Neither had spoken about what they wanted from a relationship, words hadn't seemed necessary. He didn't care if she slept around while he was gone, and she had never bitched about his personal life on the road. Not that he screwed around a lot, occasionally sure, and always using rubbers. He was shiftless, but not stupid.

He also used condoms in October, and Jane was on the pill. Or she had been, last year. He sat in his car, in front of his parents' house, wondering what he was going to do for the next several hours. Mickey had said that he and his girlfriend Amber would be at Posney's that night, but not until nine, maybe ten o'clock. Amber was Ryan and Jane's age, a couple of years younger than Mickey, but now those few years meant little; they were all in their thirties, had made their choices, and while people changed jobs, big alterations were far and few between, other than getting married. Not that Mickey and Amber were looking to get hitched; they'd been dating for a year or so, Mickey had said, while Ryan cleared computer viruses that had hampered Mickey's system. Amber had left town several years ago, marrying some asshole two counties over. Her divorce had gone through, and she'd moved back home, was staying with her mother, who didn't live far from Jane, or from Mickey's mom. Mickey lived on the other side of town, in a house he'd bought during the recession. Mickey owned his home, ran a successful business. He wasn't married, but he wasn't divorced either, and after Ryan eliminated the last computer virus, Mickey was looking at a proper spreadsheet of the last few months' revenue. He'd given Ryan a hundred dollars in cash as a thank-you, and jokingly said that if Ryan ever wanted to quit the music business, Mickey had an opening for someone to maintain his computer and do his books. His accountant wasn't more than one of his mother's friends, and she hadn't been working more than part-time since August, recovering from gall bladder surgery. Ryan had smiled, quickly putting the money into his otherwise empty wallet. That cash would pay for a few drinks later at Posney's, and maybe a haircut too. Mickey and his crew had teased Ryan that while he might fit the roadie profile, they all thought he looked like shit.

He had left the garage to their laughter, feeling a part of something similar to how he felt with the rest of the roadies. Their hair was definitely longer, and in addition to drinking, many of them smoked weed or imbibed in other drugs. Here the main habit was booze, some pot, but not many narcotics. This was a simpler life, the vices enjoyed less toxic, shared at Posney's because most people didn't like to drink alone. And that in a small town, it was hard to hide one's issues. A few of Mickey's crew had asked Ryan about Jane, a subject impossible to ignore. He'd smiled, shrugged, then stared at the computer screen. It was much easier cleaning up Mickey's system than trying to figure out a woman.

But now it was four in the afternoon, and Fred and Hannah were running errands, having left Ryan a note. Beef stew again bubbled in the crock pot, but they hadn't asked him to stay for dinner. He didn't need an invitation, at least not at home. Eating with his folks was one possibility, but Ryan had other questions. He'd given Jane three days to get off her cloud, but she hadn't stopped by the house, hadn't tried to call him. They had each other's cell numbers and email addresses, but those forms of communication had never been required. Ryan rapped the top of the gear shift. Then he started his car, pulling away from his parents' house. He headed toward Jane's, and this time, he wouldn't leave until she let him inside.

Her car was parked in front of the brown picket fence, and the hood was warm. Ryan had noticed his father's car across the road, right behind Mary Ellen Shulman's, but Ryan didn't expect Fred to stay long. He would leave Hannah there, picking her up later if Mary Ellen didn't feel like running Hannah home. Dropping off Hannah had given Fred something to do, and he would be back home shortly, wondering for half a second if Ryan was coming for dinner. Then Fred would turn on the TV, forgetting all about his son and wife. Fred wouldn't think about Ryan for the rest of the day. He'd only start to consider Hannah when his stomach rumbled, the scent of onion soup mix impossible to ignore.

Ryan had parked behind Jane's car, but now he stood halfway between the picket fence and her house. The Chihuahua wasn't outside; maybe it was napping on its owner's sofa. The sky was gray, no hint of wind, but the air was nippy, and Ryan pulled his jacket closed, then smiled. Maybe Jane had traded with someone on Wednesday; she never used to work on Saturdays. Then he shivered. Maybe she had spent Friday night with that guy, who nobody seemed to know. Maybe she'd just gotten home, maybe... Ryan cleared his throat, then slowly approached her front porch. He walked silently up the steps, not wishing to alert her. Before, he would have gone right inside. This time, he knocked on the screen door, then stood back, staring at his shoes.

He waited several seconds, absently tapping his left foot. Just as he turned to leave, the door creaked open. He whipped around, seeing her behind the screen. "Hey," he said softly. "Is this a bad time?"

She inhaled, then exhaled with force. "I told you it was..."

"Can't we just talk? I just wanna talk to you."

His heart pounded, she had just come home from work, her attire that of a bank teller. She had slipped off her shoes; he knew that in how he looked down, only a little, trying to meet her gaze, which was being kept from his view, but not with complete success. Every few seconds she glanced up, then looked from left to right, like she was searching for any excuse to make him leave. But truthfully, some sort of explanation was owed; he wouldn't come out and say that, not unless she got bitchy. Maybe they were over, but the least she could have done was warned him ahead of time.

"Listen, if you wanna end it, fine, I, uh, understand." He did get it, especially after spending most of the day at Mickey's. For the last several years Ryan had used this woman, and this town, as way stations. He wouldn't deny it, but then, she had always let him come back. Jane had been the one to make him feel this was still home, or maybe it was the honeysuckle and pomegranates and even that yappy dog. Ryan took a deep breath, the scent of fading honeysuckle fortifying him. "But at least gimme a chance to..." He sighed. Did he deserve to speak his piece? Maybe Jane should slam the door in his face and...

But instead she opened it wide, nearly hitting him with the ragged edge of the fraying screen. "All right," she said. "But not long, not that there's much left to say."

Ryan nodded, hastily stepping through the doorway.

Like the exterior, the interior of Jane's home hadn't changed. The coffee table was still covered with stacks of unread magazines. Folded laundry rested on the far end of the sofa, her old TV dark and dusty. No new prints hung on the walls, nothing to suggest that she had altered a single thing. But her eyes were cloudy, her movements sluggish. Usually when Ryan walked through that door, she was smiling, then all over him. Then they rushed into her bedroom, made love, then curled against each other, telling small and large tales. This time, she kept her distance, working hard to not fall into tears.

