

SEVEN DIFFERENT KINDS OF SMOKE

### A Collection of Short Stories

### By Roman St. James

~~~

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Roman St. James.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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

### For Crystal ~

### The brightest star in my northern sky

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE GREENEST GRASS

SEVEN DIFFERENT KINDS OF SMOKE

BABBLE

LEAP FROG

A VOID OF SORTS

THE TELL TAIL TALE

ELEVATION

THE GREENEST GRASS

Tasha Evans stared at her face in the mirror and wondered what it would be like to no longer exist. She used to be quite fond of her smooth, chocolate colored skin, which was the perfect backdrop for her glistening, pure white teeth. She used to love her kinky, black hair, twisted into short dreadlocks. She used to be proud of her full, ripe lips, which looked inviting with or without lipstick. But now she had learned to hate it all.

Tasha had very little time left in this life, and she was still trying to figure out how she would say her final goodbye to her mother, let alone the rest of the family. They had all known that this day was coming for over three years now. But whenever she spoke with one of them – there were only a handful that were still willing to speak to her at all – they seemed to act as though none of this existed and that life was just as normal as it had always been. But it was all anything but normal.

But shit, she thought to herself, to be honest, her life had never really been normal. She guessed it was normal enough to grow up in Mississippi both poor and black – what some people considered to be two sides of the same coin – but growing up gay was a "whole 'nuther bowl of grits", as her daddy used to always say.

Tasha had always known she was gay. But for a long time she didn't realize that made her different from other girls. Not until the beginning of 7th grade, when she tried to hold Amber Blackwell's hand in a darkened class room during the viewing of a safety film, and the boy behind her yelled out, "Look at the two lezbos!" Amber, who had been her best friend until that very moment, started avoiding her like the plague and the rumors started flying. That's why, a month later, she found herself kissing Earl Owens behind Rooster's Liquor store.

Earl was the cutest, most popular boy at school, and while part of her was naturally repulsed by the act, another part of her still found it strangely exciting. And because he was so popular, the act made her popular by association – or at least more recognized. And it started replacing the 'gay' rumors with 'loose' rumors. Those that liked her called her 'lucky', but the jealous ones that were hatin' called her 'slut'. But that was ok with her. It allowed her to continue to keep her sexuality a secret. That's why she didn't even blink an eye when a bunch of her friends all ran up to her one day to tell her that they had just seen Earl having sex with Sherry Higgins in the back of her momma's broken down Cadillac Seville, even though Tasha and Earl had been girlfriend and boyfriend for the last three weeks. Of course, she acted upset, to save face. She even confronted him in front of the entire school.

It was in the cafeteria, during lunchtime. She had come up with the brilliant plan of pretending that Earl had slept with her, too, thereby solidifying the image of her heterosexuality.

"Earl!" she screamed at him from the other side of the room as she walked up to his table. "Who the hell do you think you are!? Do you think you can just fuck me then turn around and fuck that bitch Sherry, too?" she said, hand on hip and head rolling on shoulders.

Earl, who was always super smooth and ultimately confident, was caught off guard. He knew that Tasha had never even let him go under her shirt. But if he denied the allegations, it would look like there was something wrong with him, like he was less than the 'man' he pretended to be. For a few seconds he just stared. Then he took a long swig from his carton of chocolate milk, looked around to make sure that each member of his posse was hanging on his every word and then turned back to Tasha and said, "Don't hate the player, baby, hate the game."

She simply clicked her tongue, rolled her eyes and walked out to the soundtrack of half the cafeteria laughing at her, but she had accomplished her goal: everyone was convinced that she was sexually active. Straight and sexually active. And, she didn't have to kiss Earl anymore.

Things went pretty well for her after that. At least, for a while. After the 'Great Cafeteria Incident' all the other cute boys started trying to talk to her and offering to carry her books or give her their morning cinnamon bun, now that she was known as one of the few girls in her class that was actually 'giving it up'. People starting being friendly to her that had never even noticed her before. And she started hanging with Shawntel and Victoria, two of the prettiest, sexiest girls in school. But she was under no illusions. She knew they were both straight as nails, but she got to hug them, play with their hair, even watch them as they changed clothes after gym class. And she got to live vicariously through the guys that lusted after them, chased them and made love to them.

Tasha would often daydream about what it would have been like to have been born a boy; a boy with broad shoulders, a deep, barreled chest, large biceps and everything else that went along with it. She had always felt like a boy on the inside. From as far back as she could remember, as a little girl she liked to play with boys and she liked the kinds of toys that boys played with. G.I. Joe, Tonka trucks, army men and Stretch Armstrong were some of her favorites. It wasn't until she started to get over the 'boys are icky' stage that she realized that while she no longer saw them as 'icky', she also didn't feel any desire for them. It was the girls that got her attention. Especially the ones that had just started putting on a little lipstick from their Barbie makeup kits or that super-shiny cherry lip gloss borrowed from an older sister.

Her father called her 'tom boy'. He was conflicted. He didn't know whether to be proud or ashamed of her un-girlyness. When Tasha's mother found out that she was pregnant with Tasha, before that knew whether the baby would be a boy or girl, she had made it perfectly clear to Tasha's father that this was his only chance. Regardless of how much he wanted a son, if this child turned out to be a girl, he was going to have to be satisfied with that, because she was only having one. Get it while the gettin' is good, she had said. He prayed nightly that his new baby would be a boy. He even refused to let the doctor tell them the sex beforehand, because he was afraid of jinxing it. It was as though he believed that the longer he prayed on it the better his chances of getting his prayers answered. Standing in the delivery room, he prepared himself for the worse case scenario. And that's exactly what he got. Tasha – a baby girl. But, disappointed as he was, he had loved her from the beginning. Thus, the conflict. He was glad to be able to play baseball with his daughter and watch her climb trees and play with bugs. But something told him that all was not quite 'right' with her. But he never mentioned it to her mother. And her mother never said anything to him. At least, not until years later.

"Tasha," called her mother from the kitchen. Tasha pulled herself away from the mirror and joined her mother in the other room. She was rolling dough in the middle of a wooden board.

"Baby, can you reach up there in the third cabinet and get me that box of baking soda?"

"Sure," she said.

"You know," started her mother as she continued to move the rolling pin across the ever thinning mound of dough, "I've spoken to Uncle Willie three times today, and I think he just might show up for dinner tonight." She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes.

"Mom, why are you going through all of that? I told you, I'm fine. I don't need for Uncle Willie or anyone else to be forced into doing anything they don't want to do."

Her mother stopped moving the rolling pin and wiped her hands on a towel.

"I know baby, but I know Willie. Once you're gone, he'll regret that he didn't take the opportunity to spend some time with you during your final days. He loves you. He always has." A tear began to well up in one of her eyes and she turned away. "I still don't understand why this is happening," she said, her back to Tasha. "I still – "

"Mom, I can't keep having this conversation with you. This is just the way it is. You've just got to accept it."

"I know, but I –"

"I'm going to go walk around the neighborhood one last time, maybe stop by and see Shawntel. I'll be back soon." She walked over, kissed her mother on the cheek and quickly walked out of the house.

It had been weird sleeping in her old bedroom. She hadn't done that in over 15 years. But she had already moved out of her old apartment and sold the majority of her stuff, so it made sense to stay here. Plus, it made her mother happy.

As Tasha moved through the streets of her old neighborhood, she let her mind open to the memories that the different scenes pulled out of the shadows and into the light. There was the liquor store that her mother used to send her to twice a week with a note, telling the owner that she needed some cigarettes and some beer and that it was all right for him to sell it to her young, under-aged daughter. There was Mrs. Tolliver's house, who ran a child care business and used to watch her everyday while her mother was at work, until she started kindergarten. There was the pizza parlor where she spent so many afternoons and so many quarters, beating everyone, even the boys, at all the newest video games. And then there was the alley. She actually stopped and stared at it, letting her eyes take in all its details. There was a large garbage can, several small garbage cans, an abandoned car tire and all manner of litter and rubbish. But it looked perfectly harmless. It hadn't proved so harmless 15 years ago.

Tasha had been walking home from her part-time job at Jack's Burger Grill. It was a Saturday night, and on Fridays and Saturdays Jack's always stayed open till 11pm. Normally, her mother came to pick her up when she worked that late, but on this particular night some friends were supposed to come by and grab her on the way to a party. Right before closing she got a call that the party was canceled at the last minute. She didn't want to wake her mother, and since she only worked a few blocks from home and it was a nice night, she decided to walk.

Tasha's family certainly wasn't wealthy, but they lived in a decent neighborhood. The population was equally split between black, white and Hispanic, with a few Asians thrown in for spice. There was even a gay couple, two guys, that lived a couple of blocks over. There wasn't much crime in the neighborhood, and when there was it was usually a stolen bike or car stereo. Most of the people knew each other and occasionally socialized. So walking home alone felt perfectly safe to her.

She was halfway home when the car first drove by. An older, red Camaro. It appeared to be filled with a bunch of white guys, about Tasha's age. It made a u-turn and pulled up beside her, slowing down enough to keep even with her pace.

"Hey baby," said one of the guys, sticking his blonde head out the window. "What's up? You want to go to a party?"

"No thanks," she said, without slowing down.

"Come on! It'll be fun. There's food, liquor, weed. Whatever you want."

"Sorry, guys, but I'm tired. Thanks anyway."

Tasha heard someone in the backseat mumble something. She thought she heard the word 'dyke'. She had been out of the closet for two years now, ever since she began college. She had lived the lie for as long as she could, confiding in no one but the pastor at her church, who just happened to be a woman. The pastor, Pastor Collins, had convinced her that she needed to be true to herself if she were to ever find peace. And that God would be okay with it. But this was Jackson, not San Francisco, so Tasha was nervous. But finally she found the courage. She was surprised how accepting everyone was. Many of her friends told her that they already knew. Even her parents suspected. There were a couple of people from school that no longer wanted anything to do with her, but for the most part she was really happy with her decision. Now she no longer had to tell guys that she was 'busy' or 'involved' when they asked her out. And she no longer had to pretend that she was just out with a girl 'friend' when she was really out on a date. The liberation was inspiring. But still, this _was_ Mississippi, and good neighborhood or not, a person of color, straight or otherwise, always had to be alert to the possibility of running across some ignorant redneck.

"You sure you don't wanna come?" said a dark-haired guy from the back seat. "It's going to be the party of the year!"

"No, really. I'm sure."

"Well fuck you, then!" said the blonde boy. He threw a large cup of soda at her, which struck her squarely on the side of the head. Laughter erupted from the car as it sped off down the street.

"Assholes!" she screamed at the rear window as soda dripped down her face. She wiped it off with a shirt from her bag as best she could, and kept walking, cursing them under her breath. But as she walked on, noticing how quiet the neighborhood seemed to have gotten, her anger started to turn to fear. She started to get a bad feeling that the boys would come back. She was still five blocks from home, and after looking around to make sure they weren't behind her, quickly turned into the alley, to take a shortcut. She had almost made it through the alley when headlights appeared before her. There was no engine sound. They must have been waiting there in the dark.

Tasha turned around, prepared to run in the other direction when the boy that threw the soda at her stepped out of the shadows, blocking her path.

"Where you think you're going, you fucking nigger queer? Yeah, we recognize you from school. You think you're too good for us? Huh?" His face was an evil half-smile, half grimace.

Tasha didn't answer. She just stared at the threatening figure before her. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead as her mind raced to find a quick way out of this situation. She was pretty fast. Maybe she could run past the car before they could even get out. But when she turned another boy was already behind her, and she barely saw his fist before it exploded against her left eye. She didn't remember much after that. But the words "nigger" and "queer" were echoing thru her head when she came to, along with the sound of a siren. She found herself in the back of an ambulance.

She never knew exactly how long the boys had beat on her, but the result was a ruptured spleen, two broken ribs, a shattered eye socket, four broken teeth and an assortment of cuts and bruises. Who knows how much worse it would have been if Mr. Sanchez hadn't come out to see what all the noise was about and run the boys off. A police officer came to the hospital to have Tasha file a report, but no suspects were ever apprehended, even though she pointed two of the boys out at school. Lack of evidence, they said. No corroborating witnesses, they said. Consider yourself lucky that you weren't raped, they said. It was shortly thereafter that she moved to Los Angeles.

Tasha turned away from the bright alley and its dark memories, and continued on her walk. She soon came to the building she was looking for, a small brick-fronted house, with blue-trimmed windows and an assortment of colorful flowers in the yard. She paused at the door, took a deep breath, and then pushed the doorbell. The African American woman that opened the door was about Tasha's age, but with skin so dark it looked jet black. She was also strikingly beautiful, with green eyes, long, jet-black hair that matched her skin and a smile that most people described, for lack of a better word, as enchanting.

"Hey Shawntel," said Tasha. Shawntel didn't speak, but just opened her arms wide and they embraced each other warmly.

"It's so good to see you!" said Shawntel when they finally released each other and she stepped back to invite Tasha in. "Can I get you something to drink? I just brewed a pot of tea."

"I'd love a cup of tea, thanks," said Tasha. While Shawntel prepared the tea she sat on the sofa in the living room, trying to get over the feeling of awkwardness that had been with her since she walked up to the door. Minutes later Shawntel returned with a silver platter loaded with cups, tea and all the fixings. They spent a few more minutes going thru the required 'how've you been?' formalities. Then there was a brief silence as each sipped their tea and contemplated who would speak next.

"So," began Shawntel, "Can you tell me why you're doing this?"

"I think you know all the reasons," said Tasha.

"No, I really don't. I mean, T, you've created a great life for yourself. You have a great job, you're healthy, you have a loving family, caring friends. How can you decide to just give all that up?"

"You know it wasn't that easy. I thought long and hard about this before I made the decision. What you don't know is that my life hasn't been as great as you may have heard."

"I know. And I'm sorry that I haven't kept in better touch with you all these years, and that I wasn't there for you for some of the things that you went through. But I'm here now. Would you like to tell me what's been going on with you?"

Tasha took another sip of her tea and thought about how to begin.

"Well," she said, "You know that shortly after the attack I moved to Los Angeles to get away from the memories – and the fear – and finish school. I eventually got my Masters degree in Finance and went on to get a Law degree, as well, and started working for Chilton & Winters."

"Oh yeah, I've heard of them. My company has done some business with them over the years. Aren't they considered to be one of the most prestigious law firms in California?"

"Yes, they are."

"You go girl! It must have felt good to be considered one of the elite."

"It did for a while. You know, when I first started there it was a joy to get up and go to work every day. I felt like I was really making a difference, really doing good work, really helping people. And I felt that the firm was as happy to have me as I was to work there. But you know, after 9 years there, I still hadn't made partner. Most white guys that have pulled in a lot less business than I have make partner within 3 or 4 years. But year after year, they keep telling me 'maybe next year'. The bottom line is that they are probably never going to make a black woman a partner. And especially not a gay black woman."

Shawntel fumbled with her cup before setting it down on the table.

"So girl, why did it take you so long to leave that place? You're better than that. And as talented as you are I'm sure you could go anywhere you wanted."

"I know, I know. I guess I just got so comfortable there. I made good money and I had good friends there. I guess I just made myself ignore the pain that being overlooked caused, and concentrated on the positive. But after the breakdown, I couldn't ignore it any more."

"I heard a little something about that. What happened?"

"I really don't know," said Tasha, nervously rubbing her hands over her pants legs. "I guess it was just too much all at once. I had been involved with a woman – a white woman – named Beth. I was _so_ in love with her. We met at a business function and it was almost like 'love at first sight'. From the moment we laid eyes on each other, there was an air of electricity between us. For the next two years we spent every available moment together. What we had was so rare – so special." Tasha paused to pick up her cup and then just stared wistfully into it.

"That sounds really nice. So what went wrong?"

"Well, I had never met her family. Apparently, they knew she was gay and begrudgingly accepted it, but the unspoken agreement was that they really didn't want it around them. Kind of a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy. But after two years, we started talking about the future. Our future. The time came for me to be introduced to them. Well, they flipped. It was bad enough that I was gay – that part they could almost accept. But black, too? Oh, no. Not for their little Beth." Anger started to show in her face. "I couldn't believe that Beth could have grown up in that family and never known that they were racists! But she acted so shocked. It was really a mind-blowing experience. Her family owns Flag Electronics. They're worth $35 Billion. She's the only child. She stood to inherit a fortune. Until I came along, that is. Suddenly, she was ex-communicado. And written out of the will. She tried to hang, but it was just too devastating for her. Six months later she was gone. A messenger delivered a 'Dear Jane' letter. I drove to her house but it was completely empty and there was already a 'for sale' sign on the lawn."

"Oh, my God..." said Shawntel quietly, putting her hand to her mouth.

"I never saw or heard from her again. All her phone numbers were disconnected. I went to her family's home, but they told me she had left the country. I don't know if that was true or not, but I got the point. I was destroyed. Absolutely destroyed. I laid down on the couch in my living room one night and for five days only got up to go to the bathroom, and after a couple of days I even stopped doing that. I didn't eat and I barely slept. I just cried. The office didn't know where I was and kept leaving messages and sending emails. Finally my secretary and a couple of other attorneys from the firm came by with the cops and they kicked the door in. I spent a week in the hospital before they finally transferred me to an institution."

"Jesus...you poor thing," whispered Shawntel. She looked like she was about to cry herself.

"They had been force-feeding me for two weeks by the time my parents showed up. It wasn't that I was trying to die, it's just that I wasn't trying to live. I didn't see any point in it, you know? My life was a train wreck."

"What was going through you mind? Did you know what was going on?"

"I did, at least on some level. I kept asking myself over and over again, why couldn't I have been born a straight, white man? If so, all my problems would have been solved. No glass ceiling at work and I could date all the white women I wanted to!" She laughed and Shawntel laughed with her.

"I guess you have a point, but you know it's not exactly like it's all sunshine and roses for white guys."

"True, but every bad thing that's ever happened to me has happened to me either because I was black, female or gay. Everything. I know I should have been stronger, but it finally just broke me down."

"I see. So, you're really ready to sacrifice your life for this? To give up everything you've ever known? To leave your family in mourning?" asked Shawntel, her voice containing just a hint of condemnation.

Tasha opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again and bowed her head. After a moment she looked up and her face showed a calm resolve.

"Shawntel, the truth is that if I didn't do this, I probably wouldn't have much of a life for much longer, anyway. I'm not saying that I would ever purposely try to harm myself, but it was only this glimmer of hope that allowed me to mentally pull myself together enough to qualify for release from the institution in the first place. Besides, it's not like I'm going to be dead. Not really. Just...permanently out of touch."

"Now see, that's the part I really don't understand. It's like you're going into the Witness Protection Program over a simple medical procedure. That doesn't make any sense to me. People have sex change operations every year and they don't go underground."

"Well," said Tasha a bit hesitantly, "There's a little more to it than that. Everyone thinks I'm just going in for a sex change operation, but that's only a small part of it." She paused and self-consciously took another sip of her tea. "I haven't told anyone but my parents the full story. You have to swear that what I'm about to say will not leave this room."

"Girl, this is me. You know how tight-lipped I am. Remember, I've known since grade school that you were gay, and I never told a soul."

"I know. And that's why I came to see you today. I wish I would have reached out to you earlier, because even though I haven't seen you in years, I always felt safe with you. Even when I knew that you didn't always agree with some of the things I did, I never felt like you judged me. And right now, I really feel the need to connect with someone, someone that I can confide in."

Shawntel reached out and gently touched her arm. "You know I'm here for you," she said.

"Thank you," said Tasha.

"Well," she continued after a short pause, "like I said, this is more than just a sex change operation, though that's what I've been telling everyone. The truth is, not only am I switching sexes, I'm also switching races."

"Excuse me?" said Shawntel, her mouth dropping open. Tasha took a deep breath and continued.

"There's a new, groundbreaking medical procedure involving gene therapy and manipulation which allows doctors to permanently change the amount and quality of melanin in a person's skin and hair. Forget all the Michael Jackson jokes you've ever heard. It is now possible for a person to change from black to white. And I'm going to be the first one to undergo the procedure."

Shawntel slowly sat her teacup down on the table and for a moment just stared at Tasha.

"I...I...I..."she began, "I'm sorry. I'm just a little shocked. It's just such a strange thing to wrap your head around. It sounds impossible. I mean, the potential for this to change the world is simply mind blowing. How can something like this be going on and not be on the front page of every paper in the nation?"

"They've been trying to keep it hush-hush, at least until the first successful case has been concluded. Hopefully I'll be that case. There's already been some reports that details were leaked to the NAACP and that they are in the process of rallying worldwide protests against the suspected doctors and clinics involved in the research, but they have yet to confirm or deny."

"Wow," was all Shawntel could say.

"I've been so afraid," said Tasha, her voice cracking and her eyes tearing up, "that someone will figure out that I'm doing this before I can get out of the country. The doctors suspect that the backlash from something like this will put the lives of the first few candidates in extreme jeopardy. So the plan is for me to leave the country right away and have the procedure performed overseas, where they aren't constrained by American medical regulations and red tape. Then I'll start a new life there with a new identity. They've already made arrangements for me to get a new passport. One of the reasons I was chosen as the first was because with me changing both sex and race, there's less of a chance that anyone will ever be able to figure out who I previously was. I'm flying into Paris first thing tomorrow morning and the procedure will begin that afternoon. I'll be sequestered for six months in a secluded country farmhouse owned by one of the doctors. It contains a full lab. That will give me time to recoup and the doctors time to run a series of tests to document the results. After that, I'm on a plane to some unknown destination, where I'll live the rest of my life as a white man."

"Wow" said Shawntel again, "I'm speechless. It sounds so impossible! How did you even learn that this existed? And of the millions of people they could have chosen, why you?"