Ryan was relieved for that; she still loved him, he was sure. But a wall had been erected, and he was completely uncertain how to dismantle it. "So, how've you been?" he started.

She shook her head. "Look, no bullshit. You wanna talk, then do it. I don't have time for this anymore."

Her voice was brittle, also sad. He nodded, then sighed. "I still love you. Does that count in any of this?"

She smirked. "You _still_ love me. Lucky me, huh?"

He wanted to sigh again, but that would sound pathetic, which he did not wish to convey. "Jane, look, you're right. Things need to change, but you never said jack shit to me and..."

"Ryan, it's over." She glanced at the floor, then met his gaze. "I don't wanna be Miss October anymore. It's old, this, I mean, us." She laughed. "Us, what in the hell was that all those years? A month every single year, thirty lousy days. But you know what? I'm thirty-one years old now, and you are too. We're not kids anymore. I want a life Ryan, I want someone who's here all the time. I want..."

She began to cry, then caught herself. Taking a deep breath, she cracked her knuckles, then exhaled slowly. "I wanna be able to depend on someone for more than just one month out of the year. By December, it's cold, you know? January and February are cold too. It doesn't get warm until April and by then..."

And by then there are still five months left to wait, he thought, what he felt every spring, wondering how he was going to last until he could come back here and hold this woman, make her laugh, then make her squeal. Sometimes he made her scream, but now he was making her cry. Jane was weeping softly, but Ryan didn't miss her tears.

He started to step toward her, but she shook her head. "No, I can't do this anymore." She stared at him. "Yes, I do love you, shit, I'm gonna love you for a long goddamned time, but eventually it was gonna end. Something like this couldn't keep going, you know? Of course you know," she mumbled. "You know just as well as I do that this was never gonna be more than something to do, for a time. But time's a long wait when it's cold outside Ryan, and I don't wanna be cold all winter again."

"Oh Jane, shit. Listen, I'll come home, whatever you want baby. I love you, don't say this..."

As he spoke, she stiffened, both her body and her resolve. His words were like bad song lyrics. Would he actually quit the crew, come back here, and work some stupid-assed job just to...

"Oh Christ Ryan, shut up." She had a weary chuckle. "This's why I didn't wanna talk to you. You were just gonna say something asinine." She shook her head, then motioned toward the door. "It's really over. I can't, I mean, I won't do this anymore."

Ryan didn't look at where she pointed; he couldn't fathom actually leaving this house under those pretenses. "Are you sleeping with that guy?"

"What?"

He wanted her to say _yes_ ; if she was sleeping with someone at this time of year, maybe that would be enough to cut the cord, or hack it in a few places so the bleeding would begin. Ryan felt it would take an extraordinary event to even start the process, the beginning of his life without Jane Crowlie. "Just tell me the truth. Are you fucking him?"

Not _Are you in love with him_ or _Are you making love with him_ : Ryan needed it to be devoid of emotion, enough of a betrayal that it would ease him out of this house, down the front steps, along the path, and through the brown picket fence gate. No yappy dog to escort him to his car, he needed silence so her words could reverberate in his brain. Just tell me yes, he begged inwardly, otherwise you'll never get rid of me.

"No, I'm not fucking him!" Fury dripped from her voice. "Would that make this easier if I was?"

The chill in his spine started from her tone, then spread all through him as she continued speaking. They had never talked to each other in this manner, not even during high school. But maybe they hadn't grown much since those days. Maybe they were still seventeen years old, and one month of a relationship per year had added up to a whole lot of nothing.

Ryan didn't speak, mostly because he had no idea of what to say. And he didn't move, for if he did, that was ending it. He gazed at her slender arms, soft hands, lovely breasts, then to her teary, angry face, which translated as much confusion as he felt. But the bitterness in her voice; she had never sounded so disappointed in him, so hurt. That cut into him most of all.

No longer was it enough that he came back every autumn; she didn't want to be Miss October. He had never called her that, had someone inferred it, forcing her to reevaluate her life, their life together? But there wasn't a _their life together_ , just thirty days annually to sleep in her bed, catching up with all that had occurred since their last outing. _Outing_ burned in Ryan's gut. The truth was that for the last decade this had been no more than a tryst, and that sure, in their twenties, who cared about living together full-time? But now she wore a crown that ripped into her skull, a jagged sash noting a dubious honor that was breaking her heart. She was his Miss October, but the cost was too heavy to bear.

He wanted to stroke her arm, wipe her damp cheeks, touch her hair. Was it actually that short, had that been a part of the process? "Why'd you cut your hair off?"

"What?"

If he touched her, even grasped her hand, what might happen? He ached for the spark of whatever had kept them together all these years. Stepping her way, he reached for her, but she moved back, then jammed both hands into the shallow pockets of her slacks.

Jane didn't speak. She kept shaking her head, those abbreviated tresses waving like red flags, making Ryan's heart pound. "Just tell me why," he muttered.

"Leave, please?" she croaked. "Please, just go."

He took a deep breath, his eyes darting all over the room, trying to tattoo the walls and furniture onto his brain. This was his home, not his parents' house, not this town or this state or anywhere else on the goddamn planet. This living room, which led to her bedroom, the kitchen a few steps away, or her bathroom with the leaky shower and rattling toilet. He had tried to fix both of them, but usually he started too late in the month, then it was time to leave, and he drove away knowing he hadn't finished those tasks. But he always came back, and next year, next year...

"Ryan, just go, now. If you really love me, then leave, please?"

But that made no sense, except it was the truth. Every fiber within her was falling apart, he'd never seen her so lost, but then he hadn't been here when her parents died five years ago, or when her only sister was killed seven years ago, or when... He was only here for October. But she didn't want to be Miss October anymore.

He nodded, then exhaled, but wasn't sure if he had been breathing all that time while gazing at walls, thinking about her problematic bathroom, or that for the important moments of her life, he had been absent. Then Ryan turned around, seeing the open front door, and the closed screen door. To leave this house, he would have to physically push that screen door open. But how would it close behind him? With a slam, or would he hold it gently until the latch was secured.

As he walked toward the exit, Jane's breathing was patchy, her sobs ringing in his head. He remained stoic, but wasn't sure how his feet moved. He pushed open the screen door, then stared at his car, then at her car. Then he glanced at Mary Ellen Shulman's house across the street. Then he blinked.

An ambulance was pulling up in front of the Shulman's, sirens blaring, lights blazing. Those alarms forced Ryan down the steps, along the path, through the gate, to the edge of the pavement. Then he heard Mary Ellen's hysteric screams, his mother's name among them. Hannah Puckett was the purpose for that ambulance.

Ryan stood frozen as the van parked, as people rushed out, as Mickey's mother continued her litany. Spotting a cat, licking itself in the center of the road, Ryan wondered if it belonged to Mary Ellen; did Ryan's mother pet that feline when she visited? His mother was in Mary Ellen's house, being tended for an ailment serious enough to warrant the authorities. Ryan nearly reeled, then raced across the street, tearing into the Shulman's front yard. He almost ran into a paramedic, who was leading a team, surrounding a gurney. "Is she okay?" Ryan barked. "Is she all right?"

No one answered him, or not in language Ryan could comprehend. Mary Ellen Shulman waved her arms, still crying to the heavens, as EMTs hoisted their patient into the ambulance. Finally Ryan grabbed one of the medics. "She's my mother, what the hell happened?"

"She's had a heart attack."

"Is she gonna make it?" Ryan yelled.

The paramedic didn't answer, but got into the back of the van. As Mary Ellen kept wailing, the ambulance sped off, lights and sirens in full throttle. Ryan watched it go, then saw Jane standing in the street, next to that cat, which now stared at him. Jane's feet were bare, except for socks. And he still didn't know why she had cut her hair. "That was Mom," he called. "She's had a heart attack."

Jane ran to where Ryan stood in the Shulman's yard, beside a still weeping Mary Ellen. "Go, I'll meet you at the ER." Jane caressed Ryan's face. "Just drive safely, okay?"

He nodded, then thought about his father. He looked at Mary Ellen. "Did you call my dad?"

"What?" she cried. "Did I do what?"

Jane brought the trembling woman into her arms. "I'll call him Ryan. You just go. Now."

Her palm rested against his face, providing warmth and purpose. Slowly he nodded. Ryan removed her hand, squeezing it gently. Then he did exactly as Jane told him.

A few times previously Ryan had thought that minutes were hours, hours were days, and so on. Usually it was after a gig had started, and there was nothing for him and the other roadies to do but drink beer or get a little high while the band played. For over a decade Ryan had been hanging out with The Stone Rollers, a Kentucky-based group that had gotten lucky, cutting a hit single, then getting signed to a big label. All of that had occurred just as the music business was unraveling, Napster and other websites allowing listeners to download tunes for free. But The Stone Rollers had jumped on the indie bandwagon, employing MySpace so their fans could get as close to the band as possible. Ryan had been a part of that, looking after not only amps and guitars, but the internet side of things. It had been something to do on long drives across the country, when he ached for Jane. But instead of writing her emails, he fooled around with code, making the band's website, writing their blog. The Stone Rollers still made a record every year, what they did in October, while their crew wandered back to where loved ones waited. Then everyone reunited, hitting the road. Ryan even spent Christmas in motels, usually in Louisville, where the band was from. Often Christmas Day was the slowest time of the year, but sitting in the ER, wondering if his mother was going to live, had turned into the perfect example of moments not budging an inch.

All those other events couldn't touch how Ryan felt now, staring at the clock over the sliding partition where patients spoke to the nurse on duty. The second hand ticked at the same place over and over, making Ryan's head ache. The last time he'd looked it was five thirty, and he glanced again, five thirty-one, but what about all he'd considered in the interim; The Stone Rollers, named in honor of The Rolling Stones, had started out playing covers, but quickly discarded that genre once they had secured a hit single. Keeping their name hadn't endeared them to record executives, but now most of those guys in suits had been excised for the direct contact with fans, who didn't care what the band called themselves. Fans cared about the music, and while Ryan couldn't hum his way out of a paper bag, he hauled and set up equipment, and kept their web profile finely tuned. Then he glanced at the clock; five thirty-two. What the fuck time is it actually, he wanted to scream.

He stood, then paced the tiny lobby. His dad had arrived a few minutes after Ryan had, then Fred was ushered into the back, where Hannah was being... Well, she must still be alive, Ryan assumed, because no one had told him otherwise. No one had told him a goddamned thing, other than Jane, that she would call his father, which she must have done. But before that she had told Ryan to go. And he had, but her order only got him as far as Mary Ellen's. Then Jane had directed him here. And he had done that too, and he gazed at the clock, still it was five thirty-two. That just couldn't be possible; how in the hell was it still the same goddamned time?

Octobers never went by so slowly; they raced past, and suddenly he was packing, to meet with the band and the rest just outside of Louisville, from where they departed every November. Every November first, Ryan Puckett was waiting for his fiscal year to begin, missing Jane with a pounding ache that subsided only as miles slid under his feet, state to state, gig to gig, blog post to blog post. He wrote the entries under the guise of Keith Millar, lead singer and guitarist, and no one outside the band was the wiser. Ryan had started that soon after creating the website, having unsuccessfully nagged Keith to take a couple of minutes to scrawl a few lines. Keith was a good singer and musician, but had no aptitude for exposition, and within a month, Ryan was impressing the band with his literary wit. Keith was especially grateful, and it had provided Ryan with added job security. Anyone could load equipment, but as long as The Stone Rollers were actively touring, Ryan had someplace to be.

How different was it now, in the ER, with no clue to Hannah's condition, or to what Jane had done, both in making him leave her house, then to come here. For the first time in his life, Ryan wasn't sure what tomorrow would bring. He liked the routine of life on the road, that while he never slept in the same places, the motels were basically identical. Diners served variations of the expected breakfasts, sometimes the coffee was crap, but that was only if they couldn't find a restaurant with an espresso machine. Keith had hooked everyone on lattes and mochas, but they avoided Starbucks when possible, depending on Ryan to use his web magic to hunt down finer establishments. Sometimes it wasn't possible, when out in the middle of nowhere. Then they took what they could get, and were happy for it, making the next place seem even better. Ryan stared at peeling paint and scuffed linoleum; sometimes the joints they ate at didn't look any better than this aged emergency room lobby.

But the time on the road didn't drag this slowly, not until summer. Touring in summer was a bitch, because it was hot and people were growing tired. September shows were usually the loosest, tempers flaring, bodies in need of rest. Jane was always on Ryan's mind in September, just a few more days until he could head home, but now what was home? At that excruciatingly endless moment, Ryan's home was this dingy part of the local hospital, where no one looked familiar. It was young moms with whiny kids, or those older than his folks, hoping to be called next so they didn't have to listen to crying children anymore.