"My doctor at the institute, Dr. Ross, is the son of the doctor that pioneered these new techniques. They've been doing clinical trials on some of the procedures for the last couple of years, in a piecemeal manner. It was finally time for them to try taking a single human through the complete process and they've been searching for the right candidate. When Dr. Ross heard my story he felt I just might be the one. At first, I flat out refused. I just couldn't imagine never seeing my parents or friends again or how strange it would be to have a completely new identity – to no longer be _Tasha Evans_. But then, sitting in my room all alone the next couple of days, I realized that I really no longer knew who Tasha Evans was anyway. I had lost connection with my identity." She stopped and took another sip of her tea.

"That's really deep," said Shawntel, "But I guess I can understand where you're coming from. But still, it must have been an incredibly difficult decision to make."

"It was. But of course, the most difficult part was telling my parents. Pop was pretty stoic, which is typical of him. You know, the strong, silent type. But my mother just cried and cried. They actually had to sedate her. It broke my heart. It really did." Tasha sniffled and Shawntel handed her a box of tissues from the table.

"Speaking of which," said Tasha, after dabbing at her eyes, "I really need to be getting back. I promised Mom that I would spend the majority of my time left with them. She's cooking a big dinner. Pop will be home soon and some other relatives are coming over. I was hoping you could join us."

"I would have loved to, but Tommy is appearing in his first school play tonight, and if I miss it he'll never forgive me. But I'll be with you in spirit. You know I will."

"Thanks. That means a lot." Both women rose from the couch and again embraced each other warmly.

"You take care of yourself, Tasha."

"I will. You do the same. And tell that handsome boy of yours that I said break a leg."

"Will do."

Twenty minutes later Tasha was back home. The house was filled with the delicious aromas of her mother's excellent cooking. She had prepared all of Tasha's favorites: Black pepper chicken, smothered steak, chitlins, macaroni and cheese, okra, black-eyed peas, dirty rice, mashed potato casserole, mustard greens and, for dessert, German chocolate cake and Mom's world famous vanilla apple pie. Tasha hadn't seen her mother do this much cooking since she was a kid, when once a month they hosted a big Sunday dinner and all the nearby relatives would come to break bread with them and talk about the latest family gossip. Those were joyous times. But this night, in spite of the quality and volume of food, the mood was somber. Uncle Willie never showed up. Two of Tasha's cousins dropped by for a few minutes and one of her nieces called, but that was it. Tasha wasn't overly bothered by this, but her mother was clearly disappointed. Tasha wished there was something that she could say to help ease her mom's sadness, but she really didn't know what she could say that hadn't already been said.

Tasha noticed that while they ate her mother spent most of her time with her head down, staring at her own plate. But her father spent almost the entire meal staring at Tasha. It was almost as though he was trying to absorb as much of her essence as he possibly could before tomorrow morning, when she'd be out of his life forever. Tasha tried to lighten the mood with casual conversation, but her parents weren't very talkative. After dinner they watched TV together for a while. After both her parents fell asleep on the couch, Tasha covered them with blankets and then went to bed herself. After about an hour of not even the slightest hint of sleep, she decided to go to the attic and look through some of her old things, things that she knew she'd never see again.

There was her old wooden rocking horse, the one she received when she was three and that she used to fall off of on a weekly basis, but refused to let her parents give away. There was a collection of old baby dolls, all of them black. Some of them were missing the odd leg or arm, but all of their heads showed the scars of her failed attempt at the role of 'hair stylist'. None of their locks were longer than half an inch, and some were totally bald in spots. She laughed quietly to herself when she saw them. There was her old basketball. She felt like bouncing it, but didn't want to risk waking her parents. She had won a lot of nickels, dimes and quarters playing 'round the world' against the neighborhood boys with that ball. There was a box of dresses that one of her mother's friends had given her when she was 12, but that she had never worn. Time seemed to stand still as she reminisced over these newly rediscovered treasures, and before she knew it, the sun was coming up and her alarm was going off downstairs.

Her mother fixed a wonderful breakfast and while no one said much, feelings of love permeated the room. At the airport, her parents decided not to follow her to the gate. It was hard enough for them to say goodbye at the curb. Her mother could barely speak through her sobbing, and her father had to finally guide her to the car and they slowly drove away, with neither looking back. Tasha was surprised that she herself was dealing with the situation in such a controlled manner. Throughout the process she had remained upbeat and positive about her decision.

As she stepped onto the plane, she could feel the excitement began to really take hold of her. It was amazing that she was about to start a brand new life in a brand new country! She pulled her "French For Dummies" book out of her bag and got comfortable. As the plane began to taxi down the runway, she looked out the window and instead of seeing the outdoor scene, she caught her reflection in the glass. She stared at her smooth, chocolate colored skin, her glistening, white teeth, her luxurious, jet black hair and her full, ripe lips.

And then, finally, she cried.

SEVEN DIFFERENT KINDS OF SMOKE

Kenya Watkins was nervous. It was the seventh time in as many days that she had noticed the same elderly woman staring at her. What was this woman's problem? Was she some kind of freaky, decrepit lesbian? Kenya didn't swing that way. Never did, never would. And even if she did, she wouldn't have been attracted to some senior citizen. Kenya may have at times appeared wise beyond her years, especially considering how much tragedy she had endured in her short life, but the truth was that she was only twenty-nine years old, though some would say it had truly been a long twenty-nine years.

Kenya's mother, Cheryl, had been a crackhead. A fucking crackhead! It pissed her off all over again every time she thought about it, which lately had been pretty often. It bothered her less that she was born a crack baby. What she couldn't get over was the fact that her mother had died during her birth. Her father, Tyrone, had tried to convince her that it was from complications unrelated to her mother's drug use, but he had also admitted that he wasn't even in the hospital at the time that Kenya was born. He was in a fucking drug house over on 79th street, getting high! Getting high while her mother bled out on the operating table. It wasn't until three years later, when he nodded off in a heroin daze and let a smoldering cigarette set the house on fire that he finally saw the error of his ways. The house was a total loss and Kenya suffered second and third degree burns over sixty percent of her body. The doctors hadn't given her much chance of survival, but her father wouldn't listen. He stayed by her side in the hospital 24-7 and refused to leave until the withdrawal effects from lack of drugs caused him so much agony that the doctors forced him to allow them to admit him as a patient. He was on the 6th floor, wading through the fires of hell as he fought to exorcise his substance abuse demons and Kenya was on the 3rd floor battling to survive a different kind of fire. It was nothing short of miraculous that they both survived.

Kenya reached into her pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. It was the third time she had done so tonight. The small bottle contained exactly twenty-seven sleeping pills, more than enough to get the job done. She looked at her drink and considered whether she should take the pills now or wait until later. Then she felt someone walk up behind her. It was the old woman.

"Excuse me, dear, would you mind if I sit down?"

Oh shit, thought Kenya. Here we go. She shoved the bottle back into her pocket.

"Lady, I don't know what the fuck your problem is but don't think I haven't noticed you following me. Do I know you from somewhere?" she asked, cutting her eyes sideways at the woman.

"Well," said the old woman as she slowly lowered herself into the chair on the other side of the table, "in a manner of speaking, yes. My name is Kenya."

"What did you say?" asked Kenya, starting to get upset. She didn't have the time or the patience for any bullshit. Was this some kind of con game or scam? The woman seemed a little old to be a grifter, but these days you couldn't put anything past anyone.

"I said my name is Kenya," said the old woman. She was totally calm and relaxed and there was love and warmth in her eyes. She didn't at all give off the type of vibe that people up to no good typically tend to exude. Could she possibly be some distant relative? Kenya had never met any of her relatives. Here father had always told her that any of them that were worth meeting were already dead, and that all they had was each other. And so it had been. From that time in the hospital when Kenya was 3, it was like her and her father had been reborn and inextricably tied to each other through the pain and agony of that mutual rebirth. They both ended up spending several months in the hospital, her healing from the external damage the fire had caused and he healing from the internal damage caused by 15 years of the most hardcore type of drug abuse.

"What can I do for you?" asked the younger Kenya, wanting to be finished with the old lady so that she could get back to the business at hand.

"I'm here to save you," said the older woman, smiling warmly and reaching out to touch the younger woman's hand. The young Kenya flinched and jerked her hand back.

"Here to save me? Here to save me from what?" She was starting to get more irritated.

"Here to save you from yourself, child."

Kenya stared at her quizzically for a moment, not sure exactly how to respond to that.

"Lady, what exactly are you after? And how do you know me?" she asked, the frustration clearly apparent in her tone of voice.

"Sweetheart, I don't just know you. I am you. I am Kenya Watkins."

The younger Kenya felt the anger welling up inside her, looking for an outlet.

"I don't have time for this crazy shit," she said. She began to push her chair back in preparation to stand up and leave, but the older woman quickly reached out and grabbed her wrist. She tried to jerk her hand away, but the old woman was stronger than she looked. It felt like her arm was locked in a vice.

"Bitch, have you lost your fucking mind!?" she yelled. Several other people in the bar looked over at them, attracted by the commotion.

"Is that how your daddy taught you to respect your elders? Sit down young lady," said the old lady, gently but firmly.

"My daddy? What do you know about my daddy, old lady?"

"I know that Tyrone Watkins would have slapped you silly if he were alive to see you acting like such a fool."

The mention of her father's name shocked her and she sat down heavily. Who was this old woman? For the first time she took a good look at her. She appeared to be about 80 years old. She was about Kenya's height, but twenty or so pounds heavier. She had short, curly hair that was dark brown, closer to the young Kenya's natural color, as opposed to the light golden color she had been dyeing it for the last few years.

As young Kenya continued to look into the elder's face, she began to appear familiar. There was something about her nose and her lips that reminded Kenya of something, but she wasn't exactly sure what. Then she began to wonder. Did her mother have a sister? Could she possibly have been named after said sister? No matter how many times she asked her father questions about their relations, he never seemed to have any answers. But there had been many pictures of her mother around the house, and sometimes Kenya would spend hours just staring at them and wondering what her mother had been like - or, at least, what she had been like when she wasn't high or chasing a high.

Sometimes Kenya would meet people in the street, when she still lived in the old neighborhood, that would stop her and say something along the lines of, "Hey, aren't you Tyrone and Cheryl's kid? You're the spitting image of your momma!" And when Kenya compared what she saw in the mirror to what she saw in the pictures, she had to agree with them. And she had to admit she saw a lot of the same in the face of the old woman that was sitting across from her.

"Are you related to my mother?" she asked.

"In a manner of speaking. As I already said, I'm you. I'm Kenya Watkins," said the old lady, smiling that warm, grandmotherly smile again.

"God damn it!" yelled Kenya as she slammed her hand down on the table. "What the hell are you talking about!?" Several people again looked over at their table.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" she said to the man at the next table. "Mind your fucking business!" He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he went back to sipping his drink as if he hadn't noticed her at all.

"Listen child," began the old woman, "I know this is difficult to accept, and I really don't have time to answer too many of your questions. I just came here to tell you one thing: Don't give up. Salvation is just around the corner. There's a brighter day on the horizon."

Just then the waitress appeared at the table.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked, looking from the younger woman to the older woman and back again. The elderly lady didn't speak. She just kept staring into the younger woman's eyes, smiling that loving smile.

"No," said the younger Kenya, finally. "Everything's all right. But I think this lady needs a drink."

"What can I get you ma'am?"

"Tea would be fine, thank you. No cream or sugar, just a bit of lemon." The waitress made note on her pad.

"And you miss? Can I get you another martini?"

"Absolutely," said the younger woman. "Make it a double."

After the waitress left, the young Kenya focused her attention back on the face of the older woman.

"So," she said, as she took a deep breath and tried to regain her composure, "Obviously you know me and you're here to tell me something. I don't have all night. I have things to do. So how about we cut to the chase and get on with whatever it is you're trying to get to."

"Very well," began the old lady. "I am you. I am Kenya Watkins. I was born October 25th, 1971 to Cheryl and Tyrone Watkins."

Kenya was mystified that this woman knew her birth date. Why she was claiming to be 29 years old when she clearly looked closer to 79 was the big question. The lady was obviously crazy, but it was also clear that she knew something about Kenya's family, and that at least made her worth listening to for at least a few minutes.

"That's interesting," she said. "Please continue."

"Well, my mother - your mother - Cheryl Watkins, died minutes after you were born, from internal hemorrhaging. She was a habitual drug abuser. It took 3 years and a life threatening fire to get your father - my father - Tyrone, to finally see the light and get his life together. After that, he proved to be the ideal father, in spite of the many hardships he had to face, being a single parent."

"Ok, all right. So you knew my parents. Enough with the history lesson. Why are you here? What exactly do you want?"

At that moment, the waitress returned with the tea and martini, and the older woman waited until she left before she answered.

"I'm here to save your life, Kenya. Not only do I know all about your life, I know about the pills in your pocket."

"What pills?"

"The sleeping pills."

Kenya froze, the freshly poured martini half way from the table to her lips. How could this old woman know about the pills? Kenya had pulled them out of her pocket a few minutes ago, for just a few seconds. This lady would have needed better than optimum vision to be able to read the label that quickly, even if she had been in the proper position to do so. Kenya's arm started to move again and she took a big swallow of her drink.

"All right," she said as the gin flowed down her throat and warmed up her insides. "I'll play. So you know about the pills. What else do you know?"

"I know everything," said the old woman. "For example, I know about Tyrone and the Seven Different Kinds Of Smoke."

Kenya froze again, once more completely dumbfounded. This lady was something else! How did she know all this? When she was about 15 years old, Kenya's father had taken her to the park one Sunday, something that he had done at least once a month since she was 3. On the way home, like they did every time they went to the park, they stopped at their favorite ice cream parlor for a giant banana split, which they always ordered with two spoons.

"Baby girl," he began as they dug into the ice cream - he always called her 'baby girl' when he had something important to say - "There's something I want to talk to you about. You're old enough now to understand that as a young, black female, there are obstacles you're going to face in this life. I call them the Seven Different Kinds Of Smoke - racial prejudice, gender prejudice, political under-representation, diminished family structure, financial instability, lingering health concerns and poor quality education. Some of these issues are no one's fault - you can't blame anyone for being born black and female. And some of them are my fault. If I had maintained better relations with my family you would have had the benefit of their guidance. If I had been able to earn a better living, we could have afforded to live in a better neighborhood and you could have attended better schools. But there's no use in crying over all that now. The bottom line is that I call these the Seven Different Kinds Of Smoke because they can only hurt you if you allow them to. If you hold your head high and keep your eyes on the horizon, you'll never even notice the smoke as it blows past you. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Yeah, daddy, I think so," she said. But she really didn't. At least, not at that time. But through the years, as she dealt with heart murmurs, asthma, being overlooked for promotions at work, countless sleepless nights wondering what her grandparents looked like and on and on, she began to get it. And she did like her daddy told her - she held her head high and looked to the horizon. She became a health and fitness nut. She went back to school and eventually got her PHD. She got a high paying job. She met the man of her dreams and had the fairy-tale wedding as her teary-eyed father walked her down the aisle. But then things started to go wrong. And next thing she knew, she's sitting in a bar, with a lethal dose of prescription pills in her pocket, nursing her third martini and listening to the ravings of a mad woman.

"So you did know my father," she said.

"Yes, child, of course I did. As I said, he was my father, too."

"All right, old lady," said Kenya, as she rolled up her left shirtsleeve. "If you're me, tell me how I got this scar on my elbow." She thrust the elbow at the old woman, the deep pink scar shining faintly under the bar's florescent lights.

"You got that scar when you were only 9 years old," said the old lady. "You were riding your bike on the way home from school when Henry Parker appeared out of nowhere and knocked you into Mrs. Santiago's sticker bushes."

She knew about Henry Parker? Well, that should have been no big surprise. Everyone knew about Henry Parker. He was the epitome of the black American success story. Henry had fought his way out of the ghetto and built one of the most successful black-owned entertainment companies in history. And their wedding had been the social event of the decade. Everybody who was anybody was there, and the rest of the population couldn't wait to read all about it in the style section of every major newspaper from L.A. to London. Of course, the divorce three months ago was almost as widely reported.

"Ok, ummm..." the young Kenya said, trying to figure out a good way to trip the older lady up and prove her a phony. "If you're so good, tell me what brought me to this bar tonight."

"Well," the elderly woman began, "there are many things. Some people would guess that it might have something to do with your husband recently leaving you for his 19-year-old personal assistant, and the prenuptial agreement that in effect rendered you penniless. But we know there's much more to it than that. There's the hysterectomy that you had 6 months ago, for example."

At the mention of the "H" word, Kenya found herself staring off into space, thinking about the time in the doctor's office 2 years ago when she had been diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer. All the strength had gone out of her legs, and like the swooning female character in some old southern novel, she had collapsed right there on the spot. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so serious.

From the beginning, Henry had been completely supportive. He was a fighter by nature, having succeeded against monumental odds that said that a black male like him would never reach the age of 25, let alone become a financial success of iconic proportions. He was also a businessman with a natural affinity for accomplishing what others said was impossible. So he attacked her cancer like he would have attacked a business problem – thoroughly and with unrelenting vigor. He hired a nutritionist, two full-time cooks, an acupuncturist, a personal trainer and a live-in therapeutic masseuse that specialized in cancer patients. Kenya took a leave of absence from teaching at the university and her full-time job became getting healthy. Environmental specialists came out to the house every couple of weeks to test the water, air and soil, making sure that the atmosphere was as pure as possible. Henry even had feng shui consultants redesign the layout of the house to make sure the 'energy' was as positive as possible.

The doctors had told Kenya that she only had four months to live and recommended she get her affairs in order. Henry said fuck the doctors. He had made this his personal fight and he wasn't used to losing. Turns out he was right. Within 9 months Kenya was in complete remission. All the medical personnel called it a miracle. Henry said it was simply the power of a "nigga with too much money, attitude and ego to take 'no' for an answer." He didn't give a bit of credit for the recovery to the doctors. Or to Kenya. Or even to God. In Henry's mind this had been his fight and it was his victory.

Kenya hadn't been in remission for a month before Henry told her it was time for her to get her ovaries removed. He had done the research and knew that the surest way to guarantee that the cancer didn't return was simply to remove the offending organs. The doctors agreed that the logic made sense, although they felt it was a bit premature for such a drastic action, considering she was only 27 at the time and had yet to have any children. But Henry was adamant. He had beat cancer, and he didn't want to chance having the victory reversed. No matter how much she cried and pleaded, he held firm. She begged him to let her at least delay it long enough for them to try to have a child, but he wouldn't budge. Maybe if she had known that he had been fucking his assistant – the 19-year-old – since the day she was diagnosed, she would have found the courage to defy him. Or maybe not. Henry Parker always got what Henry Parker wanted, and God help those that got in his way.

"Is everything all right, dear?"

The voice of the old woman brought her back to the present.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I'm fine. I was just..." she trailed off, then slightly shook her head before returning her full attention to the moment at hand.

"How do you know all this stuff about me? Huh? Are you some kind of crazy stalker? Is that it?" Her brow furrowed as she felt herself becoming angry all over again.

"I told you, dear, I'm –"

"I know, I know, you're me! Alright "me". Give me a second. I'm going to think of something that no one else but "me" could possibly know, and see just how fucking smart you really are." The old lady just smiled and gently nodded her head. Kenya took another sip of her drink and started mining her brain for something to trip the old lady up on, so that she could get on with her night. Naturally, the next thing that popped into her mind was the sexual misconduct lawsuit. But of course, that wouldn't prove anything. Those headlines had been bigger than both the wedding and the divorce.

Kenya could have suffered through all the tragedies that life saw fit to throw at her, if only they weren't all so public. The "Case Of The Fondling Professor", as it had been dubbed by the press, was actually never supposed to have been public at all. One of her second year students, a good-looking boy named Maxwell Voss, had been unhappy with his final grade – and the fact that Kenya had been ignoring his advances all semester. In retaliation he had filed a report with school officials claiming that one afternoon she had asked him to stay after class to talk about "improving his final grade", then tried to seduce him and started massaging his crotch before he was able to push her off.

She wished that he had been in the room when they showed her the report. She would have beat his ass like a rented mule until he confessed that he'd made it all up. As it was, she just threw the dean's phone through his office window and his flat screen computer monitor across the room. Security had been called. By the time all was said and done, she was asked to quietly 'resign', and the school promised to keep the entire affair out of the public record. So did Maxwell, for the princely sum of $25,000 in damages. In exchange for him signing a non-disclosure agreement, she wrote him a check. The divorce had already been in the works and Henry had already emptied all the joint accounts. That $25,000 check amounted to half of her entire savings, savings that she was now going to have to live off of until she could find a new job. Writing that check to that lying, trifling-ass, good for nothing motherfucker was the most difficult thing she had ever had to do, even more difficult than battling cancer, because she saw it as an admission of guilt for something that she was innocent of. Two weeks later, when she saw the headline while reading the L.A. Times in a local Starbucks, she became so sick she instantly vomited her vanilla cappuccino and blueberry muffin all over her favorite Jimmy Choo shoes. The story was complete with Maxwell's picture and personal quotes. Her lawyers told her that she could sue him not only for the 25 grand but for everything else he'd ever earn. But she just didn't have the strength for another battle. She was done. That was it. The final straw. Her back was finally broken.

That was a month ago. Since then, she'd spent night after night locked in the tiny confines of her new studio apartment, ignoring emails, voicemails and letters from well-meaning friends and wondering what she was going to do next. The answer was contained in the 27 little white pills that were currently residing safely in her pocket.

"Ok," she said, finally remembering something, "If you're "me", there's something that no one but I know, and so you should know it as well. There was a very significant incident that took place exactly six years, to the day, before my wedding to Henry. What was it?"

"Well," said the old lady, as she paused to take a sip of her tea and then look around the room, "Are you sure you want to talk about that here, where some random ear might catch it and report it to the tabloids?"

"There's not much more that the press can do to me, so at this point I'm not too worried about it. Now can you answer my question or not?"

"Yes, I can," said the old woman solemnly. "The incident you're speaking of is your abortion."

Kenya almost dropped her glass. Her head started spinning and it wasn't from the martinis. How in the world could this lady possibly know about the abortion? It had happened a couple of years before she was even engaged to Henry. They had been dating off and on since jr. high school. By the time Henry was 15 he had already begun producing some local music acts and a couple had gone on to hit it big. His reputation as a hot producer was growing like wildfire. He would spend hours laying with Kenya in the dark, talking about the successful company he would one day create. And she would talk about her own dreams of becoming a researcher and college professor.

When she discovered she was pregnant, she didn't know what to do. She knew that neither she nor Henry were ready to be parents. They both had too much to accomplish in their lives before they brought a baby into this world. Besides, she figured Henry would probably leave her if she told him. And her father! She couldn't even bring herself to think about how disappointed in her he would be. So she had gotten a friend to hook her up with a fake I.D., with a fake name, which stated that she was 21 instead of 16. It was a little bit of a stretch, but when she did her hair and make-up just right she was able to pull it off. The fact that she was already almost 5'11" probably helped. So she took her new fake driver's license, drove to the next county and had the abortion. She had never told anyone, not even her best friend. She had also never forgotten what she did, nor had she ever gotten over the feelings of guilt. Now that she was without ovaries and physically incapable of ever bearing children, the regret had become more than she could bear. It only made it worse that there was no one that she was ever able to talk to about it. No one, other than that people at the clinic, ever knew about it. That is, until now.

For a long time neither of the women spoke. The younger woman starred at her hands, the table, the walls, anything except the older woman sitting across from her. The older woman sipped her tea and patiently waited until the younger one was ready to continue the conversation.

"So," said the younger Kenya, finally breaking the heavy silence, "Let's say I'm crazy enough to believe you – to believe that you are 'me'. I would have to assume that means you're from the future. How did you get here? Do you have a time machine or something?"

"I'm sorry baby," said the elder lady, "but I really can't talk about that. It's far too complicated. What I'm here to tell is that as bad as your life might look right now – with the divorce, the work problems, the hysterectomy, the money shortage and all the other issues that you have going on – and I know there are many – it's all temporary. You have a fantastic life ahead of you. You just have to hang on."

"A fantastic life? How fantastic? Because let me tell you, as shitty as my life has been so far, the future life would have to be 'extremely fantastic' to make it all worth the ride."

"Well, we both know that you're not a very complicated woman. And neither are your needs, contrary to how some people – including the press – might paint you," said the old lady as she took another sip of her tea, then dabbed her lips with her napkin. "All you really need to be happy is a satisfying job that allows you to make a decent living, good health and a good, honest man that can give you unconditional love."

"I can't really argue with that," said the younger Kenya, smiling faintly. "But for someone who has lived as much of 'my' life as you say you have, you aren't telling me very much about my future."

The old lady looked at her watch and then began to rise. "I'm sorry, but I've already said as much as I can. It's time for me to leave."

"Wait a minute!" said the younger woman. "You can't just come in here after following me for damn near a week, tell me not to kill myself because life is going to get better and then run off into the night! You've got to tell me something more substantial that that! I need details!"

The older woman stopped putting on her coat and sat back down.

"You're right," said the older Kenya, exhaling deeply. "It's not a very fair situation. I've already said as much as I'm supposed to, but I'll break the rules and tell you this: Within two years you will be married to your soul mate and together you will raise a son who will grow into an outstanding young man that will make both of you very proud."

"That's it? That's all you've got? You can't even tell me a name!?"

The old woman looked embarrassed.

"Ok," said the old woman as she nervously wringed her hands together. She paused for a moment, as if trying to decide if she was really going to do it, then she blurted, "Your son's name is Robert and your husband's name is James. That's really all I can say. Now I have to go." She began rising again, and in her hurry brushed against the teacup, knocking it over. Tea splashed across the table.

"Oh, I'm so clumsy," said the older Kenya.

"It's ok," said the younger Kenya, grabbing some napkins and laying them over the spill. "No harm done." She leaned back and looked at the old lady again.

"Listen," she said, "I don't really understand exactly what's happening here but I do get the feeling you're honestly here to help me. Thank you for whatever it is you're trying to do."

"You're very welcome, child," said the old lady as she reached across the table, careful to avoid the spilt tea, and gave Kenya's hand a warm squeeze before rising again. "Now I really must be going."

"Well, at least let me walk you to your car. It's too late to be walking these streets by yourself at your age."

"That's not necessary. Besides, I don't have a car."

"No car? How did you get here? Never mind. I'm giving you a ride to where ever you're going and I won't take no for an answer."

The older woman took another deep breath and then sat down again.

"Thank you sweetheart," she said, "That's very kind of you."

"Just let me take care of the bill and we'll get going. Excuse me, waitress?" she said, signaling the hostess. "Can I have the check, please?"

"Right away," said the waitress.

"I'm going to run to the rest room real quick. Can you please watch my purse?" said the younger woman to the older one.

"Of course, dear."

The younger Kenya went to the ladies room, but when she came out the older woman was no where to be found.

"What the hell?" She ran to the table, grabbed her purse and began frantically looking through it for her wallet.

"Kenya, what the hell were you thinking!" she mumbled to herself as she searched, "Leaving some stranger here with your purse. You're slippin' girl!"

She found her wallet and quickly looked through it. All her money and credit cards appeared to still be there.

"Thank God," she said to herself as the waitress came by and placed the bill on the table. Kenya picked it up and quickly reviewed it. Three martinis. Nine dollars each. Total: Twenty-seven dollars.

"Ah, excuse me," she said to the waitress as she was walking away. "I think you forgot to include the tea on my tab." The waitress returned to the table.

"I'm sorry, tea?" she said. Kenya looked at her questioningly. Her empty martini glass was on the table, but the teacup, along with the spilt tea and the wet napkins, was gone.

"Uh, never mind," she said. She pulled three tens and a five from her wallet, dropped them on the table and walked out of the bar.

As she sat in her car at the stoplight, she wondered whether or not she was truly losing her mind. It was not like her to be so distracted that she started seeing people that weren't even there.

Suddenly she heard tires screeching behind her and heard the sickening crunch of metal on metal as her body was flung against the steering wheel and her head whipped back against the headrest. She slowly opened the door and got out of the car. Nothing seemed to hurt, but she was cautious and moved carefully. A handsome black man, about 6'2" with a rugged, athletic build and short wavy hair ran up to her.

"Miss, I'm really sorry. I took my eyes off the road for just a second to look at my son and next thing I knew, there you were. It was totally my fault. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I think so," she said as she rubbed her neck. She seemed to be unscathed. "What about you? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Did you say you had a son in the car? How is he?"

"I think he's ok, too"

The man quickly began walking back to his car and Kenya followed him. Sitting in the back seat was a boy of about six. Kenya thought he was probably the cutest kid she had ever seen, even with tears still drying on his face.

"You doing all right, Bobby?"

"Yes daddy," said the boy. Kenya looked at the man.

"He doesn't look all right," she said with concern. "Are you sure he isn't hurt?"

The man walked a couple of paces from his car and motioned with a tilt of his head for Kenya to join him.

"You see, the thing is, his mother died in a car accident a couple of years ago. Bobby was in the car at the time and it left him pretty traumatized. I'm usually the most careful of drivers, really I am. Tonight we were driving home from the Lakers game and he was sleeping in the back seat and yelled out from a nightmare. That startled me and I looked back so check on him and before I know it I'm slamming into your back end. Again, I'm really sorry. But don't worry, my insurance will take care of all the damage."

"It's ok," she said. "As they say, accidents happen. Let me get a pen out of my purse and we can exchange info." They began walking back to her car.

"By the way, my name is Jim," said the man.

"Nice to meet you Jim. I'm Kenya." They reached her car and she pulled a pen and notepad out of her purse. He passed her his license and insurance card. It read 'James Watanabe'. She began jotting the information down. James. Jim. James. Jim. What was it about his name that struck her as so interesting? Suddenly she stopped writing and looked at the man standing before her.

"What did you say your son's name was?" she asked.

"Bobby," he said.

"Bobby," she said slowly, feeling her heart start to beat faster. "Is that by any chance short for 'Robert'?"

"Actually, yes, it is," said Jim.

Kenya looked back at the car behind her. The little boy was apprehensively staring at her from the back seat. When he saw her looking at him he shyly smiled and quickly looked away.

Kenya returned her gaze to the man named James and her eyes began to fill with tears.

BABBLE

The woman, Angela, walked into her home and dropped her purse on the dining room table. Her husband, Jack, was sitting on the couch in the living room, reading the newspaper.

"Hey babe, how are you?" she asked.

"Hey," he said.

"How was your day?" she asked. Jack didn't answer so she continued. "Mine was awful," she said as she sat down on the couch, took off her shoes and began to rub her feet. "The car gas gauge must have gotten stuck again because it said a quarter of a tank, but it ran out on me and stalled in the middle of the street. I had to walk three blocks in a dress and heels to get enough gas to get home. I'm exhausted."

"Hey, do you know what happened to the hammer I left here on the table yesterday? I need to hang those pictures you keep bugging me about," said Jack.

"I spoke to the counselor today," answered Angela as she grabbed a stack of mail from the coffee table and began to flip through it. "She said that she could probably schedule us sometime next week. What day works best for you?"

"I know I promised to hang them two months ago," said Jack, "but I keep getting sidetracked. I'll do them today, after dinner.

"I was thinking that maybe we could go after work one day next week," said Angela. "I'm really optimistic that she might be able to teach us some coping strategies to help us deal with our communication issues."

"Any idea what you want to do for dinner?" asked Jack, turning his attention back to his paper. "I was thinking about maybe grilling up a couple of steaks."

"You know, Jan and Mike went to this same person and they said it did wonders for their relationship," said Angela. "Some of their problems are very similar to ours. He had also had a couple of affairs, and they were on the verge of divorce before they started having sessions with this person. Mike was drinking like a fish and had gambled the majority of their savings away. It was really sad. I'll be the first to say that I never thought it would last. I told her many times that she should just leave him. But I guess it's good that she didn't listen to me, because now they have a fantastic relationship and their third baby on the way."

Jack turned the next page of his paper and kept reading without looking up.

"Jack, are you listening to me?"

"Huh?," he said, finally looking over at her.

"I'm trying to talk to you about our relationship and you seem to be ignoring me. Can you put your paper down for just a moment so we can discuss this?"

"I'm sorry dear, but it's been a rough day and I'm really not in the mood to discuss this right now. How about after dinner?" He put his paper on the coffee table and started walking towards the kitchen.

"How do you want your steak?" he asked.

"I'm not very hungry," she replied in resignation. "My stomach is upset. I think I might be coming down with something."

Jack began pulling plates, utensils and other items out of the cabinets and drawers in preparation for their meal.

"Oh shit," he said, pulling a bottle down from the upper cabinet. "We're almost out of steak sauce. I asked you to put it on the grocery list two weeks ago. You know I can't eat steak without steak sauce. Are you all right with just ketchup on yours?"

Angela looked up wearily.

"Yes, that's fine," she said.

"I'm sorry," said Jack. "If you really want it, you can take the steak sauce and I'll take the ketchup. By the way, how was your day?" he asked from behind the refrigerator door.

Angela sighed heavily and walked into the kitchen to join her husband.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" she asked.

"Do you mind cutting these up for me?" he asked as he passed her a large knife and two cartons of mushrooms.

Angela walked behind him to the cutting board on the kitchen island. As she approached it, she noticed a strange earring on the counter.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he said with his back to her, "your sister Tiffany is stopping by a little later to look for an earring or something she thinks she may have left here."

"Tiffany? When was Tiffany here?"

"A couple of days ago. I told you that she came by."

"I don't remember you saying anything about that. And she didn't say anything when I spoke to her yesterday. What did she want?" asked Angela.

"I think she wanted to get some sisterly advice on some 'man' troubles she was having. She seemed quite upset. Crying and the whole nine. She waited for you for a couple of hours and then finally said she had to leave."

"A couple of hours? My sister has problems sitting still for a couple minutes, let alone a couple of hours. I told you to never let my sister in this house when I'm not here to watch her. What was she doing?"

"We were just talking. She wanted a male perspective on some of her relationship issues," said Jack.

"Yes, I'm sure she did want a 'male perspective'," said Angela coldly. Jack looked over his shoulder at her.

"I know that you and your sister have had your problems, but she's really a sweet kid."

"My sister is a lot of things," said Angela as she went back to cutting the mushrooms, "but 'sweet' is not one of them. Neither is 'kid'."

"I've never known two sisters to be so different or to react so differently to each other. I really think you should give your sister a chance. She's not the same girl you grew up with," said Jack.

"I would certainly hope she's not the same girl," said Angela, "considering all the things she's done to me through the years. The problem is that I know she is exactly the same girl. What did you two talk about?"

"You know, your sister loves you. You're related by blood. I don't see why you're still hanging on to all this anger with her. If anyone could use some counseling, it's you two."

"Do you think counseling is going to change the fact that she fucked every boyfriend I ever had? Do you think that counseling is going to change the fact that she ruined my first marriage? Do you think counseling is going to change the fact that my father and I haven't spoken in over 10 years because of her?"

"You are so melodramatic," said Jack as he slowly shook his head and turned back to seasoning the steak.

"Melodramatic!?" screamed Angela. "How the hell are you going to stand there and tell me – "

"Dear, can you please grab the garlic powder out of the cabinet?" asked Jack, cutting her off.

Angela threw the cabinet door open, banging it against the wall, grabbed a large container of garlic powder and slammed it down on the counter beside her husband. She was flushed and had started breathing hard. She starred at her husband. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the earring again.

"And how the hell did her earring end up in here anyway?" she asked, the anger in her voice clearly apparent.

"I told her that you two should really just sit down and have a heart-to-heart and get all this hostility out into the light, once and for all. She said she'd love to, if only you would meet her halfway."

"Oh she did, did she? Did she tell you why she can never have those conversations with me? Why do I always have to hear about her offers of goodwill from someone else?"

"You know, part of your sister's problem is that she doesn't have much stability in her life. She takes the idea of 'party animal' to a whole other level," he said, chuckling slightly. "What she needs is a good man in her life. I told her I'd hook her up with Walter."

"Walter? Walter from the office? Walter is way too good for my slutty sister."

"What are you talking about? I think they'd make a great couple. He's a good looking guy. She's a good looking girl. They're perfect for each other."

"What do looks have to do with anything? Relationships aren't based on looks, they're based on personalities and compatibility" said Angela.

"Come on babe, I might be married but I'm not blind. Your sister is fine as hell and it's got to be rough for her always being approached by men everywhere she goes, especially when all she really wants is one good man," said Jack as he bent down and noisily began shoving pans around the lower cabinet, looking for a container for the meat.

"One good man? Jack, look at me. Did you fuck my sister?"

Jack stood up and turned to look at his wife, who was staring at him with a crazed look in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked, turning his palms up questioningly. Clearly, he hadn't heard her last comment.

"Why did you do it Jack?"

"Why not? She admitted that she's lonely and she asked me to. And she's a beautiful woman and you know how much trouble I have saying 'no' to a beautiful woman," he said, as he smiled charmingly and stepped forward to put his arms around her.

"Don't," she said quietly, stepping back and pushing him away.

"What is your problem?" he asked, his voice rising slightly in irritation. "It's been 8 months since we last slept together. We hardly ever talk, and when we do it always centered around the latest thing you're pissed off about. I'll tell you, it's no wonder it felt so nice to spend the evening in the company of a beautiful woman that was interested in talking about something other than how inadequate I am as a husband!"

Angela leaned heavily against the counter and put her hand to her face.

"I can't even believe this is happening again," she said sadly, as tears welled up in her eyes. "What did you really think was going to come of this?"

Jack smiled wistfully.

"To be honest, I think we all know it's just a sex thing. Your sister may settle down some day, but it probably won't be anytime soon. And what's wrong with a little casual sex between consenting adults?"

Angela screamed in rage, grabbed the knife from the counter and turned to Jack.

"How could you fuck my sister in my own house?" she screamed.

"Fuck your sister? What are you talking about? I never – " he began, but Angela was no longer listening. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. The arc of the big silver blade turned in the air like a perfect wave breaking against the shore. Jack would have sworn that he had all night to move out of its path, but one moment it was floating in the air above him and the next it was plunging into his chest. He instantly crumbled to his knees. At that moment all he could think about was the fact that he had forgotten to tell his wife that Tiffany and Walter were coming by for dinner tonight and how proud he was of the fact that he had hooked them up.

As Jack fell sideways to the floor, he heard a strange buzzing sound in his ear. It sounded foreign yet oddly familiar. Slowly, he realized that it was the sound of his wife's voice. As his eyes closed, he thought he heard her say the words 'I'm sorry'. But he wasn't quite sure.

LEAP FROG

SUMMER 1994

"So do you want to play, or what?" Blue asked Alexandra.

All the kids were standing around waiting for her answer, but Alexandra wasn't sure what to say. She had never played 'Hide & Go Get It' before, and, at only 12 years old, she wasn't sure that it was time to start. It was the middle of summer and Alexandra was feeling every one of the 97 degrees as the sun relentlessly baked her smooth, brown skin.

It was late afternoon and the sun was making her squint. She put hand above her eyes so that she could look more clearly at the boy asking the question. When she first met him she thought they called him Blue because he was so black that he was almost blue, but Blue was actually his name. Blue Ogunde. He was from Africa and had made the unlikely move to Possum's Point, Arkansas when he was only two years old. He was a year older than Alexandra, but they lived next door to each other, so they played together alot. She liked him, but sometimes he could be a bully. This was one of those times, and it was these times that made her nervous to be around him. Whenever she was nervous, it was hard for her to hide it. She could feel her armpits getting moist and the perspiration begin to trickle down her face. Her heart was starting to pound.

"I don't know. Tell me the rules again?" she said, twisting her long, brown hair around one of her fingers as she green eyes flittered nervously from one kid to the next.

"God! We already told you three times!" said Little Stevie. "The girls all hide and the boys count to 10. Then we come looking for you. If we find you, we get to kiss you! Are you in or out?"

"Don't be a scardy cat," said Tricia. "You never want to play. Are you going to be a baby your entire life?" Tricia was her best friend, and definitely more adventurous than Alexandra had ever been.

With everyone still staring at her, waiting for an answer, Alexandra's pounding heart seemed to get louder and stronger and more sweat dripped down her face. She wiped it on the sleeve of her blouse.

"Well!?" said Little Stevie.

"Man, forget her," said Blue. "Let's play." Everyone but Alexandra began walking from the parking lot into the park. Charmaine began to skip. "I'll race you to the big tree!" said Blue as he ran past her. Charmaine, as tall as a 14 year-old and just as strong, took off after him. The rest of the kids followed, leaving Alexandra by herself. She could feel herself about to start crying.

"Wait, I'll play!" she said, sniffling, and quickly followed. They all arrived at the tree, breathing hard, except for Charmaine, who had outran them all with hardly any effort.

"Ok," said Blue, once he had finally caught his breath. "Me, T-Mac and Little Stevie will hide our eyes against the tree and count to 10. Then we'll come find you."

The seven girls all took off running, each looking for a good hiding spot. Alexandra followed suit. Charmaine ran behind the bathroom building and ducked down behind a large trashcan. Moments later, Alexandra joined her.

"What are you doing here?" said Charmaine, "This is my spot. Get out of here! Find your own hiding space." She pushed Alexandra down and Alexandra began to cry.

"...Eight, nine, ten! Ready or not, here we come!" shouted Blue.

Terrified, Alexandra leaped up and took off running, moving deeper into the thickly wooded park. She found a large, wiry bush and dived behind it. Still feeling exposed, she immediately took off again and soon found herself crouched behind a large brown boulder. She tried to get herself to calm down. She could hear the other kids laughing and yelling in the distance. One of the girls (maybe Mary?) screamed and Alexandra's heart started racing again.

Her mother had always told her that bad things happen to little girls that get too fresh before they're old enough. She wasn't exactly sure what "too fresh" meant, but she did know that kissing had something to do with it. She also didn't know exactly how old she was supposed to be before she could start getting "too fresh" (her mother always refused to answer that question), but she knew that she wasn't even old enough for "slightly fresh" yet, let alone "too fresh".

"Good girls went go heaven, bad girls go everywhere else." That's what her grandfather used to say. And her grandmother would always add that the roads from 'everywhere else' all led to hell. Alexandra hadn't been too many places yet in her young life, and there were a great many places she'd like to go, but hell wasn't on the list. The simple thought of it absolutely terrified her. She wondered silently to herself how she got into this situation. She should have just gone home.

She didn't want to kiss any boys. At least, not yet. She always thought that her first kiss would be like one of the scenes in the fairly tales that she loved so much as a young girl – and still loved. She knew there weren't any princes or gallant knights around Possum's Point, but she still thought that maybe it would be romantic and magical. The boy would be handsome and strong and would rescue her from some terrible predicament at the last minute, for which she would reward his heroic efforts with a virgin kiss that would bind them in love for the rest of their lives. Of course, none of the boys that she knew were even the least bit heroic or romantic. Their idea of romance was to pull her ponytails from behind and then smile shyly.

She was starting to wonder if she'd have to find a frog to kiss if she were ever going to find her brave savior and the future love of her life. When she told her grandmother this, her grandmother laughed. "I've never kissed a frog and had it turn into a boy, but there have certainly been a few boys that I kissed that I wish I could have turned into frogs!" she said.

"I hope I was never on that list," said her grandfather from the next room.

"Not yet," said her grandmother, "but the day is young!" All three of them laughed.

Alexandra was roused from her daydream by the shrieks and laughter of her friends in the distance, but they were beginning to fade. Maybe if she waited there long enough the game would be over and she sneak back home. She began to relax. A few moments later she had dozed off.

In the dream, Satan was screaming in triumph, his face raised to the heavens, his long, red tongue flicking in and out of his mouth like a great, crimson serpent. He was holding Alexandra by her arm, pulling her closer and closer to that gapping mouth and its evil looking tongue.

"Please, let me go, please!" she cried, struggling in vain.

"Let you go? Let you go?!" he roared. "If you didn't want it, you never should have played! Now you're mine! Mine!" he laughed maniacally.