Ryan found his seat, but didn't sit down, what was the point? If his mother didn't make it, well, people died all the time. It would be his father to suffer, for who would over-brew the coffee, deep-fry the hash browns, and fill the crock pot? Ryan hadn't called his sisters yet; Kelly was seven months' pregnant, Shannon was already up to her eyeballs as her mother-in-law had breast cancer, and Tess was... Tess was an alcoholic who would use this to excuse one more binge. Ryan didn't flinch with any of those scenarios. No use upsetting his sisters until it was absolutely necessary.

And besides, what did he know, other than time was lost in this space, like this ER was the Bermuda Triangle. And even when he left here, whether Hannah was alive or not, the rest of his life was a void, because Jane had told him to go. Closing his eyes, he could still feel her warm palm against his cheek, the first time she had touched him since last Halloween. He blinked away tears, but they weren't shed for his mother. Jane had relented, but only due to crisis. He inhaled, then exhaled, glancing at the clock. It was now five thirty-three.

At five thirty-eight, Ryan approached the duty nurse. "Excuse me," he began. Then somebody tapped his shoulder. He turned around, Jane Crowlie right behind him.

Her face was puffy and red. For a second he wondered if this was the remnant of earlier that afternoon, or was it fresh sorrow. Then someone cleared their throat.

He looked back at the nurse. "Oh yeah, my mom, Hannah Puckett, is she okay?"

Jane gripped his right hand, which made Ryan shiver. "She's still being treated." The nurse's voice was flat. "Someone will be out soon."

"Uh, okay, thanks." What was soon, Ryan thought. Then he closed his eyes, as Jane squeezed his hand. He faced her, opening his eyes, finding hers were still cloudy. "I guess you know as much as I do."

She nodded, then led him toward open seats near the double doors. "I was wondering what was going on and..."

He sat, and she followed. "Thanks for calling Dad. He was allowed back there, but just him."

"Have you told your sisters yet?" Jane said softly, still clasping Ryan's hand.

"Nothing to tell them, I mean..." He shrugged. "I don't wanna worry them until I know something concrete."

"Well, that's probably smart." She sighed. "I would've been here sooner, but Mary Ellen was a wreck. I called Mickey and waited for him and Amber to come over. They send their love."

Ryan nodded. "Thanks. I was supposed to meet them at Posney's later, guess I don't need to call him about that now."

"Guess not."

Her tone was still gentle, and nothing like how she had sounded less than two hours ago. Ryan peeked at the time, five forty. It had taken two minutes for him to approach the nurse, then Jane to arrive, then grip his hand, make perfunctory small talk, then sit in these seats. He wanted to smile, wondering how time managed to stop and start as it pleased. Then he gazed at Jane. Tears were pooling in her eyes. This time, he brushed them away without thinking.

She nodded, then released his hand, but only long enough to retrieve a tissue from her purse, which was on the vacant seat beside her. She wiped her face, blew her nose, then shoved the Kleenex into her bag. "Sorry," she said, retaking his hand.

"Don't be sorry, I mean..." He gripped her fingers, the only lifeline he possessed, maybe as important to him as whatever the doctors were doing to keep his mother alive. "I wonder what's happening back there."

Jane shrugged, then released his hand, running hers through her hair. Her curls tried to resettle, but instead they fuzzed out around her jaw. Why had she hacked off her lovely tresses, why was she sitting there next to him now, obligation, curiosity? He nearly asked, then stood, hearing his father's cough reverberate through the open partition.

Ryan met his dad as Fred stepped through the doorway connecting the waiting area with the actual emergency room. "How is she?" Ryan asked, Jane on his heels.

Fred had been crying, and Ryan had never seen his father so broken. "Well, she's alive. Not sure if she'll be with us tomorrow though." Fred's voice was stoic, but an underlying fear hedged his words. "They said they'd call if she takes a turn for the worse. If she makes it, they're gonna wanna do surgery, a bypass or something like that. But they told me to go home. They're moving her to intensive care, I told them you were out here, that you'd wanna see her, but they said to give them a few hours. I don't know Ryan, I just don't know."

Then Fred stared at Jane. Ryan saw his father's shock, not that Ryan had said squat to his folks about that issue, and Fred didn't ask any questions now. But Fred smiled, then sighed. "I guess we gotta call the girls tonight, don't know what in the hell I'm gonna tell 'em, but..."

"I'll take care of that Dad, don't worry."

Father and son stared at each other. "Yeah, that'd be good. Thanks."

"Listen, why doesn't Ryan drive you home? I'll follow in my car, then Ryan and I can come back and get your car." Jane said that to Fred, but she squeezed Ryan's hand as she spoke.

"Yeah, that's a good idea. Dad, you okay with that?"

"What, uh, sure." Fred nodded at Jane. "Thanks honey. I don't know how the hell I got here without getting into an accident."

"You do what you gotta do." Jane's voice was warm, then she smiled. She gave Ryan's hand another ferocious grip, then let him go. Then she led both men from the lobby into the small parking lot, where Ryan helped his dad into the front passenger seat of Ryan's car. Right before opening the driver's door, Ryan nodded at Jane. Again she smiled, then both got into their vehicles. Ryan and Fred left first, Jane right behind them.

The next two hours flew past, causing Ryan to wonder if the rest of his life would be lived in this stop-start manner. Sitting across from Jane at his parents' kitchen table was a part of it, for this never happened. Jane had probably been inside the Puckett residence less than half a dozen times since Ryan had been... He wanted to smile, for what was the appropriate term, or terms, for what they had shared. They had dated as high school seniors, but had slept with each other before graduation. Then for the next few years, as she went to college and he screwed around, they weren't quite living together, but it was more than dating. It wasn't akin to the last ten years, for he had still lived at home, and she had too, in the same house where she dwelled now. Only now it was her house, where she had been raised, maybe where she would die. Ryan didn't expect Jane Crowlie to ever leave this town, but then, just four hours ago, he'd had no idea she would be eating the beef stew Hannah had started first thing that morning.