Alexandra's eyes sprang open and she found herself staring into the face of Blue. He was holding onto her arm and leaning in to kiss her.

"What are you doing!?" she yelled.

"I got you," Blue laughed, "And now I want my kiss."

"I'm not kissing you!" she exclaimed.

"If you didn't want it, you never should have played," he said, mimicking the dream she had just had. She began to struggle furiously, kicking Blue in the crotch in the process. He doubled over in pain and fell over on his side.

"Oh, you bitch!" he moaned. "Why did you do that? We were just playing a game!"

"I told you I didn't want to play anymore!" said Alexandra, getting to her feet. Blue lay moaning and gently rocking back and forth.

"I'm sorry," said Alexandra, "I didn't mean to hurt you. Are you alright?" Blue didn't answer. He just kept rocking and moaning.

"Do you need me to go get a doctor?"

Blue mumbled something and Alexandra leaned down to try to hear what he was saying. Blue jumped up suddenly and punched her in the stomach.

"Oh!" she screamed, and leaned over herself, all the air knocked out of her lungs. She struggled to catch her breath.

"Now how do _you_ like it?" said Blue. He grabbed her arm, lifted her up and pushed her back against the tree. "Now you're going to give me that kiss I asked for, and maybe a little bit more," he said as he slyly licked his lips and looked her up and down. Still trying to catch her breath and gathering all her strength, Alexandra push him off her, spun and began to run in the direction of the parking lot. She didn't get but about 100 feet before Blue caught up with her and tackled her from behind.

"You're not getting away that easy!" he said. Alexandra was now on her back and Blue was on top, straddling her. She started swinging wildly and felt the nails of one of her hands catch his face.

"Aahh!" he said, as he wiped away the streak of blood. Then he punched her in the eye and she started sobbing and putting her hands over her face to protect herself. She could feel his hot breath as he leaned in close, with his mouth to her ear.

"Don't be so mean," he said. "This won't hurt. Why, lots of girls love kissing me."

"Please, please don't, please just leave me alone" she cried, trying to push him away. He pulled her arms down and put his knees over them, pinning them to the ground. There was sweat and blood dripping from Blue's face as he leaned over her, and some of it got in her eyes, burning them and causing her to shut them tightly. She began shaking her head back and forth, but he grabbed her jaw and forced her to lie still. With her eyes still closed, all she could do was moan as she waited helplessly for the unavoidable kiss.

"Please God," she prayed silently, "I've never asked you for much before, but I really don't want to go to Hell. Please save me!" She felt his lips touch hers and her body went completely stiff. She wished that she could have faded into the dirt beneath her.

"Huh?" she heard Blue exclaim in surprise. Suddenly, all the pressure on her body was gone and there was only silence. For a moment, she didn't move. Then, she slowly raised her arms and used her sleeves to wipe the sweat and blood from her eyes. When she sat up and opened them, Blue was gone. She looked in all directions, but saw no sign of him. How could he have disappeared so quickly? She got slowly to her feet, feeling a bit faint, and timidly looked around again, expected him to jump out from behind a tree or something, but there was still no sign.

Then she heard a noise. It sounded like a tiny growl. Or maybe a burp. Then she saw it. There, at her feet, was a large, green bullfrog. "Ribbitt!" it said. Startled, she jumped back, but then noticed something odd about it and leaned forward to get a better look. There was a streak of blood on its face. She shrieked, and took off running. Before she knew it, she was standing on the porch of her house, wondering what had just happened.

WINTER 2009 – 15 YEARS LATER

Dr. Phillip Sanford stood in front of the large, second-floor window of his office, pipe in hand, and watched the people walking by. The pipe wasn't lit – he never lit it in the office – but it gave him comfort to hold it, even to puff on it occasionally. There was nothing wrong with that. Like he always told his patients, use whatever works that doesn't hurt anything or anyone else. He caught his reflection in the glass and the short grey hairs in his goatee reminded of how old he was getting. At least he had started shaving his head years ago, so he didn't have to worry about grey hairs there. He used to dye his beard and his moustache, but after a while it became such a hassle to maintain that he had to ask himself exactly who he was going through all the trouble for. He had been divorced for going on 18 years now, and hadn't dated anyone seriously for the last ten or so. Actually, he hadn't really dated much at all since longer than we really cared to remember. It wasn't that he wasn't interested. But after listening to people's problems all day, week in and week out, he had simply gotten bored with the majority of the population. The women he met that were stable, caring and well-adjusted he found mind-numbingly dull, and the ones that were exciting, daring and edgy were usually so fucked up emotionally that getting involved with them was more of a liability than he was willing to take on. Besides, he dealt with loonies all day long, he really didn't want to come home to one at night, as well.

Sanford began his career as a marriage and family counselor 26 years ago and from the beginning his practice was an unbelievable success. Somehow, people just naturally felt comfortable around him, and he lived to help them. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he dove in head-first right from the beginning, certain that he could 'save the world'. And for a while, it seemed that he could. He was 'curing' difficult cases that had stumped psychologists 20 years his senior. His peers had started called him 'Doc Midas – The Man With The Golden Couch'. Many saw him as a threat. It didn't help that he was also African American, in a community that had few blacks at all, let alone professional ones making his level of income. But his confidence and natural charm eventually begin to win over even his most ardent detractors. That is, until the Roulette case.

John Roulette had come to him as a court referral. He had attacked a fellow employee – a minor skirmish – but as part of a plea bargain to get the D.A. to drop the charges had agreed to some anger-management counseling. Nothing about their interactions gave any indications that there was anything unusual or special about him. At the end of his twenty sessions, Sanford rendered his report to the court – Roulette had, for all intents and purposes, simply 'had a bad day'. He worked in a high-pressure job in industrial sales and the stress had just temporarily gotten the best of him. His final assessment: Roulette was not a threat to the community or to himself. Sanford didn't think anything more of the case until six weeks later, when he turned on the television and saw that his 'non-threatening' patient had just been arrested after going on a murderous rampage and killing 8 people in a department store with a machete, while injuring 7 others. The case made daily headlines for months and was the cover story in several psychology journals. Sanford's couch was 'golden' no more. Neither was his marriage. Within 2 years his wife had left him, as had 20% of his clients.

He supposed he was lucky. It could have been much worse. Many men had been completely ruined by less. But he held on and slowly began working on repairing the damage done to both his reputation and his practice. Eighteen years had passed, and his practice was now every bit as successful as it had ever been, though he never really regained the same level of respect and admiration from his colleagues. Nor had he ever really gotten over the guilt of the consequences that his misdiagnosis had caused. Sure, he told the reporters and anyone else that cared to listen that it was just an 'unfortunate incident', for which 'no one was really to blame' and that 'the mind is a devious mystery that science is still struggling to figure out'. But no one really bought it, including himself. No one, that is, except for, perhaps, Monty.

Sanford took another dry drag on his pipe and looked at his watch. It was 4:25. His 4:15 was late, and he was feeling irritated. It was the Friday at the end of a long and wearying week and there was a football game, a steak and a glass of 80-year-old scotch at home with his name on it. He looked at his watch again – 4:26. He put his pipe in his pocket and grabbed his notepad. His straggler was actually a couple - two women: Alexandra Larrieux and Beverly Holiday. He had yet to meet them in person, but he knew that they were a lesbian couple and that they were having some relationship issues that they hoped he could help them with. He had spoken to Alexandra on the phone; she was the one that had made the appointment. He could tell she was black, and she had a slight southern lisp – not exactly an accent per se, but the lasting traces of a past accent that she had probably worked hard to overcome. Still, he could tell that she was likely from somewhere around Missouri, or perhaps Arkansas.

He heard a car door slam and through the window saw two women walking hastily towards his building. This must be them, he thought. One was black, the other looked Puerto Rican. The black woman looked to be almost six feet tall and moved across the parking lot like a model on a runway. She had long, flowing, curly black hair and wore dark shades, thigh-high black boots, black jeans, a black sweater and a long black overcoat. Her friend was at least 3 inches shorter, with a short, bobbed hair cut and mid-length grey dress, black pumps and matching black coat. She looked like she had come straight from an office job. They were a very attractive couple. Moments later his secretary buzzed him to notify him that his 4:15 had arrived and that she was leaving for the day. He wished her a good evening and asked her to bring them in.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Sanford", he said, smiling and extending his hand. They each shook it and both had surprisingly firm grips.

"I'm Alex Larrieux and this is my partner, Bev Holiday ," said the taller one. "We're sorry we're late. Traffic was a nightmare."

"Don't worry about it," said Sanford. "Why don't you both have a seat and we can get started. Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Coffee?"

"No, we're fine, thank you," they both said in unison as they sat down on the couch, an elegant piece of furniture of Mediterranean design that he had purchased while on holiday in Turkey 3 years ago and had then had shipped back to the States. It was covered in gold and gray colored cloth with a paisley inspired pattern that became almost hypnotic if you stared at it for too long. Sanford took the leather chair directly opposite them, on the other side of a beautiful glass and wrought-iron coffee table and grabbed from it his notepad, pen and cup of coffee. As he took a sip, glancing over the edge of his cup, he took the opportunity to examine them both a little more closely. Alexandra crossed her legs at the knee, while Beverly crossed hers at the ankle, a subtle difference but one possible indication that the taller one might be the more dominant one in the relationship. Or, at least, the more self-assured. Alexandra calmly stared at him, while Beverly seemed to take inventory of the room.

"So," he started, sitting his cup down and crossing his own legs as he leaned slightly back in the chair, the fine, dark brown leather not making a sound, even as he shifted his weight from side to side. "How can I help you?"

"Well doctor," said Alexandra, "we're here because we're having some relationship problems. We've tried to deal with them ourselves. We're talked, we've read books, we've gone on retreats, we've even prayed together over this. But, somehow," she took a moment to glance at Beverly, "we just keep missing each other. I don't understand her and she definitely doesn't understand me."

Sanford had been doing this long enough to be able to read between the lines pretty accurately, and he knew that nothing that this woman had just said was the real reason they were here. He began to ask the probing questions: How did you meet, How long have you been together, What initially attracted you to each other, etc. Both Alexandra and Beverly took turns filling him in on the details, and he learned that they had met 5 years ago, in college. They were roommates, and over time a strong friendship had blossomed into romantic love. They had been together as a couple for the past 2 years. It was Alexandra's first lesbian relationship, but Beverly had never been with a man.

"Tell me Beverly, how old were you when you first realized that you were attracted to women?" he asked as scribbled notes in his notebook.

"I've always been attracted to women," she said. She spoke in a measured, restrained fashion. He noticed the similarities in the way she spoke and the way she dressed, right down to the Nuyorican accent. Her clothes were conservative, but classy, and now that she was closer he could see the embossed pattern of silhouetted dancing women on her grey dress. And her shoes appeared to be alligator. Maybe Jimmy Choos. "I've never had any interest in men, even as a little girl. By the time I was 8 years old I knew that I was gay. People have told me that it's not possible to know that early, but I knew. I just knew."

"And you Alexandra?" he said.

"Alex, please," she responded.

"Sorry – _Alex_ ."

"Doctor, the truth is, I'm not so sure that I am gay."

So there is was, he thought. Now we're starting to get to the meat of the problem.

"Well, tell me a little bit about what led you to get romantically involved with Beverly."

"I always tell people that it started with a rainy night, tears over a freshly ended relationship with a longtime boyfriend, a bottle of tequila and some well-intentioned consoling. That made it sound romantic and almost accidental. But in reality, it was all about sex. I was lonely and I knew I'd probably never be with another man. Bev was sweet and beautiful and sexy," she paused just long enough to caress her partner's hand, "and I was just tired of being alone. So I seduced her. Or maybe I let her seduce me. I'm not really sure how it happened, but it did. And I've loved her ever since." She smiled brightly and the love in her eyes as she glanced sideways at her girlfriend was both endearing and unmistakable.

"Tell me more about the beginning, and why you were so sure that you would never be with another man. What exactly did you mean by that?"

For the first time since she'd walked into his office, Alexandra seemed unsure of herself. She began to fidget on the couch. She let go of Beverly's hand and began to wring hers in her lap. Beverly began glancing around the room again, as if she really didn't want to hear what her girlfriend was about to say; it was as if she were embarrassed.

"Uhmmm..." Alexandra began, "Doctor, what I'm about to tell is going to sound...strange. And you may think I'm not being serious here, but really, what I'm about to tell you is the God's honest truth." Then she stopped, as though she wasn't sure she should even be there.

Her slightly southern accent, so contrary to her partner's heavier Latin one, gave some kind of special weight to the statement she had just made. At that moment, Sanford felt it would have been physically impossible for her to actually tell a lie. He shifted ever so slightly forward in his chair, an old body language trick to subconsciously let her know that she had his most focused attention.

"Go ahead, Alexandra, I'm listening," he said.

"Alex, please," she said.

"Sorry – _Alex._ Please continue, Alex."

She took a deep breath.

"Dr. Sanford, the reason that I can never be with another man is that whenever I kiss a man, he turns..." she bowed her head slightly, then looked up again, "He turns...into a frog." The air in the room, which, till this moment, had seemed so flowing and lively, froze, and in the process seemed to capture the words she had just spoken, suspending them over the glass table that separated them. All sound appeared to have been sucked out of the room by some unseen force. Even the traffic noises from the street below, usually a constant soundtrack to his sessions, had disappeared.

"Excuse me, did you say 'frog'?" he asked.

"Yes," said Alexandra.

"Yes," said Beverly, her Puerto Rican accent seeming to reheat the air around the words her partner had just spoken, "she said 'frog'." She made little attempt to hide her irritation.

Sanford cleared his throat and reached again for his cup of coffee. It wasn't the strangest thing that he had ever heard. He was a psychiatrist that had been in practice for over 20 years. He had heard just about everything – every type of perversion, delusion, addiction and syndrome there was. And on a scale of one to ten, thinking that you could kiss men and turn them into frogs didn't rate very high on the 'crazy' scale, relatively speaking. But this was the first time he'd had a patient with this particular 'condition', and he was intrigued. It was particularly interesting coming from such a beautiful, well-spoken and seemingly well-adjusted young lady. Normally, he prided himself on being able to see all of his patients, no matter how attractive they may be, as completely sexless – even the ones that came in dressed like street walkers and wantonly throwing themselves at him. He was very good at maintaining a clinical perspective that normally prevented any threat of sexual tension between himself and the patients that came to him for treatment. But he suddenly felt an undeniable tug of sexual desire for this woman. It was slight, and he was able to immediately push it down in his mind, but it disturbed him, nonetheless. He took a long sip from his cup and tried to re-focus his thoughts. The coffee had gone cold.

"Well, let's examine this a little closer," he said, once he had completely recomposed himself. "Why, exactly, do you think that you can kiss men and turn them into frogs?"

"Because I've done it. Several times." She stared blankly at him. So did Beverly.

"Ok. How old were you the first time kissed a boy and turned him into a frog?"

"I was 12 years old. His name was Blue. Blue Ogunde. He was an African boy that used to live next door to me, back in Possum's Point."

"Possum's Point?"

"Yes, Possum's Point, Arkansas. That's where I was raised."

"I see," he said, jotting another note in his book. "Was Blue also 12?"

"No, he was actually 13 at the time."

"I see," said Sanford. "Tell me how it happened."

Alexander told him the entire story of that day in the park; the fateful day that she agreed to play 'Hide & Go Get It' and was subsequently physically assaulted by the boy.

"So what you're telling me," said Sanford once she had finished, "Is that you didn't actually see him turn into a frog. You were frightened – terrified – and trying to fight off your attacker. Your eyes were closed, burning from the sweat produced by the struggle. Feeling helpless and desperate, you wished that you had the power to turn him into a frog, and shortly thereafter, when you opened your eyes he was gone and there was a frog in his place. Is that how it happened?"

"Ummm, not exactly. I never wished that I could turn him into a frog. I just prayed for God to save me. And when he kissed me he became a frog."

"I see," he said, again. "And you never saw Blue again?"

"No, never. No one ever did. The police and the neighbors searched the fields and streets for him for weeks. There was never a sign."

"And did you ever see the frog again?"

"I don't think so. I don't know. I mean, I saw other frogs, but I'm not sure whether or not one of them was him."

"And you never told anyone about what happened? About him attacking you or you transforming him into a frog?"

"I tried to tell my best friend, Tricia, but she didn't believe me. And she told me that if I told anyone else, they might think I was crazy and send me to the loony farm. So I never mentioned it again."

"And did you experience any guilt over your belief that you turned this boy into a frog?"

"Yes, tremendous guilt. I cried about it regularly for months. My mother kept asking me what was wrong, but I never told her."

Sanford made some more notes in his journal.

"So you say this wasn't the only boy you turned into a frog. How old were you the next time it happened?"

"I was about 17. There was a boy named Joshua Hill that I'd had a crush on since Jr. high school. He was a football star and one of the cutest boys in the school. I was always too shy to say anything to him, but I began to think that he might be interested in me, even though he already had a girlfriend. Her name was Patty, and, of course, she was gorgeous. And of course, she was head cheerleader. But I used to notice him staring at me sometimes in the hallway, between classes. He'd be talking and laughing with his friends, but he'd occasionally steal a glance my way. I don't know if anyone else noticed it, but I did." She smiled coyly. "Anyway, one day he sat down next to me in the library and asked me a question about an assignment. From then on he spoke to me every time I saw him. Then, a few weeks later, he asked me out on a date. To the movies. I couldn't believe it! The most popular boy in school wanted to take me out! I was so excited."

"And had you forgotten about the incident with –" Sanford paused to glance at his pad, "Blue, or was that something that you were still concerned about?"

"Honestly," said Alexandra, "I think I had wiped it from my mind, more or less. Every now and then I would have a flash of memory from that day, but at that point I wasn't sure if it had really happened or if it was all just a bad dream. Blue's parents had moved away a year after he disappeared and I never saw them again. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess." She smiled nervously and a dark shadow seemed to cross her face. At that point, she looked so sweet and vulnerable that Sanford just wanted to put his arms around her, pull her to him and tell her everything was going to be alright. But he resisted the urge.

"Tell me about your date with Joshua," he said.

"Well," she began, "he still had a girlfriend, so we had to be careful. He told me that he was about to end the relationship with her because it just wasn't working out, but he didn't want to hurt her. So he didn't want anyone to see us together until he had a chance to tell her."

"Oh, brother" mumbled Beverly, as she rolled her eyes and turned her head away from her partner.

"What did you say?" asked Alexandra, turning toward her friend.

"I didn't say anything," she spat quietly.

"Ladies, let's not lose our focus here," interjected Sanford, attempting to diffuse the situation. "Beverly, I know you have some issues with some of the decisions that Alexan-, I mean 'Alex', has made in her life, but let's not get distracted. We don't have much time left today, but I'd like to get through as many details as possible of her past so that we can spend our future sessions concentrating on making some positive changes." He turned his attention back to Alexandra. "Please continue."

"Well," she said, with a last sideways glance at her partner, "he picked me up one Saturday. I'll never forget his car. It was an old '65 Mustang that he and his father had completely restored. It was all black, with dark tinted windows. I guess it was the perfect vehicle for a clandestine rendezvous. We drove to the next town and saw "The Sixth Sense", with Bruce Willis and that little creepy kid, I forget his name. It had already been out for a couple of months, but this particular theater always played older movies."

"Sounds good so far," said Sanford. Beverly exhaled loudly, like she was bored and really needed to be somewhere else. They both glanced at her briefly and then Alexandra continued with the story.

"Yes, it started out really well. The movie was great, and really scary. I jumped once, and Joshua put his arms around my shoulder. Then, about halfway through the movie, he tried to kiss me, but I pulled away."

"Is that because of what you thought might happen if he kissed you?"

She paused for a moment.

"No, not really. I wasn't really thinking about that. I was with the handsomest, most popular boy in school! I wanted to kiss him, but I was worried about what would happen if someone recognized us. He still had a girlfriend and I didn't want people thinking I was some kind of man-stealing floozy."

"Understandable," said Sanford as he scribbled some more in his notebook. "So what happened next?"

"A little while later I whispered to him that I needed to go to the restroom. He said he did too, and he came with me. We met back at the entrance to the theater, at the first door. When we walked through the second door, there was a corner that you needed to turn to get into the theater proper. The only light was from the screen, but it must have been a night scene or something, because it was pitch black. I called his name quietly and then I felt him grab my hand in the dark and pull me to him. It was like he was charged with electricity. I felt like a bolt of lightning had hit me! My skin felt prickly and I could feel my temperature rising and my body immediately started sweating. I even started getting wet. Not just from the sweat. I mean wet... down below. I was so wet I thanked God for the darkness, because I was sure that it must be seeping through my panties and all over my jeans."

Beverly, who had suddenly become very interested in what Alexandra was saying, nervously uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. She fiddled with the strap on her purse and then crossed her arms, as though she didn't exactly know what to do with them. But she kept her eyes riveted on her girlfriend. Sanford felt his own temperature start to rise, but tried to ignore it.

"Then," continued Alexandra, "I felt his lips touch mine." She stopped. Both Sanford and Beverly stared at her without saying a word, waiting patiently.

"I wanted him _so_ badly. But I had never really kissed a boy, other than Blue, and that didn't really count. I was nervous that I wasn't going to do it right. I tried to remember how I'd seen it done in movies. In movies, people always closed their eyes. So even though I couldn't see anything anyway, I closed my eyes and parted my lips slightly as I moved my arms around his back. Our lips gently touched, my body began to melt into his and then – he was gone. I mean, he was just no longer 'there'! One minute he was in my arms, and the next minute he wasn't. And that's when I heard it. That 'ribbit' sound that frogs make. That's when I turned around and ran from the theater."

Sanford took a deep breath.

"So," he said, "again, you didn't actually see him turn into a frog."

Alexandra seemed slightly confused.

"Well, I guess not technically. But it's pretty obvious what happened. Frogs don't normally frequent movie theaters."

"Perhaps," he said. "So are you saying that you never saw this Joshua again?"

"No, no one did. Again, search parties went out looking for him. The football team posted thousands of 'missing' posters all over the streets of the surrounding three or four towns, but he was never seen again."