Ryan hadn't expected to be eating here either; his plan, when Hannah was chopping onions and garlic, had been to give Mickey a hand with his computer, then bum around town until it was time to drive to Posney's. He might still do that, for one beer, after his dad had called it a night. After speaking to his sisters, Ryan could do with a cold one, but just one, because if he had more, then of course the hospital would call, informing them that Hannah was on her deathbed, or had already kicked the bucket. He wanted one beer, maybe sitting next to Mickey, perhaps Amber on Ryan's other side. Then he would drive home, fall into his bed, then...

"You want anything?" Jane asked, standing up from the table.

"Oh, uh, sure. No actually, I'm full. Thanks though."

"Ryan, you've hardly touched your dinner."

He gazed at the bowl, which was mostly full. "Oh yeah, uh-huh." He took a bite, but it wasn't warm, and the onion soup mix didn't taste good. The whole meal wasn't appealing, but maybe that was to be expected. His sisters' reactions had been typical; Kelly cried, but so close to her due date, she wept at the drop of a hat. Shannon was resigned, another storm for her to weather. Tess had briefly acted like the eldest sibling, then she'd fallen apart, asking her son to bring her a beer. Then Ryan had ended the call, using the car left at the hospital as an excuse. He hadn't wanted to talk to any of his sisters, but Tess had been the hardest, as she usually was. None of them said they could be there, but of course, if Hannah died, they would find ways to attend the funeral. The Pucketts hadn't been the closest family, and time had eroded those fragile bonds.

Then Ryan and Jane had retrieved Fred's car, and now they were eating dinner, or she was. Ryan had no appetite; he wanted a beer, then to close this day. It had been good earlier, was ending on a pretty crappy note, even if Jane was speaking to him like nothing was wrong.

She returned to her chair, looked at her glass, but didn't drink from it. Then she stared at Ryan. "You should eat something. If you don't want that, I can make you..."

Her hair still bothered him, otherwise he could pretend this was her kitchen, and he'd just arrived, and due to his long drive from wherever he had come from, he wasn't particularly chatty, or desperate, or... He sighed, then pushed the bowl to his left. "I'll be fine. But you don't have to stick around here. I'll call you if we hear anything."

Why was she there, he wondered, now that his sisters had been told and his dad's car was in the driveway. Why had she cut her beautiful hair; he'd loved how her long, wavy tresses had draped over his chest, or become entwined between his fingers, or... "Thanks," he said, not wishing to dwell on what no longer was. Her hair was short, they were over. Even if she was sitting a few feet across from him, she had been right. Her days as Miss October were through.

But what if... What if his mother pulled through? Could Ryan just take off at the end of the month, leaving Fred as the sole caretaker of a still frail woman? Even if Hannah didn't have surgery, their lives were bound to change; no more over-brewed coffee and cheap greasy hash browns. Fred might be pressured to quit smoking, Hannah would be strongly encouraged to take regular exercise, and without any of their daughters to enforce those actions, that left their youngest. Their only son hadn't been much good at providing monetary support, but it would fall upon Ryan's shoulders, for what was his life about, trailing behind a band, writing blog posts that Keith Millar was capable of scribbling. And when Ryan wasn't keeping an eye on his parents, he could work for Mickey. He had offered, just that morning. Ryan could stay here, never again be away from...

But Jane's hair was short. And even as it grew out, they would recall this time, perhaps forgetting this day, or this part of the day. But they would remember the minutes in her house before the ambulance and her subsequent kindness shown. He would recall her disappointment, not drowned out by that yapping Chihuahua. She would cling to whatever had pushed her over the edge, and eventually they would bicker, then fight, or worse, they would turn into his parents, or his sisters, blind to the bigger picture. Even if Kelly was seven months' pregnant or Shannon's mother-in-law was sick or Tess was drunk, shouldn't one of them, if not all of them, have said they would be there, or try to be there? But none had. Then Ryan sighed. He wasn't any different from his sisters, making every excuse to flee this town and ignore this woman who he loved, and needed, but had taken for granted. For ten years he had taken her for granted, pretending Octobers would always be enough.

"Why'd you cut your hair?" His voice was soft, in part that his dad was in the other room, although Fred might be sleeping. Sometimes after dinner he nodded off, allegedly watching the news or _Wheel of Fortune_. But actually, Fred would close his eyes, the weight of the day bearing heavily, even if bedtime was ninety minutes away. Hannah usually stayed up later than Fred, watching sitcoms, then sometimes those stupid crime shows that were all spinoffs of each other. Ryan never watched TV, except for sports, and that was in bars, either at Posney's with Jane, Mickey, and the rest, or with the crew wherever they happened to be. What kind of life did he have, and why the hell had Jane butchered her goddamned hair?

She sighed, and he wondered if time was slowing down again. He looked at the clock on the microwave, seven fifty-eight. He glanced between the time and Jane's face, then he stared at his dinner. It didn't look at all appealing, so he stood, dumping it in the trash. He put his bowl in the sink, on top of Jane's, then ran water into both bowls. Then he returned to his seat, gazed at the microwave. It was eight on the dot; had it taken two whole minutes to just throw out his dinner?

Maybe it had almost been seven fifty-nine. Maybe it was nearly a minute past eight, but as he glanced again, it was still eight p.m. Time was screwing with him, nothing was certain. Then he looked at the woman who hadn't answered his question, not minutes ago or earlier that day or... Did he ask about her hair when he got into town, when within just minutes she had made it abundantly clear that she didn't want to talk to him. Ryan had no idea, but he wanted to know now. "Jane..." Then he paused. It was none of his business. They were over, even if he moved back here to look after his parents. Then he shrugged, shaking his head. That would be his luck; Hannah would pull through, but Ryan and Jane were finished.

"Ryan, I cut it to, to..." She sighed. "To piss you off."

He stared at her, then smiled. "To piss me off?"

"Yeah. Figured it would make things easier."

He nodded. It was over between them; for how long had she wanted to end it? "Well..." Then he sighed. "Do you like it?"

She permitted a small smile. "Nope. Can't wait for it to grow back."

Now he chuckled. "I guess that's the way of things." He wanted to move closer to her, for her tone suggested other notions she would like to revisit. Or was he hearing what he wanted?

"Yeah, sometimes that's just how it goes." Jane still smiled, then she leaned back in her chair. "It's certainly easier to take care of, got all the dry ends off." She ran her fingers through it. "But my neck gets cold."

He ached, wishing to caress her neck, wondering why had Hannah fallen ill, why had Jane gotten fed up now, why was any of this happening. His life was always the same, just the places changed. October always arrived, then ended. "You've got some scarves, right?" he muttered.