"I see," said Sanford again. "One moment, please." He spent the next two minutes making notes while Alexandra tried to rub Beverly's back and Beverly tried to act as though she didn't notice. "Was that the last 'frog' incident?" said Sanford when he finally looked up from his notepad.

"No, there was one more. It was my first year in college. A boy named Wynton. He was my lab partner in Biology. He and I ended up at the same frat party one night. I don't really know what happened. I only had one drink, but it must have been really strong, because I don't remember much after that. I vaguely recall following him to one of the back rooms, and us throwing a bunch of coats off the bed and laying down. The next thing I knew, I woke up with a pounding headache. Some girl was screaming and a boy I didn't know was laughing and chasing her around the room with a large frog in his hand. I heard someone ask him where the hell he got a frog from. Then I ran out the back door and vomited like a mad woman before jumping in my car and somehow getting back to the dorm without killing anyone or getting pulled over."

Sanford didn't say anything. He just looked at her.

"I know what you're going to say, doctor: 'that I didn't see this person change either.' I guess that's technically true, but again, no one ever saw this guy again. There wasn't too much a fuss made about this one, though. Someone told me that they heard that he had been thinking about leaving school anyway. He didn't live on campus, and it was a big school, so I guess one student mysteriously leaving didn't cause too much of a ripple. A detective came to my biology class one day shortly thereafter, and I think he was asking about Wynton, but I never heard anymore about it."

"And how did you feel about this – about the fact that you may have turned yet another man into a frog?"

"I didn't really feel anything. I was numb, physically and spiritually. But that's when I swore off men. And started spending more time hanging with Beverly. And the rest is history." She smiled faintly and ran her hand over her lover's thigh.

"Beverly," said Sanford, turning slightly towards the Puerto Rican woman, "you haven't had too much to say. Is there anything you'd like to add before we end our session today?"

"Not really," she said.

"Do you have any questions for Alex?"

Beverly tilted her head to the side and thought for a few moments.

"Dr. Sanford, I've heard all this before. This is nothing new to me. The one question I do have is a question I've asked Alex before and never really got a satisfactory answer to. So let me ask it again, with you here." She looked straight at Alexandra.

"So if we were such great friends," she began, "and you were so sure you had these magical lips or whatever the hell you call them, that turns people into reptiles, why would you ever risk kissing me? How did you know I wasn't going to turn into a fucking frog?"

Sanford wanted to say something, but just waited for Alexandra to answer.

"Like I told you before, I don't know," she said, lifting her hands in despair. "I...I just felt safe with you. Somehow, I just felt things would be alright with you. And they were." She grabbed her friend's hand again and squeezed. Beverly finally responded and lightly returned the gesture.

"That's a very good question – and potentially revealing answer," said Sanford. He looked at his watch. "Unfortunately, we have to end here, for the day. But, Alex, I want you to think about something for next time. I want you to think about the fact that not only did you never see any of these boys actually transform into a frog, but each of them was, in some way, clearly abusing you. The first physically attacked you, the second was using you to cheat on his girlfriend and the third tried to take advantage of you while you were too drunk to know what you were doing. Neither of these guys were exactly the type of person you would necessarily want to 'bring home to mother'. These were not 'good' guys. It's possible, even years after the fact, that you were suffering a kind of post traumatic stress reaction to the first attack, a reaction that left you with the illusion that you had the ability to punish the men in your life that you perceive to have mistreated you. I don't want to go into it any more than that, right now. Let's pick it up again next week. The same day and time works for me, if it works for you."

"Beverly?" asked Alexandra, questioningly.

"Sure," said Beverly quietly.

After the women left his office and Sanford watched them drive away from his second floor perch, again pipe in hand, he sat down at his desk and went over his notes, reflecting back on their session together. Of course, this woman did not have the ability to turn people into amphibians. But it is quite possible that _something_ happened to these young men. Could she have physically harmed them? He didn't get the impression that she had the potential for physical violence, but it wouldn't be the first time he had made such a mistake. He shook his head, not wanting to think too much about the Roulette fiasco. And this girl, while clearly suffering from some fairly serious issues, was certainly no John Roulette. Was she? No, he didn't think it possible. He thought back to his reaction to her sexual energy. That was the most disturbing aspect of the entire session. It was something that had never happened to him before, and he wasn't exactly sure how to handle it. He looked at his watch again. 6:05. He picked up the phone and dialed Monty's number. Monty Davish was a colleague and one-time mentor. Whenever he had a difficult case or just needed to unload, Monty was who he called. Monty was the first psychiatrist to befriend him when he first moved to this town, and the only one that never seemed to judge him over the Roulette blow-up. An extremely wise and learned man, Monty had already been in practice for well over a decade when Sanford was just graduating from school.

Monty's voicemail picked up. Sanford then remembered that he was out of town on business until Sunday. He left a message, then began preparing to leave the office. At home, he fixed himself a gin martini, grilled a steak and some fresh vegetables in the backyard and settled down to catch the last of the Lakers game. At 2am that morning he found himself sitting up in bed, unable to sleep. He was thinking about Alexandra. Maybe he had been dreaming about her. It was hard to say, because he seldom remembered his dreams. But once he realized that he was awake, her face was the first image that appeared in his head. Frustrated, he grabbed his robe and slippers and went into the spare bedroom that doubled as his office and turned on the computer. He had subscriptions to several news databases. They often came in handy during the process of researching a case.

He entered "Possum's Point" and was surprised to see that there were 'Possum's Points' in Virginia, Texas and New Zealand, in addition to Arkansas. He changed his search to "Possum's Point Arkansas" and began clicking on the results. It was the typical small American town. He started going through the crime blogs. Not much there. He grabbed his briefcase to check the names of the two boys that Alexandra had spoken to him about. He typed in 'Blue Ogunde' first. There it was. A 13-year old boy had disappeared from the town July 17, 1994. He was never found. The police eventually ruled it a 'runaway' case, even though the parents refused to accept it.

He then typed in the other boy's name, 'Joshua Hill'. There was much more information on this case. Joshua was a local hero, with a promising future in pro football. Several college scouts had already visited him and he was still in his junior year. His disappearance was a shock to the entire town, and they rallied together to find him. They searched intensely for months. Police suspected foul play, but without any evidence other than his abandoned car, found in a town 20 miles away, they were reluctant to officially consider it a homicide. Leads were few. Officially, the case was still open but considered 'dead'.

Sanford wanted to run a search on the third 'victim', as well, but knew neither the boy's last name nor the town in which the school was located. He grabbed his pipe, walked out onto his patio and lit up. The smoke, mixed with the cool night air, tasted good. He looked up into the dark sky and starred at the twinkling stars and they reminded him of Alexandra's eyes. He started to go over the facts again in his head. At least two boys had disappeared from the same town, 10-15 years ago. Alexandra was convinced that she was responsible for their disappearance. If she had killed them, how would she have done it? There was no report of any evidence of a crime in the files he'd just read. No blood, no clothing, no personal articles, no witnesses. How could a young woman, especially a 12-year old, have gotten away with such a horrendous crime without leaving any sign? Of course, just because the boys disappeared from the town doesn't mean that they came to a bad end. Maybe they really did run away from home. It wasn't impossible. He finished his pipe, tapped it against the edge of the railing to empty it and went back to his computer.

He typed the name "Blue Ogunde" into one of the court databases. There was a "Blue Ogunde" in Charlotte, NC that had purchased a house just 3 years ago. He was born in 1980. That matched the timeline. Could this be the Blue Ogunde that Alexandra was convinced she turned into a frog? It could. He copied the address into an email and sent it to his secretary, asking her to send Mr. Ogunde a letter first thing Monday morning, requesting a phone number that he might be reached at, regarding a 'sensitive personal matter'.

Next he typed "Joshua Hill" into the same database. Unfortunately, 'Joshua Hill' was a much more common name. There were hundreds. He filtered it down to those born between 1979 and 1983. There were still over 200. He filtered it again, to residents of the southern U.S. That brought it down to 40. Some were in prison. Three were attorneys. Seven were married within the past 5 years. This was a long shot, and then some. Still, he did a 'copy & paste' of all the addresses and sent another email to his secretary, with the same request as for Ogunde. She was probably going to be giving him dirty looks all day Monday, and chances were good that it was all wasted effort, but he felt he needed to do something, anything, to get a handle on this case.

Sanford spent Saturday working on his house and trying to forget about Alexandra and her frog issue, but it kept creeping into his mind. Early Sunday morning the phone rang. It was Monty.

"Phil, how the hell are you?" he said cheerfully.

"I'm great Monty. How was your trip?"

"Fantastic! Miami is beautiful this time of year. You should go!"

After a bit more small talk Sanford got to the point.

"Listen, Phil, I've got a new case that's a bit unusual. I'd like to go over it with you."

"Sure. Shoot."

Sanford told him everything, including his sexual attraction to Alexandra and the results of his internet search.

"Phil," he said, "I don't have to tell you that you're treading on dangerous ground here. Neither one of us can know, at this point, what this woman has done or what she's capable of doing. But the fact that you're so attracted to her is where the real problem lies. You've already compromised yourself as a counselor. Surely, you see that. The smart thing to do would be to refer her to someone else, before it blows up in your face."

"You're right, of course. But I still feel like I can help her. Haven't you ever been attracted to a patient?"

"I'm a man, Phil. Certainly I have. But not to the degree that it became an obsession or clouded my judgment. And I fear that's where you're going with this."

They spoke a while longer and Sanford promised to give it some more thought and touch base later in the week.

Sanford spent the next week grinding through his sessions, trying to force himself to stay in the present and give his patients all the attention that they needed and deserved, but many times he felt himself drifting, thinking about Alexandra and her approaching Friday appointment. Sometimes he even had to ask a patient to repeat themselves because he just wasn't listening.

When Friday finally arrived, Sanford found he could barely contain his excitement. At exactly 4:15 his secretary buzzed him to tell him that his patient had arrived. Excellent; they were on time this week. But when the door opened, only Alexandra walked through. This time she was wearing a long, tight green dress, a waist-length black leather jacket, black scarf and large, dark glasses. She seemed to literally shimmer as she walked into the room, but he wasn't sure if it was the dress or just her.

"Good afternoon, Alex. Is Beverly not joining us today?" he asked.

"Hi doctor. No, she couldn't make it."

"Well, I have to tell you," he said as he waited for her to be seated, "That it's very difficult to engage in effective couples counseling if both people are not present."

Alexandra sat on the couch and removed her shades and scarf. She was wearing green nail polish and just a touch of green eye shadow, both of which were the exact same shade of green as her dress.

"I know, and I apologize for her. I'm sure she'll be here next time. I would have canceled, but it was kind of last minute."

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Oh yeah, everything is fine. It's just that she got very busy at work."

"I see. Ok, well since you're here, why don't we use this time for you to tell me a little more about yourself; your upbringing, how your relationship with Beverly has developed, etc."

At first she didn't know where to begin, but once she started, it just seemed to flow with all the naturalness of a cool, mountain river – clear, powerful and relaxed, but with determination and purpose. She started off talking about her parents and how they originally moved to Possum's Point to get away from the rat race of Chicago. Then she spoke of her early experiences in school and the difficulties she'd always had making friends. She ended the session talking about how well she had always done with her school work. There was no mention of frogs.

The next week, Beverly again didn't make it, and it was more of the same. This time there were some tears and there was some laughter, and she seemed a hundred times more comfortable than before. When Beverly was absent yet again the following week, Sanford knew it was time to seriously address the matter.

"Tell me, Alex," he said after she had gotten settled and he had given her a cup of coffee. "What exactly is going on with your partner?"

"She's just-," she began, "Ok, the truth is that she's not very open to this 'couples therapy' thing. She never was. I dragged her here kicking and screaming. She said she just didn't see the point in going over things that we've already gone over time and time again. And besides, she was feeling a bit of jealousy."

"Jealousy? How so?"

"For some reason, she thinks I might be attracted to you." She smiled slightly.

Sanford felt himself beginning to blush and was instantly grateful that his skin was dark brown instead of white. Still, he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

"What would possibly have given her such a notion?" he asked.

"She knows that I'm attracted to men. I always have been. That's not anything that I've ever tried to hide. I made it clear from the beginning that I am still drawn to men, it's just that I made a promise to myself to swear off of them. What made it worse is that she knows my type, and you kind of fit the profile." She was doing the 'shy' thing again, kind of tilting her head down and to the side, while she looked up at him and smiled sweetly.

"Well, there's nothing for her to be jealous about. My only job here is to try to provide guidance and advice to help you overcome the difficulties that you both are having in your relationship. Her not being here makes my job more difficult, but we'll see what we can do."

The next five weeks flew by. Seeing Alexandra every Friday was something that he looked forward to the way a child looks forward to the weekend. They didn't speak much of Beverly – or frogs – but they spoke of everything else. Against everything that he knew to be right and in spite of all his training and years of experience, he found himself revealing to her details about his own life and upbringing. After a while it no longer even seemed like a therapy session, but more like two friends having a friendly visit. Except for the insurance payment, of course. His secretary had sent out all the letters to Ogunde and the Hills, as he had instructed, but no one had yet responded. He was still optimistic that this Blue Ogunde was the Blue Ogunde that Alexandra thought she had transformed. He knew that once he was able to confirm that her childhood friend was still alive and confront her face-to-face with the evidence, she would be well on her way to learning how to overcome her past and deal with this delusion she'd been living with for so long.

Monty had been trying to get in touch with him for days, but he purposely avoided taking the calls. Instead, he'd call and leave a return message when he knew Monty wouldn't be there to pick up or send him a quick email, promising to call later. The last thing he wanted right now was to listen to his colleague tell him how idiotic he was acting. And he knew that's what it would come to if Monty knew what was going on between he and Alexandra. He had crossed the line, and he knew it. But he felt he was still in control.

It was Friday, at about 20 minutes to 4:00 when his secretary buzzed him. Alexandra was on the line. A chill went through his body. Instantly he knew something was wrong.

"Hello, this is Dr. Sanford" he said.

"Doctor, it's Alexandra," she said, her voice both heavy and frantic. He could tell she had been crying. "I'm sorry, but I'm just not going to be able to make it today. Can we please reschedule?"

"Sure. But what's wrong?" he asked. She began to sob.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's Beverly. She and I had a big fight and she ran out of the house, and I'm just so – so worried about her." She began to cry even harder.

"Are you sure you don't want to come in? We can talk it over. It might help." He could hear turn away from the phone to blow her nose. When she returned she seemed a little calmer.

"Thank you, but no, I'll be ok. I just need some time to think. Besides, I'm all the way over on the north side of town and I have no idea where I put my keys. I think I'm losing my mind," she said, and tried to laugh.

"Well," he began, knowing even before the words came out of his mouth that he was making a terrible mistake, "I live on the north side of town myself, and you were my last appointment for the day. How about if I came and picked you up and we went to a coffee shop to talk?"

"No, I couldn't put you through all that trouble," she said.

"It's really no trouble at all," he responded. "Not only am I heading that way, but your insurance is going to pay me for the session anyway, since you didn't give me 24 hours notice on the cancellation. So you might as well get your money's worth." A couple of more minutes of coaxing and he had convinced her to meet with him. He brushed his teeth, grabbed his jacket and briefcase and ran out the door.

He picked her up in front of an ultra-modern, high-rise apartment building. It turns out it was only a mile or two from his home. He knew the area well. He drove to a local coffee shop that he often frequented, where he knew there would be plenty of seating this time of day. He bought them both an espresso and they found a comfortable pair of chairs near the back of the store.

They spoke for over an hour about how Beverly had accused her of refusing to really commit to their relationship, or to the idea that she truly was a lesbian. She talked about how confused she was about her sexual orientation but that she had no doubts about her love for Beverly.

"Alex, loving someone and being in love with them is not necessarily the same thing, and it can be easy enough to confuse the two," said Sanford. "And just because you've slept with a woman doesn't necessarily mean you're a lesbian."

"Well, that's discouraging," she said. "I mean, it's not like I have a lot of options here, if I don't want to spend the rest of my life cozying up to a vibrator."

"Alex," said Sanford quietly, "I've been holding off telling you this because I have yet to receive actual confirmation, but it's quite possible that Blue Ogunde is still alive – and still human. And that I've found him."

"What?" she said. There was real fear in her eyes.

"I did some investigation and found a person with that name, that's about the right age. He lives is North Carolina. I've sent him a letter. I'm just waiting for a phone call from him so that I can personally verify that it's the same Blue Ogunde you think that you...transformed. And if that's true, it means your belief that you are cursed with men is just a delusion, probably brought on by extreme stress; a sort of minor mental breakdown."

"I...I..." she stuttered, looking bewildered. Tears welled up in her eyes. "I don't really even know how to respond to that," she said.

Suddenly Sanford felt his heart overflowing with love and caring for this woman. Without thinking he watched himself reach across the table and gently grab one of her hands.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed.

Sanford quickly jerked his hand back. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean -," he began, before he realized she was no longer looking at him, but at something behind him. He turned around and saw Beverly standing in the doorway of the coffee shop, giving them both the most evil look he thought he had ever seen.

"Bev!" yelled Alexandra.

Without saying a word, Beverly simply turned and walked out of the shop. Alexandra leaped up and ran after her and Sanford followed. By the time they both reached the street, Beverly was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh my God, this is awful," said Alexandra, grabbing her head with both hands. "I thought she was going to work. If I had known she was still going to be around the neighborhood I never would have agreed to meet you someplace so close to our home."

"I'm sorry," said Sanford. "I never meant for something like this to happen. Let me drive you home and I'll go in and talk to her. I'll explain that this was strictly a professional meeting."

"No, that's only going to make it worse. I think it better if I walk home. It's only a couple of miles, and I need the time to think."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. But thank you doctor, for all your help and understanding."

"Sure, no problem. Here," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. "Here's my card. That's my service number, but they can reach me 24 hours a day. If you need anything – and I mean anything – please, please don't hesitate to call."

"Ok."

"Promise?"

"Yes, promise," she said, smiling slightly.

On his drive home, Sanford wondered what to do next. After all this, continuing therapy sessions with Alexandra was probably out of the question – at least as long as she was together with Beverly. And if there were no sessions, how was he going to see her? He really didn't want to think about the idea of not seeing her. He needed to see her. He really needed to be with her. Did he just say that to himself? Yes, it was true. He had finally, really, truly crossed the patient/doctor line. He wanted Alexandra for his very own, like he had never wanted anyone. And what of her relationship with Beverly? Beverly was a nice girl, but she wasn't right for Alexandra. Alexandra wasn't even a lesbian, for God's sake. He would actually be doing Beverly a favor by helping to end her relationship with Alexandra, which would open her to finding a true lesbian that she could actually be happy with.

He was still tossing these ideas around in his head when the phone rang. He looked at his watch. It was 10:34pm. It was his service. An Alexandra Larrieux would like him to call her immediately. She left a number. He quickly hung up and dialed the number. She picked up on the first ring.

"Dr. Sanford?" she said

"Alex? Are you all right?"

"I'm really sorry to call you so late."

"It's ok. What's happened?"

"Well, when I got back to the apartment, Bev was there, but she wouldn't let me in. I forgot to grab my purse when you picked me up, so I didn't have my keys, my wallet or anything. We yelled back and forth through the door for about half an hour, until someone threatened to call the police."

"Why didn't you let them? No one has the right to lock you out of your own home, Alex."

"I know, but I really didn't want to bring that kind of drama down on her. I love her, and even though I didn't mean to, I've hurt her. She just needs some time to cool off. So anyway, rather than cause more trouble, I just left – just started walking. I've been walking ever since. I wanted to get a hotel room for the night, but I don't have my wallet."

"Oh Alex," he said, his voice heavy with concern.

"I was wondering if I might borrow a few dollars from you to get a room for the night. And cab fare. I'll pay you back tomorrow, I swear, as soon as I can get to my stuff."

"Absolutely, that's no problem at all. I'm glad to help. But you know," he said, hesitating slightly, "I have an extra room here. I know it would be kind of strange, spending the night in the home of your therapist, but it seems kind of ridiculous to spend a couple of hundred dollars for nothing. Besides, it's almost 11pm. I'm sure you're exhausted from all that walking. I would imagine the last thing you want to do now is drive around in a taxi, looking for a vacant hotel room."

"Well, that much is true." She paused. Sanford held his breath and waited. He could feel the blood beating in his temples. "Well," she said finally, "if you're sure it's no problem."

"Not at all, Alex! I'm always happy to help. Just tell me where you are and I'll be right there."

Sanford picked her up at a phone booth just 10 minutes from his house. He tried to get her to talk on the drive back home, but she wasn't in a very talkative mood.

"Can I get you anything? Something to drink or eat? You must me hungry," he said, as they walked into the house.

"No thanks. I'm exhausted. It's been a long day. I just want to go to sleep."

"Oh sure," he said. "One second." He ran into the hallway and moments later came back with bath and face towels.

"Here you go," he said, handing her the towels. "The room is right there," he said, pointing at an open doorway. "I put fresh linen on it before I came to get you. The bathroom is over there and my room is right down the hallway, first door on the left. If you need anything, just knock."

"Thank you doctor," she said warmly, "I really appreciate this."

"Sleep well," he said.

But that was more than he could do. It was 2:58am and he was still awake, tossing and turning and listening to the silence of the house. Then there was a sound. It sounded like someone crying. He listened more closely, then got up and walked into the hallway. It was coming from Alexandra's room. He knocked on the door.

"Alex? Are you ok?" There was no answer, and the crying began to grow louder. He knocked again. "Alex? Alex?"

Still no answer, he slowly opened the door. The room was dark except for the light coming in from the hallway. He slowly walked into the room. Alexandra lay under the covers, holding on the pillow tightly and crying. She appeared to be in the middle of a nightmare.

"Alex?" Sanford called softly to her. She still didn't answer so he walked over to her and gently began to shake her. He eyes popped open and she issue a short scream and sat straight up in the bed.

"I'm sorry," said Sanford. "I didn't mean to frighten you. But I heard you crying and wanted to make sure you were alright."

Alexandra just stared at him. Here face had such a blank look on it that at first he wondered if maybe she were still asleep. Then her face began to change, to transition from one emotion to another: fear, anger, sympathy, bewilderment, rage, defeat. Finally, she turned her face to him and it melted into something he could only describe as relief. Then she burst into tears and buried her head in her hands. Sanford grabbed her gently by the shoulders and pulled her to him.

"It's all right," he said, as he held her to his chest and rubbed her back. "It was just a nightmare." It seemed like they stayed that way forever. The spell was finally broken when she pulled away from him and looked deep into his eyes.

"Thank you," she said solemnly. "I've never met anyone as caring as you are. Thank you for being there for me."

Sanford pulled his pajama sleeve down over his hand and used it to wipe the tears from her eyes.

"You're welcome," he said.

Then they just stared at each other. Sanford felt like he was back in high school, out on a first date, wondering when the right time was to move in for the kiss. Kiss? This was a patient! He knew the last thing he needed to do was kiss this woman, but at that very moment, there was nothing in the world that he wanted to do more. But, still, he waited. And so did she. Neither moved. They just continued to stare into each other's eyes. The silence and lack of movement began to feel uncomfortable. And then, Sanford knew it was now or never. Slowly, he leaned in, brought his hand up to her face and moved his lips towards hers.

The distance between their lips seemed as wide as an ocean and momentarily he wondered if he'd ever be able to reach them. Then, they touched. Her lips were so soft that he couldn't imagine anything more heavenly, more nourishing, more inviting than kissing this woman. Electricity surged through his legs. Explosions began to go off in his head. His heart began to beat half as fast but twice as hard. A cold chill went up his back. Then there was something else, something he had never felt before in his life and could not even begin to describe.

"Ahh!" he exclaimed in surprise. Suddenly, they were no longer kissing. Alexandra had pulled away from him and screamed. The room seemed to spin slightly and then he felt a blast of cool air over his skin. Something was wrong. She really did seem far away from him now. It was almost as though he were laying on the floor, looking up at her. Had he fainted? He tried to get up but couldn't move. He tried again, and the strangest sound issued from his mouth: "Ribbit."

Alexandra screamed again. This time, he didn't think she'd ever stop.

A VOID OF SORTS

One day you have a son. And the next day, you don't. So contemplated Marie as she sat in the corner of the dimly lit room. The shadows were heavy and she felt the weight of them on her shoulders and on her soul. She watched the fading light of the sunset through the cracks in the blinds and wondered exactly how many sunsets her dear boy had experienced in his short time on this planet. She did the math in her head. Two thousand, four hundred and seventy-one. She had always been good with numbers. Numbers had been responsible for her conception in the first place. Twelve – the number of months she tracked the length of her periods. Twenty-seven – the number of days of the shortest cycle. Eighteen – the number of days subtracted from the shortest cycle. Nine – the first likely day of fertility. Thirty – the number of days of the longest cycle. Eleven – the number of days subtracted from the longest cycle. Nineteen – the likely last day of fertility. And so it went. Number after number. Cycle after cycle. Month after month. Year after year.

Not having a mate had made things a bit difficult. Sperm banks were the first obvious choice. But at an average of $400 per insemination and no help from the health insurance, she went through her entire savings account in less than five years. So that left the bars. She'd never known how many bars there were in the city until she started looking for them. She chose a few that were far from her home. At first she wasn't sure she could do it; wasn't sure she could debase herself in such a way.

She had walked into the first bar wearing her nicest dress and her dark blue Sunday pumps. If she was nervous before she was even more so now, when she saw how over-dressed she was compared to the other women there, but she forced herself to sit down and order a soda. She wasn't sure if everyone was watching her because of the way she was dressed, or because of the fact that she was the only African American woman there. There were two Hispanic women playing pool in the back and she smiled at them, hoping for some show of solidarity, but they acted as though she wasn't there, so she went back to surveying the stock of available men. Several of the men were stealing glances. That wasn't unusual. She was a pretty woman, about 5'8" with a slim, curvy body that her dress wasn't completely successful in concealing. Normally she would have seen that as a negative, but tonight it was all right. Tonight she was on a mission, and sacrifices needed to be made.

"Hi, my name is Brad. Can I buy you a drink," ask the first man that approached her.

She had seen him whispering to another man and nodding his head in her direction, so she wasn't totally surprised when he appeared beside her. He was tall, well over six feet, with wild blond hair and blue eyes. That was all right. He had wide shoulders, a muscular build and a beautiful smile. That was excellent.

"Thank you, but I'm still working on the drink I have," she said in response.

"I don't think I've seen you in here before," he said. "What's your name?"

"Marie. I've never been here before."

"Are you new to the neighborhood?"

"No, I just don't get out much."

"Well, I'm glad you chose to get out tonight," he said, and flashed that beautiful smile again.

She took another sip of her soda, and wondered if she could really do this. She hadn't told anyone that she was planning something so crazy. Just thinking about all the risks, especially from diseases that could be transmitted to the baby, made her ulcers burn. She looked at Brad over her glass. The roots of his hair were the same golden color as the ends, but there was more curl nearer the scalp. His eyes were like mirrors against an angry sea, which matched perfectly the slight trace of sunburn that appeared on his short, angular nose. His cheekbones were sharp and contrasted against his square jaw, and his lips were wide and full. She wondered if perhaps there was some Black in his family somewhere. That would have made her mother feel a little better, though not much. But right now she couldn't worry about what her mother would or would not condone.

"What do you do for a living, Brad?"

"Well, right now not much. I graduated from Yale last June, with a law degree, and I'm gearing up to take the bar next month. That's kind of like a full-time job. And I've got a little money in the bank, so I can afford to take some time off. What about you?" he said, taking a swig from his beer.

Yale. So he apparently had brains to match the beauty. She hadn't expected the first candidate to be such a complete package.

"I'm a travel writer," she lied. She didn't really want to tell him that she was a secretary. First, because she wanted to remain as anonymous as possible, and also because 'travel writer' sounded so much more exciting than 'secretary'. And she wanted to seem exciting tonight.

"Oh, really? That's great. You must love your job. What kinds of places have you traveled to?"

She spent the next hour telling him about all the countries that she had been to – but conveniently leaving out the fact that she had only traveled there in her imagination, courtesy of books, DVDs and the Travel Channel. She spoke of Rome, London and the Eiffel tower. She spoke of Cairo, Marrakech, and safaris in Africa. She spoke of Sydney, Bangkok and the jungles of Indonesia. She was on her third soda and he his fourth beer when he asked if she'd like to get out of there and go somewhere quiet.

"Um, ok. What did you have in mind?" she replied, even though she already knew.

Going back to her place was out of the question, so she found herself sitting in his living room, starring at a picture on the coffee table of him with his arms wrapped around a stunningly beautiful brunette. A glass of wine and some soothing music and she found those same arms wrapped around her. The taste of wine was soon replaced by the taste of his tongue, which was stale and bitter. He looked heaven sent, but he tasted exactly like the bar she had found him in. She wasn't sure what she found more repulsive – his obvious arrogance and sure expectation that she would be giving herself to him this night, or the fact that she was giving herself to any man in such a manner. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself somewhere else. On the beaches of Tahiti, teaching her son or daughter about how it became a French colony in the 1800s, or on the sands of Egypt, taking pictures next to the pyramids to send back to their envious schoolmates. But after about fifteen minutes she had taken all she could take, and attempted to push him off of her.

The first punch was heavy and she could literally see stars flashing across the ceiling of the dimly lit room. For a second she wondered if perhaps she was actually outside, lying on the plastic chaise lounge in her back yard, a glass of diet cola with fresh lime on the small table beside her and the perfume of her wild roses filling her head with joy. But then she felt the fingers around her neck and was instantly back on the couch, in a strange room with a strange man. Something in the back of her mind told her not to fight any more, and once she relaxed it was over in less than a minute.

She awoke the next morning in her shower stall, a damp towel wrapped around her body. She remembered that she had followed the man from the bar to his home in her own car, which was now parked in her drive-way, but she had no idea how she had actually gotten from his house back to hers. It was week before she gathered enough courage to go to the police, but five minutes of tough questions that she had no answers to was more than she could bear, and in tears she ran away from the gray rooms and stern voices and back into the safety and anonymity of the morning sunlight. She cursed herself for putting herself in such a vulnerable position with an unknown man in the first place, and vowed to never do anything so silly ever again.

But several months later, with no other prospects, she found herself sitting in another bar. Desperation had gotten the better of caution, and she was throwing herself whole-heartedly back into the lion's den. Over the next year, there were several more bars and several more men. Eventually the day she had been praying for came. She was pregnant.

A noise – . Marie tried to make herself smaller behind the large chair. Her heart began to pound. She realized that it had gotten dark. Bright headlights splashed across the blinds. Maybe someone had seen her entry and called the police? She heard the car stop and moments later there was a knock at the door. Her pounding heart actually stopped. A second knock. And then a third. Something heavy was dropped outside the door and the footsteps receded, soon followed by the sound of an engine turning over. Whoever had been there was now gone. Her heart followed the cue from her breath and both began to flow again. To give her mind something to focus on she opened her bag for the seventh or eighth time and inventoried its contents again. Pepper spray. Rope. Handcuffs. Small blowtorch. Pliers. Bleach. Battery acid. Rat poison. Hunting knife. Duct tape. Hammer. Garden shears. Rubber gloves. Small flashlight. Large camera flash complete with wireless remote trigger. Everything seemed to be there, just as it was all the previous times she counted. She began to relax. She tried to think back to more pleasant times, like the early part of her pregnancy.

Marie had never known that life could be a wonderful as it was when she first learned she was with child. She found joy in the some of the most insignificant things. The smell of freshly baked sourdough bagels. The gem-like glistening of morning dew as it collected on the windshield of her car. The sound of the local ice cream truck as it rounded the corner, playing the same mindless tune over and over again.

Even the last trimester found her without complaint, in spite of the bleeding, the fear and the dire prognosis she received from every doctor she saw. And everyone was astonished the day that Marie held her new, healthy, baby boy in her arms. Everyone, that is, except Marie. She knew all along that she was destined to be the vehicle that graced the world with this particular new life.

And while nearly everyone would have bet against her son's safe arrival, no one could resist his charms once he did, indeed, arrive. To be in his presence was to instantly love him. It was unavoidable. His father was Asian, a native of Thailand. Marie couldn't remember his last name, if she ever even knew it. So Raymond received her last name – Mansfield – but he received his father's straight, jet-black hair and slanted, hazel-colored eyes. With deep, golden-toned skin and a wide, dimpled smile, he was the most beautiful baby some people had ever seen. Sometimes she wondered if that's where she went wrong. Maybe he was _too_ beautiful. Maybe if she had found someone less attractive to mate with her son would still be here.

She remembered the first time she had taken him to daycare. How the ladies there had fawned over him. And all too soon, little girls that were too young to be interested in boys were interested in her Raymond. You'd think the other boys might have been jealous, but Raymond exuded such happiness and joy that they all just wanted to be his friend. No one was immune. Marie was sure that if she could just have gotten her family to spend a few minutes in his presence, that all the painful accusations and tears would have been forgotten, and she would have been welcomed back into the fold. Lord knows she tried, by phone and in person, but she never got beyond the dial tones and slammed doors. Some thought it a heavy price to pay, but it wasn't. Not for Raymond. No price was too high.

Her first scare had come when he was only three years old. She had just gotten fired from one of her three jobs, for bad attendance. She had thought that she could handle the three jobs, and it really helped her be able to afford to buy him the mountain of toys and educational games that were stacking up in his room, but at night she often found it impossible to tear herself away from him and go to work. So she was now down to two jobs and able to spend much more time with her beloved son. On this particular day, they were at a nearby park, one of Raymond's favorite places. Raymond was doing one of his favorite activities in the whole wide world – sliding full speed down the big red slide. As always, she had checked the area upon their arrival for any dangerous debris or litter. But the broken bottle had been buried in the sand, and an hour later it revealed itself, embedded deeply in Raymond's thigh. The artery was severed, and the amount of blood seemed oceanic. Raymond appeared unfazed by it all and did not even cry. Marie's wail was heard throughout the neighborhood and talked about for weeks. She donated blood three times and spent all twenty-four hours of the next twelve days in the hospital with her son. She lost another job. But he survived, and that was all that was important.

The next couple of years were fairly uneventful. There was the flu, measles, ear infections and the odd bump or abrasion that is par-for-the-course for any such young, rambunctious boy. Then there was his first day of elementary school. First grade. He was so excited. It was shortly thereafter that 'It' happened. The police theorized that the suspect might have been watching him for several weeks. The school, of course, was trying to place the blame on the teacher to avoid a lawsuit. The teacher was reported to have had a nervous breakdown after her termination, and was supposedly institutionalized somewhere upstate. Marie wasn't interested in suing anyone and couldn't have cared less about the teacher. All she wanted was her boy back.

One day you have a son. And the next day, you don't. That was her opening statement to the jury at the trial of the man that the police suspected of kidnapping her son from the school playground, sexually molesting him, killing him and throwing the torn and ravaged body in the local landfill, after first setting it on fire to destroy any evidence.

A car door slammed –. It was as dark outside as it was inside now, but Marie's eyes were adjusted and she could see the room very clearly. Her heart started to pound again, but she forced herself to move. Quietly and stealthily, like a cat tracking a bird through tall grass, she moved from the behind the large, overstuffed chair to a place behind the front door. She heard the keys jingling in the door for what seemed like an eternity. It squeaked slowly when it was opened, and she could hear the light switch begin flipped up and down by an unseen hand.

"God damn light bulb..." muttered a deep, male voice. A large figure stepped into the room carrying a large grocery bag and kicked the door shut behind it. Marie shut her eyes tight and put one of her hands over them. When she heard the click of the door actually closing, she hit the button of the remote, and the flash she had set up on the other side of the room fired.

"What the hell!" said the man in surprise. Blinded, he dropped the bag and stumbled over its contents as she quietly ran up behind him and swung the hammer against the side of his head.

When he finally came to several minutes later, he was handcuffed and his torso and legs tied to a wooden chair in the center of the kitchen. Duct tape was stretched over his mouth. When he recognized Marie, his eyes grew wide with rage as he squirmed against his restraints. When he realized how futile that was, the anger in his eyes were replaced with humbled pleading. It was the same eyes and the same humbled pleading that Marie and the jury had born witness to during the trial. Right from the beginning this man had attempted to deny any responsibility for his crimes.

"Your Honor, and ladies and gentleman of the jury," began the attorney, "we are here today to avert a grave miscarriage of justice. I plan to prove to you that my client, Mr. Harold Allen Burkett, has been falsely accused of these heinous crimes, crimes that it was impossible for him to have committed."

The trial painfully dragged on, day after day, week after week. There was DNA evidence, condemning hair fibers and even eyewitnesses placing the man at the scene. But Marie only half listened to most of what was said. She had known from the moment that she saw this man that he was the one. The police had requested that she come down to the station a week after Raymond's disappearance, to view a line-up of potential suspects, just to see if anyone looked familiar. She picked him out as soon as she saw him.

"That one! Number three! I recognize him. I can't remember where or when I've seen him, but I know it was somewhere around the school. That's the man! That's the man that took my boy!"

Two officers had to forcibly escort her from the station to get her to leave. And it was another 9 days of calling the captain several times a day before she was told that the D.A. believed they had enough evidence to take the man she identified to trial. His girlfriend had tried to lie for him, saying that they were together on a camping trip several hundred miles away on the day Raymond disappeared. Yet they could find no witnesses to support that. And they claimed they paid for everything cash. No credit card receipts. No hotel registers. Not even a gasoline receipt. Marie could see it in the eyes of every juror in the courtroom. They knew that he was guilty just as she did. They were all just letting the process happen so that they could vote him guilty and get back to their lives as quickly as possible.

The last day of the trial was upon them. The man and his girlfriend had both shed tears on the stand, professing innocence, claiming disbelief that this could be happening to them. They were engaged to be married. The date was in early September. It seemed certain that their plans were going to have to be changed.

Then disaster. It was like a movie. A young woman runs into the courtroom. The judge slams his gavel against the sound block. She begs his pardon. There's a hushed huddle with the defense team. A five minute recess? Reluctantly agreed to. And then they are back. The video tape. Convenience store security footage. A somewhat dark but still vaguely recognizable image. This man, one and the same? Buying cigarettes 600 miles from Raymond's school? Within minutes of the time Raymond was abducted? The prosecutors objected – footage inconclusive. Motion denied. Four hours without breathing. Door swing open. Twelve peers enter. Verdict rendered. Not guilty. Gavel drops. Thank you jury. Court adjourned.

Marie felt the exact same way she had the morning after she had met Brad at the bar. She doesn't remember how she got from the courtroom to her home. Instead of waking up in the shower, she found herself sitting in a chair made for a child, in the empty, darkened room that used to be where her loving son slept before some monster grabbed him and vandalized his body and soul. She called the detectives every day for the next month. There were no new suspects, no breaks in the case. She knew there would not be. Harold Allen Burkett had committed the ultimate crime and gotten away with it. Gotten away with her son. Gotten away with her Raymond. Gotten away with her life. One day you have a son. And the next day, you don't.

She tried to fight through the appropriate channels. Petitioned the court for a new trial. Took out a second mortgage on her home to pay for a private eye. Followed him hoping to catch him in the act again. But all she got in return was denials, restraining orders, and an empty bank account.

Maybe she went a little mad for a moment. Attacking him in the parking lot of his job was probably not the best way to go. But spending two weeks in jail gave her time to think. And time to plan. And time to talk to real criminals that were full of bitter rage and ideas on how to vent some of that rage upon especially worthy men in the most painful and creative of ways.

Upon release it was straight to the library. She buried her head inside books on anatomy and biology, medieval torture and locking picking, knot tying and toxicology. By the time she finished, she was exhausted. But now she knew some things. She knew the location of every major artery on the human body. She knew how much rat poison a human could consume without dying. She knew the short term effect of pepper spray on the respiratory system of an average sized male. She knew how much blood the human body typically loses with the amputation of an ear, a finger, a scrotum. She knew how many pounds of pressure a typically hammer swing generated, and how many pounds of pressure a standard human femur could withstand before shattering. She knew how many levels of human skin liquid bleach or battery acid would penetrate before their damage began to slow. She knew the amount of pain generated by first, second and third degree burns and how much pain a typical person could be expected to endure before passing out. Yes, now she knew some things.

Harold Allen Burkett tried to scream through the duct tape that covered his mouth, but it was useless. The ropes were tied brilliantly, and the more he struggled, the tighter they got. Sweat began to stream down his face and into his eyes, but he couldn't bear not seeing what this woman was doing, so his forced himself to keep his eyes open, in spite of how they stung. She seemed eerily calm as she opened her satchel and spread its contents on the floor before him. Satisfied that everything was ready, she grabbed the first item, a small, red blowtorch. In the quiet of the room, the strike of the wooden match against the box sounded electric, the lighting of the torch resembling thunder. As the man began to quiver with fear, the woman put her face very close to his.

"One day," she began, "you have a son. The next day, you don't."

THE TELL TAIL TALE

Ding dong. The doorbell rang.

"Someone please get that," said a female voice from somewhere within the house.

Ding Dong.

Ding Dong.

"Malik, put that game down and get the door," said a male voice.

Ding dong. Ding dong.

"Malik!" said the woman.

"I'm in the bathroom!" Malik yelled in response.

Ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong.

"Malcolm? Malcolm! Get the door please!" said the male voice.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" said the man as he rushed to the door, his face half covered in shaving cream.

"God damn it!" said the old man as he entered the foyer, "yall gonna leave me out there all damn night? It's colder than a witch's ass!"

"Dad, please," said the man in exasperation.

"I'm just sayin'," the old man continued, "I got better things to do than camping out on yo' front lawn while I wait for you to find yo' way to the goddamn door."

"Dad, if you didn't want to watch the kids, that's all you had to say," said the man.

"I told you I'd watch the damn kids and I'll watch the damn kids!"

"Jesus Christ", muttered the man under his breath as he turned and walked back towards the rear of the house. "Malik! Malcolm! Come say hello to your grandfather."

The old man walked into the kitchen and began to rummage through the refrigerator. As he bent over to look at the bottom shelves the fridge light illuminated his face in a way that, with his round cheek bones, pure white hair and matching moustache, made him look a bit like a chocolate Santa Claus.

"What you got to eat in here, boy?" he said to his son, who he thought was behind him but who had returned to the back of the house. When he received no answer, he turned around, irritated.

"Hey boy," he began again, "I said what – "

"Hi daddy," said the woman as she swept into the kitchen and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. She was about 5 feet, 8 inches tall, with a shapely figure, a short bob haircut, skin the color of dark cherry wood and a face that looked like it could have been copied from that of one of those elegant porcelain dolls, the kind you might find in one of the higher-end gift shops in L.A.'s Leimert Park. "I have a pot roast in the oven. It should be ready in about 20 minutes. There are vegetables and potatoes with it. I keep forgetting that your sense of smell isn't so great these days."

"Lord, ain't that the truth," he said quietly as he slowly rubbed his protruding belly and looked longingly at the stove. "Eatin' just ain't what it used to be now that I can barely taste it."

His daughter-in-law smiled.

"Yeah, but it looks like you're still doing alright, daddy."

He laughed.

"Well, you know, these young girls just likes to cook for me so much, and it's all so good that what I miss in taste I make up for in volume."

"Young girls? Daddy, what is Miss Collins, like 67 years old?"

"Sixty-eight. That might not be young to you, but she's a spring chicken to me. I tell you, that woman keeps me going _all_ night long! Why, last weekend we – "

"Dad!" said his son as he entered the kitchen. "That's more than we need to know."

"Alright boy, but you could probably learn a thing or two from yo' ol' pop." He smiled slyly at the woman. "Is my boy treatin' you right?" he asked, with a glint in his eye.

"Jesus, dad," said his son, in answer. "Kelli, are you ready to go?"