"Yeah, but sometimes I forget, and then..."

And then it gets _really_ cold, but by then I'm gone, and you're alone and... Ryan sighed. "Well, I think it looks..." He wanted to say _pretty_ , but that wasn't the truth. She looked older; it wasn't an attractive style on her.

"It looks like shit," she smiled. "But live and learn."

He didn't nod, but she was right, on both counts. "Listen, thanks for coming over here." He didn't want to talk about this anymore, not her hair or what happened next, even if they hadn't actually spoken about that, but what was left to say? Now he knew about her hair, no big mystery, just a moment of anger, which wouldn't be lessened by admitting why, or by his mother's bad heart. He needed to start the process of... He cleared his throat, then heard his father do the same. Ryan gazed toward the kitchen doorway, but Fred made no other sound. Yet he wasn't asleep, maybe he was just waiting for the morning, when either the hospital would have called with news, or Ryan drove them over there, to see what a new day had brought. Then Ryan glanced at his cell phone, in the middle of the table. The hospital had the home number and Ryan's number. Fred and Hannah didn't have cell phones, just their landline.

Then Ryan peeked at the microwave. Eight thirty, what the hell? How long did it take to ask a question, get an answer, which wasn't much more than _live and learn_. Half a fucking hour to deduce that? He stood, walking to where the pot of stew rested on the stove. It was more than half full; Hannah had made a shit-load, but Ryan wouldn't have any more of it, and his dad had barely eaten one bowl. Then Ryan gazed at Jane, who wiped her cheeks. She'd eaten her portion, but she wasn't part of this family anymore.

Why was she crying? Maybe live and learn was harder to do than to say. Maybe... Ryan stepped her way, then knelt beside her. "Hey, you okay?"

She nodded, then shook her head, then looked at him. "What happens now?"

"Hell if I know."

"Are you, are you gonna..."

He blinked, wishing she would finish the sentence. Was he going to leave or stay here; which did she want more? Four hours ago she was ready for him to hit the road. But now...

"Whatdya want me to do?" He blurted it, but quietly, not wanting his father to hear him. Fred might think his son was being weak, or maybe Fred might think Ryan was doing the right thing. Maybe love was more important than pride, or maybe Ryan was full of shit. He was hungry, as his stomach growled, making Jane smile.

But she didn't answer him, although she tenderly stroked his face. Then she stood, using her napkin to blow her nose. She put the lid on the crock pot, then opened the fridge, making room for the pot. Then she closed the refrigerator, went into the living room, saying _goodnight_ to Fred, and that she would see him tomorrow.

Then Jane stepped to where Ryan had sat, in the chair beside hers. She didn't sit down, but she knelt next to him. Her eyes were cloudy, but she didn't speak, maybe she couldn't, he thought, without breaking down. Again she caressed his face, then she stood, ruffling his long hair. She called out another _goodnight_ to Fred, then Jane Crowlie slipped from the Puckett kitchen, not answering Ryan on her way out.

A few minutes after Jane left, Ryan stepped into the living room, finding his father watching television. Ryan told his dad he was going to have one beer at Posney's, and that he'd have his cell phone handy. Fred nodded to those details, then said that he would be ready in the morning, which didn't mean coffee and hash browns, or not in their kitchen. Ryan nodded to that, then sat on the sofa beside his dad. Neither man spoke until Fred turned off the TV, thanking Ryan for being there. Fred went up the stairs, hollering _goodnight_ when he reached the landing.

Once Fred was snoring, Ryan got in his car, starting the engine. The stereo clock read eight fifty-eight, but Ryan didn't think that was possible, for it seemed like he had sat on the couch with his dad for hours, then an even longer wait for his father to fall asleep. Then Ryan shook his head; nothing could be discounted anymore. Well, he wouldn't include Jane in that, for even if she'd tousled his hair and stroked his face, she had left without a word to him. Ryan couldn't do anything about Jane's silence, but before he headed to Posney's, he needed to make a stop. He glanced at the time, nine p.m. Then he smiled, driving away from his parents' house.

An hour later, Ryan was seated between Mickey and Amber, but not right at the bar. They had a table for three, in the back corner. None of them spoke much, although Mickey was glad Ryan was sticking around. Occasionally he mentioned something to that effect, as if testing Ryan. Ryan continued to pass with flying colors, assuring Mickey that he'd never have another computer problem again.

It was a few minutes past ten when Ryan took the last sip from his mug. He gripped his phone, checking the time, chuckling to himself. This evening at Posney's had felt as long as waiting in the ER; would life in his hometown become a test of how time related to pleasure? If so, Ryan was expecting his life to be a long one, regardless of how many years he lived. Unless, of course, he accidentally ran into Jane, when time took on a life of its own. He smiled, then stood. "All right, I'm heading out. I'll see you guys in..."

In another few days, or tomorrow, or whenever, for now his life would be a litany of _whenever_. Whenever Hannah got better, which wasn't a given, whenever Mickey needed Ryan's expertise, whenever they met here, at the main bar in town, for a few cold ones. Whenever was now Ryan's mantra, but it was easier than trying to pin down anything with certainty.

"Drive safe, and hey, call us, you know, whenever."

Mickey's tone was earnest, and Ryan smiled. "Sure. I'll call you." Then he picked up his cell phone, leaning down to kiss Amber. Her cheeks were damp, and he wiped away her tears. "It's gonna be okay," he said softly, unsure if that was true.

She nodded, then squeezed his hand that held only keys. "Call us," she warbled, but she couldn't say any more.

Ryan walked to the door, then looked around the room. Jake was behind the bar, serving guys that Ryan knew either from high school or just as acquaintances. Soon they would all be fast friends, in how they mingled here, their lives left outside the doors, or what didn't need to be aired aloud. He nodded to those who caught his gaze; everyone knew his mom had suffered a heart attack that afternoon, at Mickey Shulman's mother's house. And many knew that Ryan was staying here, believe it or not, but that Jane Crowlie wasn't the reason. Those that weren't aware of that detail would know within a few days, but Ryan didn't care. It was a small town, and in another month, he'd know all their shit too.