"Yeah, let me just grab my coat," she said as she left the two men in the kitchen.

The man, Darius, looked into the reflection of the black glass of the microwave door and straightened his tie. He wore his jet black hair in a short, neat afro that always looked like he had just come back from the barber, even though it was thinning quite a bit on top. His suit, a custom-made grey number that he had picked up the last time he was in Hong Kong, hung well on him. Its dark color complimented his even darker African skin very well, and made his unnaturally white teeth look even whiter. He was a handsome man that some people described as a cross between Denzil Washington and Wesley Snipes, though he liked to think that he had more style than either of them. Everything in his life was the best of the best, from his $24,000 limited edition watch, to the house that he designed from the ground up to his wife, former head cheerleader and prom queen to his 7-year-old twin sons, both straight-A students. The only thing in his life that wasn't top shelf was his father, an old-school blue-color worker that, while he had provided well for his family while Darius was growing up, had never attained even a fraction of the success that his son enjoyed. He still lived in the house Darius grew up in, purchased in 1962 for $35,000, drove a 28-year-old car that drank at least a quart of oil a week and, more often than not, walked around in one of the old jump suits that he probably purchased around the same time he purchased his car.

"So, how've you been dad?" he asked.

"Oh, you know," said the old man as he pulled a chair out from the table and slowly sat down. "I can't really complain. Everythang's goin' all right."

"How's that problem you were having with your back?"

"That? Oh, that's all fixed up now. I had Bertha May walk on it the other night. Straightened it right out."

"You had Bertha May Tillman walk on your back? Dad, that woman must weigh 200 pounds!"

"200? Shit! She 275 if she a ounce!" he laughed again. "But you know I always done like me a big girl. Yo' momma was big and you know I loved her like a pig love slop!"

"Dad," said Darius sternly, "This is no laughing matter. At your age a stunt like that could have left you with broken ribs, a punctured lung, God only knows what else. You're lucky that you can still walk after that."

"She the one that had problems walking afterwards! I brought the magic down on that girl, had her preaching the scripture up in there. She was a'screamin' and a hollerin' so bad the neighbors didn't know whether to grab they guns or grab they bibles!" He broke into another hearty laugh, which ended in a coughing spell. He could tell from the look on his son's face that he wanted to say something about the coughing, but he was trying not to. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and began to examine the pattern on the kitchen floor tile until his father had fully recovered.

"So dad," he said, "have you thought anymore about my offer? There's a great three-story unit that just became available over in the Village. It has its own elevator so you wouldn't have to walk up and down the stairs, there's a three-car garage with a full workbench so you can work on the car as much as you like, there's Italian granite in the - "

"Son, we done been over this time and time again. Why the hell would I let you buy be a brand new house when I got a perfectly good house of my own? That I paid for with my own damn money?" He peered intently at his son over his wire-rimed glasses.

"Dad, that place is falling apart. The land values in the neighborhood have plummeted over the past few years, while crime has skyrocketed. It's not safe for you there – either inside or outside the house. Now listen," he said, his eyes lighting up, "The market is soft right now but I sense a shift. An investment in Village Estates is a smart move. I predict that in 8-10 years, the prices of those homes will be nearly double what they are today."

"Don't gimme that shit about land prices and crime statisticals! We both know goddamn well why you wanna move me out of that house – you embarrassed that yo' old man ain't livin' in high style the way his investment banker son is!" he sneered. "I don't remember you having any problems with it when you was a boy. It was a perfectly respectable place to live then, it's a perfectly respectable place to live now. You was born in that house! Yo' momma died in that house!" He pushed the chair back abruptly and rose to his feet. "How the fuck you gon' try to move me outta my own goddamn house like I'm some kind of goddamn –"

"Hey! I'm just trying to help you!" yelled his son.

"Help me? Nigga, how you gon' help me when you can barely help yo'self?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I know yo' little secret. I may still live in the hood, but I get around. I know you got a second, a third _and_ a fourth on this house. I know yo' car is leased, yo' furniture is rented – hell, you're still making payments on that goddamn watch!" he said, looking down at Darius' diamond and platinum draped wrist. "What do you sophisticated bankin' people call this again? 'Leverage'? I call it bullshit! You ain't no richer than I am. At least I own my goddamn house free and clear! I don't know how Kelli even puts up with livin' like this –"

"Keep your voice down!" Darius whispered angrily. "Don't come in here spreading my business around. Kelli handles the house, I handle the finances. I don't tell her how to do what she does and doesn't tell me how to do what I do," he said indignantly.

"I ain't tryin' to tell you what to do either, son," said his father, solemnly. "You a goddamn grown-ass man and old enough to make yo' own mistakes. But you runnin' 'round here actin' all saditty an' shit is going to end up giving these kids a goddamn complex, and that I _do_ have a problem with! You can fuck up yo' own life however you see fit, but these chil'ren –"

"Grampa! Grampa!" screamed two little boys as they ran into the kitchen. One of them jumped into his grandfather's arms, but it was hard for the old man to tell which. Malcolm and Malik were identical twins and such exact duplicates of each other that their parents wouldn't even be able to tell them apart if it wasn't for the fact that one – Malcolm – had a mole on the top of his left ear. Their mother entered the kitchen a moment later.

"I'm ready" she said to Darius, smiling.

"All right," said her husband, as he frowned down at his father. "Dad, we can finish this discussion later."

The old man looked up at him from the chair he had sat in to greet his grandsons, his face a mixture of sadness, anger and resolve. Without a word he went back to listening to Malik tell him about 'Show & Tell' day at school.

"Daddy, the roast will be ready in about 15 minutes. Just take it out when the timer goes off and you should be all set," said Kelli. "All right boys, come give momma a kiss before we leave," she said as she spread her arms wide and kneeled down to be face-level with her sons. The twins both gave her a peck, on opposite cheeks.

After dinner, the old man and his grandsons watched a bit of television and talked about a wide variety of topics – girls, sports, their school grades, etc. As much as he sometimes made a fuss about it with his son, he dearly loved these boys and treasured every moment he got to spend with them.

"So Grampa," said Malcolm, "Could I take your glass eye to school to for Show & Tell?"

"My glass eye! How you gon' ask me a crazy question like that boy!" he said, reaching across the couch and tickling the boy, who squirmed and giggled madly. "How the hell am I supposed to see where I'm going if I only got one eye? Not to mention the fact that women don't really much care for one-eyed men," he said, his face animated and smiling.

"Grampa, Grampa!" said Malik, "Tell us again the story of how you lost your eye!"

"I lost this eye in a kangaroo fight!," he said, grinning widely. "He was one tough, hairy sumbitch, but I whupped his ass in the end!"

"Grampa," said Malcolm, frowning with concern, "How come your story about how you lost your eye always changes? Once you said it was in the war, then you said you got bitten by a grizzly bear. Now you tell us it's a kangaroo!' he said, raising his little arms in frustration.

"I don't know nuthin' about no changin' stories," said the old man, smiling slyly. "Maybe I got the elkshimer."

"Elkshimer?" said Malcolm, "Do you mean 'Alzheimer's'?"

"Hey, you say tomato, I say potato!" he responded. "Now stop sassin' yo' elders and let's get you young men ready for bed."

"Awww, Grampa!" the boys said in unison.

"Now, now, none of that. You both know the drill. Let's get to it," he said, clapping his hands together.

"Ok," said Malik in resignation, "But if we go to bed right now, will you tell us a bedtime story?"

"Bedtime story? Boy, you could talk the devil into heaven! Ok, I'll tell you a story. Go get yo' pajamas on." The boys yelled excitedly and ran from the room. Several minutes later their grandfather joined them in their bedroom. They slept in bunk beds, Malcolm on top and Malik down below. The old man grabbed a chair and sat it down next to them. Malcolm leaned slightly over the rail of the top bed, waiting anxiously for his grandfather to begin.

"Well, let me see," said the old man thoughtfully as he took his glasses off and began cleaning them with a crumpled, grey handkerchief he had pulled from the pocket of his dungarees. "Ok," he said, putting his glasses back on his face and the handkerchief back in his pocket, "I have a story for you."

"Once upon a time –"

"Wait!" said Malcolm, "You didn't tell us the title of the story."

"Oh, ok. This story is called..." he gazed at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. "This story is called the Tell Tail Tale," he said, finally.

"The what?" said Malik.

"The Tell Tail Tale. Remember what I told you that time I showed you how to play poker? About being careful not to have a 'tell' – those little nervous movements that other people can see and pick up on, that let's them know what kinda hand you got?" They both nodded. "By the way," he said, lowering his head and whispering, "you never told yo' momma or daddy about that, did you?" They both vigorously shook their heads 'no'.

"But I did win $3 from Harold at school one time!" said Malcolm.

"Good for you, boy!" said his grandfather. "Just be sure to keep that under yo' hat," he winked. They both nodded. "Anyway," he continued, "this 'tale', as in 'story', is about a monkey, who's 'tell', like in poker, is actually his 'tail', like the one monkeys swing from trees with. Get it?"

The boys both looked at him with blank stares and slowly shook their heads 'no'.

"That's alright," said the old man, "you'll understand soon enough. So back to the story. Once upon a time," he began again, "there lived a monkey named Michael."

"Michael?" said Malcolm, "that's not a 'monkey' name!"

"Youngin', who tellin' this story – you or me?" Malcolm just shifted under the covers and waited for his grandfather to continue.

"Like I said, his name was name was Michael – Michael the Monkey," he said, peering briefly over his glasses at Malcolm before continuing, smiling slightly. "And this monkey-"

"Grampa, what kind of monkey was it?" asked Malik.

"Well," his grandfather said, pausing momentarily, "Just yo' typical brown monkey, I guess. There was nothin' partic'larly unusual 'bout him. He did look a little bit like yo' daddy, though. Same big ears – but with just a little more hair on the top of his big 'ol head!" All three of them laughed at that.

"Now," he continued, "Michael the Monkey lived in the 'black' side of the jungle, in the 'hood. That's 'cause he couldn't afford to live on the 'white' side, where Tarzan and Jane lived. The tree him and his family lived in wasn't the nicest tree in the jungle – the leaves weren't as green and the branches weren't as high, but it was dry and safe and they was happy. All of them, that is, except for Michael."

"You see, while Michael came from a good family of hardworking monkeys that surrounded him with love and comfort, he started noticing that not all monkeys were the same. Some of his friends lived in nicer trees, some of them wore nicer clothes, some drove nicer cars, and well, Michael the Monkey started to become a little bit jealous. And day by day, week by week, the jealousy started to eat away at him, like a terrible disease. All he could think about was how everybody seemed to be doing better than he and his family was. He started to be embarrassed to go to school, because his friends were wearing the latest designer clothes and he was wearing cheaper imitations. They got FUBU – he got BABU. They got Sean John – he got Long John!" The boys giggled. "He was even embarrassed by the car his father drove – a beautiful 1976 Cadillac Ape De Ville. Yeah, it needed a little body work and could have used some new upholstery, but it was safe, reliable automobile. That wasn't good enough for Michael. He slouched down in the seat every time his father dropped him off for school in the morning, hoping that none of the other kids would see him."

"Now it wasn't that Michael and his family was poor. Michael's mother was a housewife that took care of the tree and looked after Michael. His father worked at the local banana factory, just as his father and his father's father before him. Working at the banana factory was a good job – hard work, but a good, respectable job. Michael's father always made sure that his family had a good tree to live in and good food to eat. He just couldn't afford to buy Michael all the expensive things that some of his friends' fathers were able to afford."

One day a new family moved into the jungle, and they had a daughter right about Michael's age – a little monkey girl named Shirley. Shirley was beautiful and as soon as Michael laid eyes on her, he was smitten. But Michael wasn't the only one. Everybody wanted Shirley and they all came a'courtin', and they lined up with flowers and candy and coconuts, all ready to woo little Shirley. There were gorillas, apes, chimpanzees, orangamatans –"

"Orangamatans?" said Malik. "Grampa, I think you mean orangutans. And gorillas are a _type_ of ape. Gorillas and apes are really the same thing."

"Boy," said the old man, leaning back in his chair to get a better look at his grandson, "if I had a nickel for everytime you done interrupted one of my stories - "

"I'm sorry, Grampa," said Malik, "But you always told us to 'stick to the facts' and that 'the truth shall set you free'."

"Hmmph," said the old man, pausing. "Well, I guess you got me there." Then he smiled slightly. "But could I please finish my story now?"

"Yes," said Malik, smiling in return.

"Ok, where was I?" said his grandfather. "Oh yeah -the courtin'. Gorillas, apes, chimpanzees, oranga-whatevers, you get the general idea - everybody wanted little Shirley. Now shortly before Shirley moved to the neighborhood Michael's father had bought him a bike and Michael had found hisself a job – a paper route delivering the local newspaper, the Jungle Times, in the morning before school. But Michael still knew he didn't have enough money to buy Shirley the kinds of things that some of the other monkeys were able to buy her, so he went to his father and asked his father for some advice."

"'Son,' said his father, 'It's not always about material things. I had the same situation with yo' momma. Yo' momma was the prettiest monkey at school and I never thought she'd ever give me the time of day. But you know what? We ended up falling in love and I've been blessed with 20 years of joy and I'm looking forward to 20 more! And you know how I did it? I charmed her!'"

"'How do I do that?' Michael asked his father, and his father said, 'Be helpful and courteous and caring – don't forget to tell her how pretty she is – and last but not least, don't do anything that might cause yo' tail to show. Now I gotta go to work. I'll talk to you later,' and his father was gone."

"Michael walked away from that conversation deep in thought, trying to figure out how he could charm Shirley into falling in love with him. He didn't really know what his father meant by not doing anything that might cause his 'tail to show'. He was a monkey – he had a hole in the back of his pants that his tail stuck out just like all the other monkeys, so his tail always showed. But the idea of paying her compliments seemed like a good one. He thought she was just the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen, so what could be easier than simply confessing that to her? Still deep in thought, he turned the corner and who did he run right into but Shirley herself! After they dusted themselves off, Michael offered to walk her home and Shirley accepted. Now that she was there in person, Michael found himself a bit tongue-tied. As he was trying to decide exactly how he was going to tell her how pretty she looked today, Shirley asked him if he was going to the concert Friday night. 'What the concert?' he asked. 'Don't you know about the big concert?' she replied. 'Everyone's going to be there.'"

"A monkey concert?" said Malcolm. "I like concerts! Who was at the concert, Grampa?"

"Who was at the concert?" said his grandfather, stroking his chin and thinking hard. "Well, let's see... there was Notorious A.P.E., and Gorill.I.Am..."

"Gorill.I.Am! That's funny, Grampa!" said Malcolm. "Who else?"

"Uhhh...Baboon 5 and uhhh...Chimp Monkey Monk! Yeah, that's it," he said, smiling widely. "And you know where they were performing at? At the A-ple Center. Get it, like the Staple Center, but since it's monkeys it's the 'Ape' –le Center?" he said, his voice trailing off. His two grandsons just stared at him.

"And Baboon 5, like Maroon 5? Chimp Monkey Monk – Snoop Doggy Dog? No?" His two grandsons still continued to silently stare at him.

"Ok, ok, I get it. Not funny. Let's move on," he said curtly.

"I still think Gorill.I.Am is funny, Grampa" said Malcolm sweetly.

"Thank you son," said his grandfather.

"Anyway," continued the old man, "Michael knew he didn't have enough money to take Shirley to the concert, but he didn't want her to go with anyone else, so without really thinking it through he said, 'Oh yeah, I almost forgot about that. Yeah, I'm going. As a matter of fact, I know Gorill.I.Am and I have backstage passes.' Little Shirley was so excited that she started a'screamin' and a'hollerin'!"

"You mean like this – Eeehh eeehh, ahhh ahhh!" said Malcolm, trying to imitate a monkey.

"Was that supposed to be a monkey?" said his grandfather, looking over the top of his glasses at his grandson.

"Yeah! That _is_ a monkey!" said Malcolm.

"Let me hear it again," said his grandfather, very seriously, as he leaned forward in his chair so he could hear it better.

"Eeehh eeehh, ahhh ahhh!"

"Is that a well monkey or a sick monkey?"

"Grampa!" said Malcolm.

"I'm sorry, I'm just asking. Sound like yo' monkey might be suffering from tuberculosis or hepatitis or something. Might wanna get that checked out."

"Grampa!" said Malcolm again, sighing heavily.

"I'm just joshing you," said his grandfather, laughing and relaxing back in his chair. "That's a fine monkey, a fine monkey. Anyway, all the way home they talked about what Gorill.I.Am was like and how long Michael had known him. Finally, as they neared her tree, Michael said 'I have two tickets, but I haven't decided who I'm taking yet. You can come with me if you like.' Well, of course Shirley said yes, and they had a date. But now Michael had a problem. He had told a lie and now he had to figure out how to get out of it."

"Lies are bad," said Malcolm. "Michael doesn't seem like a very nice monkey."

"You're right son," answered his grandfather. "Lies _are_ bad. But sometimes even good people find themselves telling them without really even knowing that they're doing it. It might even happen to you one day. You might find yo'self in a situation and before you know it, you've said something that ain't completely true. If you ever do find yo'self in that kind of a predic'dament, the best thing you can do is immediately 'fess up, 'cause as yo' brother just so kindly reminded us, the truth _shall_ set you free. But Michael didn't do that. Instead, he set about figuring out how to cover up the lie and still keep the girl."

"By the time he got to school the next day, everyone knew that he had asked Shirley to go to the concert with him, but nobody believed that he actually had tickets. Nobody, that is, except Shirley. As it got closer and closer to Friday he started to get more and more panicked, wondering how he could have possibly gotten himself into such a mess! Thursday night he got down on his knees beside his bed and prayed to King Kong – that's 'cause as a monkey he didn't know nothin' about God or our Lord Jesus Christ – so he prayed to King Kong that if King Kong got him out of this situation, he'd never ever tell another lie, ever! The next day when he woke up he heard on the radio that Gorill.I.Am was sick and the concert had been cancelled. Michael couldn't believe his luck – King Kong had answered his prayers! But he seemed to have forgotten his promise, and that morning when he got to school, he told everyone how he had gotten a text message from Gorill.I.Am the day before, telling him he was cancelling the show. Planning this ahead of time, he had even sent himself a message and made it look like it came from the rapper, so he could whip out his cell phone and show everyone at school."

"The monkeys have cell phones?" asked Malik, clearly unconvinced.

"Of course," said the old man. "Why wouldn't they have cell phones? They have cars. They go to concerts. Why wouldn't they have cell phones? Why, let's see... they've got Monkia and Samswung. And Bananarola."

"Ha, ha," said Malik dryly, while Malcolm giggled quietly.

"Are you familiar with the phrase 'suspenders of disbelief?'" said the old man to Malik.

"No, what's that?" Replied his grandson.

"Nevermind," said the old man. "Let's continue. Having impressed all his little friends and leaving all the doubters with they feet in they mouth, Michael was walking away from the crowd when he heard someone yell, 'Hey Michael, what's wrong with your tail, man!?' When Michael looked behind him, he noticed that the tip of his tail was bright neon red. 'Ahhh!' he yelled in surprise –"

"He yelled 'Ahhh', not 'Eeehh eeehh, ahhh ahhh'"? asked Malcolm.

"No, it was definitely 'Ahhh'," said his grandfather.

"Are you sure?" said Malcolm, innocently.

"Absolutely," said his grandfather.

"Really?" said Malik. "I think 'Eeehh eeehh, ahhh ahhh!' is more like what a monkey would say."

"No, I'm positive it was 'Ahhh'!" said the old man. "Will you two youngins' ever let me finish a story without interrupting?"

"Sorry, Grampa," said Malcolm.

"So Michael yelled and ran to class, embarrassed," continued the old man. "His teacher sent him to the nurse, but the nurse couldn't figure out what was causing his tail to turn red and sent him back to class. He tucked the tip of his tail in his pants and made it through the rest of the day. After school, on his way home, he ran into Shirley again. She noticed his tail tucked into his pants and told him that she had heard what happened and asked him if he was alright. 'Of course," he said. Then he said how sorry he was that the concert had been cancelled. 'Gorill.I.Am was going to send a limo for us and everything' he said."

"Shirley was impressed. 'How sweet of him,' she said, then she stopped and pointed at his tail. 'Uh-oh, I think it's getting worse' she said. Michael looked behind him. His tail had fallen out of his pants and, sho'nuff, a full one-third of it was now bright, flamin', glow-in-the-dark red!"

"So he had a red butt, like a baboon?" asked Malcolm.

"No, it wasn't his butt, just part of his tail!" said Malik.

"But 'tail' and 'butt' can be the same thing," said Malcolm.

"Not this time."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know."

"Mom says 'because' is not an answer."

"Mom also said you should listen to people older than you."

"You're only older than me by two minutes! That doesn't even count!"

"Yes it does!"

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does!"

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does!"

"No it –"

"Hey! Enough!" said the old man. "Do you want me to finish this story or don't you?"

"Yes, Grampa," the boys both said.

"Alright then," said their grandfather. "To answer yo' question, young man," he said, looking at Malcolm, "in this case, tail means the long, snakey thing, not the thing you wipe. But you're right, it can be confusing. Anyway, when Michael saw his tail, he immediately tried to tuck it back into the top of his pants to hide the red, but so much of it was now red that it was impossible to hide it all."

"'Do you have some kind of disease or something?' asked Shirley as she slowly started backing away from him. 'No, no,' said Michael, following her. 'It's not a disease, it's...it's...the new fashion! I dyed it this way. It's the newest style. All the monkeys in Hollywood are doing this now'. 'I don't think so,' said Shirley, 'it just changed again.' Now half of Michael's tail was bright red! Shirley turned around and started walking fast and Michael, understanding that he was about to lose her forever, followed her. 'Don't be afraid,' said Michael, 'This is exactly how Gorill.I.Am wears his tail!' Now three quarters of his tail was bright red! Shirley shrieked and started running, but Michael ran with her. 'Listen,' he said, 'If you're nice to me, I'll get you Gorill.I.Am's autograph'. That finally caused her to stop."

"'Really?' she said. 'Sure,' said Michael, and as those words come out of his mouth, the remaining length of his tail turned the same red color. 'Oh my God' said Shirley – "

"You mean 'Oh my King Kong'," said Malik.

"What?" said the old man.

"Remember – you just said monkeys don't know anything about God, and that they pray to King Kong," replied Malik.

"That's right – I was just testin' you! Good catch son!" said the old man, as he winked at the other boy from the corner of his eye.

"'Oh my _King Kong,_ ' said Shirley," the boys' grandfather said as he resumed the story, "'I have to go home now!' Michael tried to grab her but little Shirley was stronger than she looked and pushed him so hard that he fell down in the grass, right on his butt. And as Shirley disappeared down the street, Michael yelled after her 'It's just a joke – it washes right out!' When Michael tried to get up, his pants caught on a sprinkler head and were ripped right off his body, showing a monkey butt that was now just as red as his tail!"

"Then he really did look like a baboon!" said Malcolm.

"Yes sir, he sho' did," said his grandfather, and all three laughed. "And just then the school bus drove past and all the other monkeys saw him and started laughing so hard that Michael took off running and cried all the way home. So the moral of this story," he continued, "is don't go 'round tellin' fibs, or you're liable to come away looking to the rest of the world like a monkey's ass!"

They all laughed again. Then the old man made sure that both of the boys were carefully tucked in and gave each one of them a kiss on the top of the head.

"Grampa," said Malik, just as his grandfather was about to turn off the light and leave the room, "Whatever happened to Michael? Did his tail ever turn back to the right color?"

"I don't know," said the old man, smiling slightly. "You'd have to ask yo' daddy about that. Goodnight now." Then he closed the door.

ELEVATION

Mrs. Alberta Terrell Henderson woke up and looked at her clock. It said 6:25am. She had overslept, which definitely wasn't like her. Maybe it was strangeness of the small apartment. She had lived there for almost 6 months, but it had never really felt like home, especially not with her Calvin being gone. But she'd be seeing him soon. She stretched, took a deep breath and swung her tiny legs over the side of the bed and into the slippers that she always left in that exact spot for that exact reason. She donned her housecoat then busied herself preparing coffee and a simple breakfast of toast, eggs, bacon and some grits seasoned with a little sugar.

After her meal, she finished packing and labeling the boxes in the apartment. Practically everything that she owned was in those boxes. The large furniture and appliances – the bed, dressers, living room and dining room set as well as the stove and refrigerator – all belonged to the apartment, so those would all be staying put. She didn't have a television. She and Calvin used to watch quite a bit of TV together before he left, but once he was gone she sold it, along with the condo and all the other furniture and appliances in it. One of her daughters had urged her to at least bring the TV with her to the new place, but she had no interest in watching it without her dear husband to share it with, and that made one less item to have to fuss with during the move. For the past six months she had spent her days visiting her friends, children, grandchildren and other close family members, taking long walks in the nearby park and reading her Bible.

With the heavy work out of the way, Alberta went to the bedroom closet door and grabbed the outfit that was hanging there – the one outfit that she had not packed. It was a gorgeous red satin dress with an embossed paisley design and a matching wide-brimmed hat. It was the classiest outfit she had ever owned, and one that she had never before worn anywhere except for church and sometimes the luncheons that followed. But today was special. In fact, except for her wedding day and the day that Calvin had left her, it was the most important day of her life. After carefully adjusting the dress on her slight frame, she turned to the full-length mirror that was attached to the bathroom door and gave herself the once-over. She smiled. Calvin would have been proud. He had always loved her in this dress. It was a present from him for their 60th wedding anniversary. He had asked her to try it on right then, and after she modeled it for him he slowly and tenderly undressed her and made love to her like they were 18 again. Even at the ripe age of 78 they both still had a burning passion for each other that not even time could extinguish. The doorbell rang suddenly, interrupting her thoughts and startling her. She didn't know why she was so jumpy. It was 9:30am and that's exactly the time the movers said they would be there.

Alberta opened the door and was greeted by two strapping young men, one white and one Latino.

"Hey," said the white man gruffly as he glanced down at the clipboard he was holding. "We're here to pick up a bunch of boxes for a Alberta Henderson."

"An," she said.

"'Cuse me?" said the white man.

"The correct grammar is 'an Alberta Henderson'."

"Yeah, ok. Whatever. I just need you to sign here and we'll get out of your way," he said, shoving the clipboard and a pen at her.

Alberta gently accepted the item, paused to stare at the gentleman over the tops of her bifocals, then slowly signed it, her signature elegant and complex.

"Here you are, young man," she said, handing the paperwork back to him. "All of the boxes are here in the living room. I have a matter to attend to in the back. Please just call to me when you're finished and I'll return."

"No problem," said the white man.

As Alberta walked back to the bedroom she could not help but marvel at what little common courtesy young people seemed to possess these days. It was as though they had been raised by savages, with absolutely no respect for anyone, themselves included. That was one thing that her Calvin had in spades – respect. Not only did he give it – unless he believed you were unworthy of it for some reason – but he also invariably received it in return, from everyone that he met, old or young, rich or poor. Some might have thought that was because of the way he carried himself. At 6' 3", Calvin was a regal man that always walked with his head high and his chest out – never arrogant, just extremely confident and poised. But it was more than that. There had been an air about the man that other people could instantly read. Those with foolish notions knew to steer clear, and those in need of help knew that they only needed to reach out their hand. And Calvin had always been like that, even way back in middle school, where they first met.

Alberta heard voices from the living room.

"What are you doing?" said a woman's voice.

"You should probably talk to the old lady in the back," came the voice of the white man. Suddenly, a beautiful, longhaired woman with the most buttery brown skin you've ever seen was standing in the bedroom doorway, a look of shock on her face.

"Mom, what in the world is going on here?"

"Hello Camille, dear. How are you?" she said in reply.

"I'm fine. Do you want to tell me what is going on?"

"Well," began Alberta, "I was hoping to explain all this to you in a letter, after I'd left, but I guess we'll have to do it now. I'm leaving. Everything is packed, the majority of this stuff is going to the church, and my will is in order, leaving all my assets to you, Sharon and Michael." She sat down on the bed and calmly clasped her hands in front of her, awaiting her daughter's response.

"Leaving? Exactly where are you going?"

"I'm going to meet Calvin."

"Mom," said Camille, as she sat on the bed beside her mother, "Dad is dead."

"I know that," said her mother, smiling in that sweet, understanding way that only mothers can.

Suddenly, the color drained out of Camille's face.

"Mom – you aren't planning to do anything crazy, like suicide, are you?" she said, her voice rising in alarm.

"Don't be silly. You know the Bible says that you can't get into heaven if you kill yourself. My mind may not be as sharp as it once was, but I'm not that far gone yet."

Camille looked unconvinced.

"Well then, what are you doing? Where are you going?"

"Sweetheart, I told you, I'm going to meet Calvin. We've been apart far too long, and the time has come for us to be reunited."

Camille sighed heavily.

"Ok Mom. I need to go make a phone call. I'll be right back," she said, as she rose and quickly walked into the living room.

Alberta slowly shook her head. She knew that Camille was going to call her sister and brother in an attempt to 'rally the troops' to come to her aide. But there was nothing Alberta could do about that now. Time was running out and she had to get moving. She had a date and she couldn't afford to be late. She had already called the taxi company and arranged for a car to pick her up at exactly 10:00am. It was almost time. There was a slight tap at her bedroom door.

"Ma'am, we're done," said the white mover. "I just need your final signature here and we'll be on our way."

"Thank you very much," she said, as she signed the document. She followed him into the living room and watched him climb into the truck and drive off. She then surveyed the rooms to make sure nothing had been missed. Everything seemed in order. She spotted Camille, sitting in her car, parked at the curb, having an animated conversation with someone on her cell phone. It was probably Sharon.

Ever since they were kids, Camille had always been able to get Sharon to go along with her no matter how dangerous or crazy the plan might be. But it usually took a fair amount of convincing – sometimes even bullying, to get her older sister on board with the idea.

As she stood in the doorway, lost in thought, she saw the Yellow Cab pull up. She waved at the driver, then, went to the mirror to check her hat and makeup one more time. Perfect. She grabbed her purse and began walking towards the cab. She struggled over whether she should stop and say goodbye to Camille. But she had already sent all her children, grandchildren, other close relatives and friends personal letters that explained the entire situation. She put them in the mail late last night, so they would be delivered either later today or later in the week. She never expected anyone to actually shop by the house before she left. Camille must have been randomly driving by and saw the moving truck.

Camille was so involved in her phone conversation that she didn't notice her mother getting into the cab until it was actually pulling away.

"Oh my god!" she said into the phone. "She's taking off in a cab. I'll got to go!" Camille started her car, made a quick u-turn and began following the taxi, which was already two blocks ahead.

Alberta calmly watched the city flash by from the comfortable back seat of the cab and reflected on her life. It had been a good life. Actually, it had been a great life. She and Calvin had created a warm, comfortable home in the historic Sterling Building, where they had owned an apartment. They had raised three amazing children. They had been living their 'honeymoon' eternally for the last 63 years, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the fact they were the only lovers either of them had ever known. They were members of a great, welcoming church that was like a second home. And neither of them had been sick a day in their lives. If Calvin hadn't decided to run out for ice cream on that fateful night almost a year ago and been hit head-on by a drunk driver, they would surely still be living that ideal life. But all old things must eventually make way for new things. It was time for them to move on to the next leg of their journey.

As the cab approached the Sterling Building, Alberta lifted her head and took it all in. It was a majestic building, tall and strong, with twenty floors of beautifully designed steel, stone and concrete. She and Calvin had moved there in September of 1944, right after the war ended and were the first black people on their block. That was before the units were converted to condos and they were only renting then, but still, Calvin had been so proud. He had just gotten out of the army, having been drafted right after high school. He had served a full 18 months as a cook. It had been a painful and uncertain period in both their lives. Though Alberta had been relentlessly pursued by a number of the most eligible bachelors in the city while Calvin was away, she had refused them all. Instead, she had been content to patiently await Calvin's return, looking forward to the day they could finally start their life together. She had never regretted that decision.

The cab pulled up to the front of the building, and just as Alberta was getting out, her daughter's car also pulled up, screeching to a halt. Camille jumped out and almost ran around the car to her mother, the heels of her expensive pumps tapping out a staccato pattern on the sidewalk.

"Mom-" she began.

"Yes, dear?" said her mother.

Camille seemed at a loss for words. After a few seconds of bewildered pause, she sputtered:

"Mom, what are you doing here?"

"I already told you, I'm here to meet Calvin."

"Mom, you don't live here anymore," she said, clearly frustrated. "And neither does Dad. He's gone and you sold the condo. Remember?"

"Listen Camille," she began calmly, "I understand this is difficult for you. But I think you may be just too young to understand what is happening right now. Maybe one day you will." She reached out and touched her daughter's cheek. "Take care yourself," she said, "and know that my love is always with you". Then she turned and began walking up the stairs towards the building, her beautiful red hat twinkling in the morning sun like a rare jewel. Camille ran after her.

"All right mom," she said. "Is it ok if I tag along? Just to make sure you're all right, just for my own piece of mind?"

"If you like," replied her mother, and she pulled open the lobby door and walked into the building.

It was just as she remembered it. There was a fresh bouquet of mixed flowers in a vase on the table by the window, as there had been every day for as long as she could remember. Old Miss Luther had started that tradition before She and Calvin had even moved in, and when Miss Luther passed she left the condo to her daughter, who had continued the tradition.

Alberta walked up to the elevator and pushed the call button. As she waited, she marveled at how much this elevator reminded her of her Calvin. Old, but classically handsome, with strong lines and parts that were made to last, there was just something comforting about it. Its main purpose seemed to be to safely embrace you within its powerful confines and take you were you needed to go at any given moment. When you were ready to go up, it was there to lift you. But when you came down, it didn't run away. When you returned you would find that it was always right where you left it, ready to lift you back up again. That was their elevator. And that was her Calvin. For the last 50 years they had made a habit, several times a week, of taking this elevator to the roof of the building and watching the sunset together, hand in hand. It was one of her favorite things to do. There were times when they missed it, because Calvin was working late or stuck in traffic, but he always made it up the next day. She wished that her meeting with Calvin today could have also been at sunset. It would have been a lovely sentiment. But Calvin said that the schedule couldn't be changed. They had to meet at exactly 11:02am, not a second later. It was only 10:30am now, so she still had plenty of time to enjoy the roof by herself before he arrived to pick her up. Then she remembered that Camille was still standing beside her.

"You know dear, I'm fine, really. I don't need you to babysit me. I've been taking care of myself quite well for at least the last 70 of my 78 years on this earth, so I think I'll be all right."

"Mom, you're really scaring me," said Camille. "Can't we just sit here in the lobby for a few minutes and talk this over?"

"There's nothing to talk over. And I really would like some peaceful time alone on the roof before I meet your father, if you don't mind."

"The roof?" said Camille, stepping between her mother and the elevator doors just as they opened. "What are you going up on the roof for? What are you going to do?" she continued, her words coming faster as her voice grew louder.

"Camille, please move out of the way. And go home. This is no business of yours." The elevator doors closed and Alberta reach around her daughter and pressed the button again, instantly causing them to reopen. But her daughter wouldn't move.

"Oh for heaven's sake, get on out of here child," said Alberta, starting to get angry, "This doesn't have anything to do with you and I don't have time to be foolin' with you this morning. Go on now!"

Alberta had to almost push her daughter out of the way to get into the elevator. Camille quickly followed, jumping in before the doors closed. Alberta had already pushed the "R" button, so Camille began slamming the side of her fist on the "Open Doors" button.

"Camille, what the hell are you doing? You're getting me angry now! Stop messing with this elevator and go on home!"

The elevator had already started to rise, but Camille desperately kept vigorously banging on the "Open Doors" button. Suddenly, there was a violent jerk, which caused both of them to grab for the handrail as the elevator came to an abrupt stop. According to the hands of the indicator above the door, they were somewhere between floor 4 and floor 5.

"Oh my god, Camille, what have you done!" said Alberta. She looked at her watch. 10:37. "You've broken the elevator! I told you to just leave it alone!" Alberta pushed the "R" button several times, but although it stayed lit, the elevator didn't move an inch.

"I'm sorry, I was just trying to –"

"You were just trying to stick your nose into business that is none of yours, that's what you were trying to do! Just as you've always done, every since you were a child! I always told your father that we were just absolutely too lenient with you! It's our fault that you turned out to be such a damn controlling meddler!"

Camille immediately burst into tears, sobbing so violently that it looked like she might collapse. Alberta instantly regretted what she had said, and quickly walked across the elevator and embraced her daughter. She could probably count on two hands the number of times in her life that she had raised her voice to any of her children, and on one hand the number of times she had actually cursed at them.

"I'm sorry, dear," she said softly. "I didn't mean to upset you. I know you're only trying to be protective."

Camille tried to respond, but she was still sobbing uncontrollably, and whatever she was saying was undecipherable.

"There, there; it's ok dear," said Alberta, rubbing her daughter's back. "Everything's alright, now."

They stood like that for several minutes, as Camille slowly regained her composure. Alberta nervously snuck a glance at her watch. 10:49. Time was running out.

"Baby," she began, "I'm really sorry that I upset you. But I'm going to miss my appointment if we can't figure out how to get this elevator moving again."

Camille nodded her head awkwardly and stepped back out of her mother's arms. She pulled a tissue out of her purse and began to wipe at her face, which was a mess of tears and running mascara.

"Oh my goodness," she said, when she noticed her mother's shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I got tears and makeup all over your dress!"

Alberta turned her head and examined the stains on her dress. She sighed deeply.

"Don't worry about it," she said, smiling sadly. "It's only a dress. And I'm not going to be wearing it again after today. Let's see if we can get this thing to work."

They both started randomly pushing buttons, but nothing changed.

"This is getting serious," said Alberta. "Call 911 on your cell phone. I need to get out of here." Camille did as she was told and was informed by the operator that someone would be there very soon.

"They're on their way," she said. She lowered herself to a sitting position on the floor. But when she saw that her mother remained standing, she rose to her feet again.

Alberta was starting to panic, but was trying desperately to keep her agitation to herself so as not to upset her daughter all over again.

"You know," she began, "this reminds me of the time that you locked yourself in the bathroom."

"Locked myself in the bathroom? When was that?"

"Oh, you must have been about 3 or 4. It was one of those old doors that didn't have a release mechanism on the outside. To unlock the door you had to turn the handle one way while at the same time turning the lock switch the other, and you just couldn't figure it out. And you just bawled, getting more and more upset while we waited for the locksmith to show up and your daddy tried to open the door with a series of screwdrivers and butter knives!" said Alberta, laughing softly.

"Oh yeah, I think I do remember! You pulled a chair up to the door and sat there for 2 hours, talking to me through the door and keeping me from having what I am sure would have been a complete nervous breakdown!"

They laughed together.

"It seems like there have been so many times in my life that you performed that role for me," said Camille quietly, "keeping me calm when I was on the brink of total collapse."

"I'm your mother. That's my job."

Camille started to cry again.

"I'm sorry, mama. I'm sorry that I've always been so much trouble," she said, pulling a tissue out of her purse and dabbing heavy-handedly at her eyes.

"Trouble? Child, you never even really knew the meaning of the word trouble. Trouble was you sister Sharon getting pregnant at 14 damn years old and keeping it a secret until she was nearly eight months along. Trouble was a call at three o'clock in the morning telling us that your brother Michael was in jail for attempted murder. Trouble was wrecked cars, dropping out of college after we'd paid for three years, alcohol addiction and falling in love with a drug lord. But even with all that – with all the money your father and I threw away, the rivers of tears we shed and the months and years of sleepless nights we endured – we still would have wrestled Satan himself to save your brother and sister from a bad haircut. So what do you think that says about how we feel about you?"

Camille started crying anew, and her tissue was quickly disintegrating. Her mother walked over to her and cupped her daughter's wet face in her old, wrinkled hands.

"You were always our little angel. Yes, you could be a handful when you wanted to be, but you were always the sweetest, most loving child that I think I've ever encountered. Somehow you got it in your head as an infant that it was your responsibility to take care of everyone and everything. You always acted more like the oldest child than the middle child. And you still do to this day. We could never say that we loved any one of our children more or less than any other, because we never did, but you were still our major source of pride and our least source of worry. There were so many times we wondered if Michael and Sharon were ever going to get it together and make something of their lives. Thank the Lord they finally did!" Alberta laughed. "I doubt anyone would ever believe us if we started telling them the stories of some of the things Michael and Sharon have put us through over the years, considering how grounded, successful and conservative they both are now. But everyone has to find their own road - their own way. Thank God they found theirs before it was too late."

"Thank you mama," Camille said softly, as Alberta looked at her watch. 10:57.

"Speaking of late, I'm quickly running out of time," said her mother abruptly, as she began pacing back and forth. "Try 911 again, please."

Camille made the call as her mother vainly started pushing buttons on the elevator, yet again. It rang a several times before someone picked up.

"911, what's your emergency?" said a voice on the other end of the phone.

"Hi, my name is Camille –" she started, right before being interrupted by a wave of static and then silence. She pulled the phone away from her ear and the message on the display read "no service".

"Damn it!" she said. "We've lost the signal."

Her mother didn't answer, but stopped punching the buttons and began pacing at an even more frantic pace. She looked at her watch again. 10:59.

"Don't worry mom," she said, "someone will be here soon. And it's not like we're going to suffocate or anything. We have enough air in here for days."

"I told you child," she said, raising her voice again, "I don't have days! I have three minutes to get to the roof and meet your father!"

Camille bowed her head in silence.

"So tell me mama," she carefully began, "what are you and daddy going to do after you meet him today?"

"You know, honey," she said as she stopped pacing and cocked her head to one side, deep in thought, " I don't really know. I never asked him. I know that sounds crazy, but we had so many other things to talk about that I never got around to it. I guess it's because I know that, whatever it is, it's going to be wonderful!" She slowly drew her eyes back to her daughter and a huge smile spread over her face. Then she looked at her watch again, and the smile faded. 11:00.

"Where are these people!?" Alberta screamed, staring upwards at the elevator dial stuck between "4" and "5". Then she stopped. "Shhh," she said.

Alberta listened for a moment, then walked over to the elevator, gently took off one of her beautiful red heels, took careful aim and violently slammed it into the "R" button. The elevator shuddered once, jerked abruptly and then, with a grind of gears, began to ascend again. 11:01.

Neither of the women said another word until the elevator doors opened moments later and they were standing on the roof, overlooking the vast city below.

"Well," said Camille, "here we are. I'm sure daddy will be here any minute."

Alberta smiled at her again with that loving, knowing smile. Then the smile slowly transformed into a frown. Alberta grabbed at her chest, turned around so that she could look over the city, and collapsed.

"Mama!" screamed Camille as she ran to her mother's side. She felt for a pulse, but it was too late. Her mother was gone.

"Oh, God, mama! Oh my God!" she wailed. The police found her in the same position several minutes later, as they came up in the elevator with two emergency medical technicians. She was still crying, but allowed the officers to pull her away while the medical personnel attended to her mother.

"Looks like a stroke," said one of the EMTs as he walked over to where she was standing with the two policemen. "I'm sorry. If it means anything, I don't think she suffered at all."

"Thank you," said Camille. She had run out of tissues several minutes ago, and had resorted to wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. One of the officers tried to offer her a handkerchief, but she ignored him. She walked over to where the other two men were loading her mother's body onto the gurney. They pulled a white sheet over her and began rolling the gurney towards the elevator. On the way, her mother's right arm fell off the gurney, sticking out from under the sheet. Camille jumped, startled, but quickly recovered and reached out to place the hand back by her mother's side. That's when she noticed her mother's watch. The glass was shattered. It must have happened during the fall. Then she looked at the time. The hands were frozen at 11:02.

###