He opened the door and stepped outside. The night was cool, and he wished he could zip up his jacket. Then he smiled; he would retire this leather coat, it had done its duty. Winters here could get chilly; he'd need something more substantial. As he reached his car, he thought about what sort of jacket could replace this one; he would choose something different, not wishing to emulate the love that Jane had given to him in this at one time expensive leather jacket. At one time, she had loved him unreservedly.

And he had loved her that way too, but it had gotten lost in a young man's need to escape from a place where everyone knew everything. But now he was an adult, and he had made a promise, even if his mother had been unconscious. Ryan had only stayed at the hospital long enough to assure her that he would take care of his dad, and her, no matter what happened. A gal he'd known from grade school had been in Hannah's cubical, acting like a witness, but Ryan had made his decision. He hadn't noticed if his mother's vital signs registered with his pledge, but Nurse Jackie Robbins had nodded at him, like this was the first step in Hannah's recovery. Ryan had smiled at Jackie, wondering if Robbins was still her last name, probably not he assumed. Within another day or two, he'd know for sure; Ryan would be spending a lot of time in that ward of the hospital, unless his mother didn't make it.

He was about to open his car door, when someone cleared their throat. Turning around, he nearly gasped, then swallowed hard. "Hey, what're you doing here?"

Jane stood two feet away, wearing an old coat, her leather boots, jeans, and a scarf wound tightly around her neck. "Just wondering if you'd made it over here. Looks like you did."

He nodded. "Mickey and Amber are still in there. I just needed a beer and..." He sighed. "I told Dad I wouldn't be out late." Ryan smiled, like he was a kid, reporting his comings and goings. But he would keep himself on a short leash until Hannah was out of the woods, or dead.

It could go either way, Jackie had said to him, as they left Hannah's cubicle. But Jackie's voice had been optimistic, and he had gravitated to that, then to her, as if their shared childhoods permitted such an embrace. As he'd pulled away, she had wiped his face, but he hadn't realized he'd wept. Then she had patted his cheek, walking to the next patient, allowing Ryan the privacy to leave unnoticed. But if nothing else, Jackie had seen him there, at his mother's bedside, that first night of the start of Ryan Puckett's adult life.

"You hear anything, I mean..." Jane sighed, then she adjusted her scarf.

He smiled. "No, well, I went over there, before I came here. She looked..." He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. She hadn't looked like his mother, but Hannah wasn't going to stay the same. He'd ignored all the medical paraphernalia that had surrounded her; she would live or die, but that was all any of them were facing.

"You went over there?" Jane sounded shocked. "Tonight?"

He nodded. "I hadn't seen her since..." Since the ambulance had taken her from Jane's street, into what was this new reality. It was different in just about every way, except for his leather jacket and Jane's leather boots. But tomorrow, once he'd had breakfast, either at the house or in the hospital cafeteria, Ryan was going shopping. He still had a hundred bucks in his wallet, as Mickey hadn't let Ryan pay for that one beer. A hundred dollars would buy a decent coat, or at least one that would see him through the rest of autumn.

What would Ryan do with his leather jacket? Bury it maybe, or hang it in the hall closet, way in the back, that was as good as a funeral. But this was the last night he would wear it, for the goddamned zipper was broken, it was torn up, and had lived a good life. Better to bury it than Hannah, and Ryan grimaced. Jane was quietly crying, shaking her head, gripping her sides.

"Hey, look, it's okay, she's gonna be..." One way or the other, he thought, stepping toward his... She had been his Miss October for a decade, a long time to wear such a crown. "Jane, it's okay honey, it's gonna be..."

She stumbled into his arms, and Ryan nearly doubled over. Then he clutched her, as she wept harder. A few abbreviated curls came loose from her scarf, falling against his face. He wasn't sure if he could support them for much longer, for being that close to her was like having his own coronary. He took a couple of steps backwards, bumping into the side of his car. Then he gripped her with force, never wanting to let her go.

They stood as one for an indeterminate length of time; Ryan imagined it could have been five minutes or three hours, although no one bothered them, but then that was how life went in a small town. Nobody would have interrupted them as Ryan smelled familiar conditioner in Jane's short hair, the scent of her perfume embedded in her scarf, even the onion soup mix lingering in her blouse, under her coat. And if he inhaled deeply enough, he noted her leather boots. As soon as he recognized that, he flinched. Was it her boots, or his coat, which just moments or maybe hours ago he had been ready to scrap?

"Are you staying here?" she mumbled into his ear. "Are you..."

"Yeah honey. Nowhere else for me to go."

"Oh God, oh my God..." She took a deep breath, then pulled away far enough to stare into his eyes. "Oh shit Ryan, are you serious?"

He nodded, wondering if she was happy or pissed. "I told Mom I was staying, not that she heard me. She's hooked up to so many goddamned machines and..." But Jackie had heard him, and Ryan hadn't offered that declaration in jest. Not that he'd said it as a wager; it was simply the truth. And sometimes the truth was no more than accepting limitations, or finally the end of running away. "Whatever happens, Dad's gonna need somebody. He can't do this alone."

Was Ryan's return due to his ill mother an insult? Jane didn't seem offended, as she stroked his face. "He is gonna need someone. Are you sure about this?"

Ryan sighed. "It's time." Who would have guessed this was the reason he would quit the crew. Then he smiled. "I'll call Keith in the morning, but yeah, I'm staying here."

She sniffled, then cracked a small grin. "What will they do without you?"

He chuckled, in part from her teasing tone, and that her palm remained on his face. "Struggle mightily, I'm sure." Then he set his hand over hers. "But they'll figure it out." I did, he wanted to say, albeit under duress. But sometimes it took a slap up the head, although Jane was still caressing his cheek.

She took a few deep breaths, then she nodded. "So what happens now?"

He opened his eyes wide. "Well, uh..." Then he closed them. "I dunno."

He didn't want to see her face, or rather her chocolate eyes, because he had no frigging clue. But he knew what he wanted to occur; he wanted to remove her crown and the sash, but not bestow another title, just retire that ancient honor that he never should have awarded to her in the first place. He wanted to go back a decade, to when she gave him the jacket; he wouldn't have left her afterwards, he would have buckled down in school and earned a degree that wouldn't have been the end of his world. He was good with computers, but he'd squandered that ability, as well as the most important treasure in his life. And for what? To come back here ten years later with nothing more than a beat-up coat and a crappy car and his parents falling apart. Well, his mother's health was poor. Despite the cigarettes, Fred seemed impervious, maybe from all that over-brewed coffee.

"Ryan, I, I..." Jane paused, then traced around his eyes, which were still shut. Then in the longest moment he had ever lived, she inhaled, as if words were to follow. What would she say, that it was still over, wishing him good luck, that all of this was what happened to asshole boyfriends who couldn't pull their heads out. He waited for whatever she felt necessary to tell him, he waited and waited and...

The kiss was soft, reaching his mouth like healing rain. Then it went deeper, like a monsoon pounding on cracked, aching land. But while he was drowning, he wasn't dying. Every depleted, dried-out crevice soaked up her bounty, like his body was a sponge in need of endless refilling. Ryan didn't open his eyes, in part that when kissing her, he never paid attention to anything but her. And that maybe this was just another trick of time, but time concerned moments passing. It had nothing to do with a heart being restored.

When she pulled away, he looked out, finding a smile on her teary face. He brushed away those streaks, her skin so soft, her eyes shining. All the words hovered in her chocolate eyes, sentiments he wanted to tell her, but that she already understood. She nodded, affirming that fact, and he did too, acknowledging the miracle of that moment, which went beyond leather jackets and heart attacks, although they had played their parts, along with that yappy Chihuahua and Jane's pomegranate tree and his yearly absences that had fashioned her title. But now that dubious honor lay at their feet, scattered amid the gravel. Ryan stroked her face, then kissed her again, gently but with purpose. "Are you sure?" he said.

"Yeah," she nodded. "I mean, if you're gonna be here..."

He chuckled. "I'm gonna be here."

"You'll need a new jacket." She poked at the rips in his left sleeve. "It doesn't even zip closed anymore."

"Hasn't for a while now."

"But you didn't replace it."

"Nope, I never did."

She nodded, then nestled into his chest. "Are you sure, I mean..."

Ryan smiled. For some crazy reason she had stuck around; maybe she wasn't Miss October, but the perennial runner-up, hoping to God that the real Miss October wouldn't be able to fulfill her duties. "Baby, I love you. I'm never going away again."

"Oh Jesus Ryan, oh my God..." Her sentence was interrupted by a sob, then several of them tumbled from her. Then she was weeping louder than Mary Ellen Shulman, crying like she had outlasted all the previous Miss Octobers. Ryan kissed her forehead, running his fingers through those brief curls, letting her expend that grief. Who knew, maybe in a day or three, he might have his own to shed.

But it wouldn't be about this woman, which soothed him. And, as she began to calm, he grew more at ease. By the time she stopped crying, he felt time had also worked itself out. He reached into his back pocket, looking at his phone. It was ten thirty, which seemed appropriate. Or at least it didn't seem wrong.

They stood by his car as she blew her nose several times. Then a few people stepped out of the bar, but Ryan couldn't tell who they were. Jane didn't speak to them, but she gripped Ryan, as if noting all was well. He grasped her, conveying the same. Then she cleared her throat. "What time is it?"

"About ten thirty."

She nodded, then pulled away, gazing at him. "You wanna come over, I mean, I know you need to go home tonight, but..."

Again he closed his eyes, nodding his head. "Yeah, I'd like that." He opened his eyes, then chuckled. "Need to make a stop first." He didn't keep condoms in his car, and had no idea if she had any at her house.

"You don't need to stop anywhere."

"Yeah?"

"Not unless you think you might be..." Then she giggled. "I'm still on the pill."

Now he smiled. "Jane, I haven't..." Then Ryan paused. I haven't had sex without rubbers since you gave me this coat, he thought, ten goddamned years ago. "Since you, you know..."

She grinned. "I know. Me neither."

Now he laughed, which might have seemed odd, what with his mother very sick, and his father quite lost. But for the first time in his whole life, Ryan knew exactly where he was. "Well, then I guess we're probably okay."

"Probably," she smiled.

He grasped her hands, which weren't cold to the touch. "I'm sorry, for being away for so long and for..."

She didn't let him finish, her kiss interrupting. Ryan ran his hand through her hair, which now seemed as alluring as her lengthy curls. As they parted, he smiled. "I think I like your hair like this. I think I like..."

"I think I know what you like." Her tone was mischievous. "Let's go. You still gotta get some sleep tonight."

He nodded, although he wouldn't fall asleep in her bed. Tomorrow night maybe, or later that week, as soon as... Jane nuzzled his brow, then she headed to her car, leaving Ryan with a smile. He wasn't stopping for condoms on their way to her house, but in a matter of days, it would be their house, yappy neighborhood Chihuahua be damned. Ryan got into his car, the time on the stereo reading ten forty. He chuckled, then started the engine, following her out of the parking lot.
Liner Notes

These stories, poems, and novelettes are the direct result of one woman's gentle twist of my arm. In early 2012, Suzy Stewart Dubot invited me to join a writer's cooperative, Top Writers Block, with the initial goal of creating a tale fashioned by several independent authors, each tackling one chapter at a time. That first collaborative effort became _The Trouble With Thorndyke_ , and it led to a short story anthology, the theme chosen by our intrepid leader Suzy. I'm a novelist at heart, but Suzy can be convincing, and I agreed to contribute something to the second anthology, titled _Why Me?_

"50 Years Waiting" was the result, followed by "Pork Fried Rice and Recessed Lights", written in November, with a nod to NaNoWriNo. I skipped the next anthology, then wrote a piece for the next seven collections. _Stitches_ was my thematic choice, based upon my love for embroidery and crocheting, a poem as the result. The final two themes, _Meringue_ and _Pumpkins_ brought me back to longer tales; "The Todd Lambert Special" written for _Meringue_ paid homage to my _Alvin's Farm_ series. I decided to release all of these pieces in one anthology, neatly tying a bow around my publishing career, as I am now an officially retired indie author. All of these chips off The Block hold special places in my heart, and I am grateful to Suzy for her encouragement, and to all the Top Writers Block authors who have entertained me, and challenged me to be a better writer.

Finally, I thank my husband for supporting my endeavors, and Julie K. Rose and Gary Weston for offering their editorial assistance. Again, my hat is off to Suzy Stewart Dubot, who not only organizes the Top Writers Block collections, but graciously publishes them. Ta cheers thanks love.

### About the Author

Anna Scott Graham was born in 1966 in Northern California. A mother to several, she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and numerous hummingbirds.

Other books by  Anna Scott Graham are available on Smashwords.

